August Poem 13: Death Image

But he would experience death. Image

Through the mass of humanity and stop.

Billy was a small kid. Dead. For he was.

He wasn’t willing to wait in all this

Work. It had begun luggage in language.

Today, Jenkins would take full advantage

Acid tearing away your breath. Feeling

Of the badges perks. He walked past the line

Carver of art. The other. The outside.

The gate shook but didn’t budge. Jenkins turned

Converting to Islam. And were he to

This time, he pointed to his badge and said,

A breath mint. A compilation of short

Hey, let me through. The man in the booth scoffed.

August Poem 10: Rise and Fade

They of the long death.

Those bringing the death carpet.

The sulfur people.


They are the strange ones.

Ash and bone and polished shards

Woven in fabric.


They wear their beliefs

Like the gathers of their lands

Taken from the earth.


Chanting they swing. Their

Noxious censors billowing.

Staining the skies black.


Stagnant as Latin,

Sattva Casetti was dead.

Eighty-four and smoke.


The chugging machine

Of subtextually.

Her birthday or near.


We experienced

Fulfilling of prophecy

Ending the Red Death.


Covering bodies

In ash and fragrant spices

That burn and consume.


Smokes that rise and fade

Lifting the spirit, the dead

Giving safe passage.

August Poem 9: Breadwinner

He spent a week of work deemed dead by the

Frenzied emperors of life. They call it

Incident. Frenzied over the death hoax.

Totalitarian bleeding heart libs.

The church had led astray their heartstrings.

Striking heart with a long tipped cigarette,

When they were diminutive mortals who

Would tear into the flesh of their patron,

The blazing hearth Latino. And given

Hand embarrassed as cold greasy burgers.

Even the trout died from the fish that

Sat atop the step and pulled his stringer.

His words were soft deadbeats that refused to

Speak breadwinner. They die. He does. He’s dead.

August Poem 4: In the Temple of the Demon

You spent your whole life absent. Alone in

Your chair facing the void. I chiseled our

Initials on the hangman’s tree, so well

Centered in a dead wood where ravens come

To peck the eyes of the children rotting.

The desiccated heart, the tool of the

Patriarchy, bringing down symbols in

Trees. Text messages, the reliquary

Bringing down the gates. Cracking the iron

Bands. The heart, a ghostly rose. Trembling in

The temple of the black demon. Amid

The carnage, sated on the hill stood the

Carrion beasts in full repose. A quick

Sputter of movement arose flapping wings.

July Poem 24

Destruction’s creation into motion.

The world’s first begins for posterity.

At the distant edges, the thing moves fast—

Faster as it converges. I am the

Center. A universal spiral. All

Matter historian, void. Moving to

Coalesce, spin in a vortex, to gain

Because I recognize even them. It


Spins in reds, oranges, and whites. Once down

My face, there is a tension. My chest. Lost.

I can feel the tears streaming, only this

Tightness of sorrow. I am lying face

On my center. I remember the old

Arthritic knuckles and the wrinkles and


The wrinkled hands. My wrinkled hands. My hands.

Covered. In red all— The friends dead. Write down

The results. Preserve the universe. This

Moment is the event that causes me.

April Poem 8: NaPoWriMo: With no God to Cry For

What kind of a devil is Death leaving a man helpless on his knees with a wad of chewed meat in his hand?
Death lingers just outside your vision.
He whispers just quietly enough that you can’t hear.
But he is there waiting to step into the frame.
Your three year old steps away from the dinner table to have his diaper changed.
A mouthful of food.
A hacking cough.
The red faced gagging.
True to training, you grab him with the crook of your left arm between his legs, your palm out across his chest.
You lift him tilting his head toward the floor resting your arm on your knee.
You clap him on the back with your strong arm.
His ears beat red. The side of his cheek that you can see turning a shade of purple.
You clap harder. You beat him on the back.
You think he is still not breathing. Ask him something.
“Are you breathing? Are you breathing?”
You hear nothing. Listen for his breath. Put your ear next to his mouth.
You bend down keeping his head tilted toward the floor.
His cheeks are full. There is something in his mouth. Use a finger sweep.
But he is still conscious. He sees your hand. His lips part.
He spits a wad of chewed sausage into the palm of your hand.
He croaks one ragged breath, much too short. Your ear still by his mouth.
“Are you breathing?”
No response. His face still red. Is it from the blood rushing toward his head?
You call out for his mother. Because he is unable to, you cry for him. You scream for his mom.
She doesn’t come.
You can’t stop trying to save him.
You can’t pick up the phone.
You can’t call 911.
Where is his mother?
Where is yours?