Enfeebled and infantile.

My back has a knot the size of a killers fist is at the top of my ass.

A big killer.with big hands.

There’s a myriad of random screaming all around.

Everyone looks like they want to kill you.

Or at least humiliate till they reach full-blooded erections.

The cashier regales customers with tales of “Slapping the motherfucker in the mouth.”

They all cackle, readjusting their switchblades in pockets.

Their vehicles all have some sort of placard that promises aggression toward strangers.

A black guy at the gas pump asks a woman across the street, “What the fuck are you looking at?”

The redneck glares at the blacks playing music loudly.

Everything is aggressive and stupid.

And when I say stupid, it’s not in a dismissive way.

If someone has a gun in your face, no amount of qualifying their actions as “stupid” will stop bullets.


The people sharpen their scythes while you and I think about hopes and dreams.

It’s insane to walk around like this.

I think about mass graves from some human atrocity to calm myself.

I have to go to work in three hours.

In three hours I will be leaning over a toilet scrubbing flecks of shit.

I hope for flecks of shit because there is always the alternative.



Speeding down the street in my 1970 Dodge Challenger with pistol grip gear shift, I noticed my big my cock.  I smacked into a street lamp.  The First Responders were all women.  They were so busy applauding my cock, that I died.  A dyke hit me with electric paddles.  It brought me back and made my cock more impressive than ever.  The queers carted me on their shoulders to the hospital.  I was stealing cotton balls, tongue depressors and latex gloves.  The doctor walked in with my chart. As soon as he began to talk, I said “Fuck Off”.  The black janitor high-fived me as I left.  At the bus stop a little boy took his sisters candy.  I punched his fucking face as hard as I could.  He shits his pants.  A war vet grabbed my arm.  I kneed his nuts till he let go.  The bus smelled like dry cum. I put my hands over the drivers eyes till we flip the son-of-a-bitch over.  I kick everyone back inside. I get a match to strike.




Glad I didn’t quit smoking.  The explosion is fucking loud! A school for the blind had just let out.  The students were swinging their sticks around like orchestra conductors.  Their dogs nipped at them.  Shit, my pants are nearly burnt off. I steal a bike.  I hold my cock so it doesn’t get caught in the spokes.  A hippie chick is wearing bright orange orangutan jeans.  They eat into the crotch.  She paid me $500 and I took an autographed photo for her.  Almost home…hungry.  My favorite pizza joint…three large loaded pies.  The kid tells me “Thirty-Seven bucks…” or some shit.  I give him a Polaroid of me giving the middle finger.  He calls the manager.  I tell him that i can drink every beer in the restaurant and eat the three pies, if he puts up the deed to the place.  “If you don’t..” I cut him off. “…I won’t show your mother my cock!” He starts punching and I start chugging.  Two hours later, everyone is crying and I puke in the street with the deed.  My place is across the street.  My key works.  I break it off in the lock and kick the shit out of the door.  I’m in.  Some old bitch is crowing about cops.  I grab her ankles and smash her head around the foyer.  In my place, a small fan oscillates.  A cat is on the fire escape.  I serve her a saucer of milk and a can of tuna.  I wash my hands.  I get two slices of whole grand bread.  There are three slices of American cheese. I used them all.  A small pan lays on medium-high heat.  A pat of butter joins shortly after.  The sandwich goes in.  The sun is setting.  I have to get up early.  A spatula helps me peek at one golden side.  More butter and a flip. a small plate and a cold glass of milk is at the ready.



I sit, say my prayers and before i can take a bite, I look at my reflection in the curio cabinet glass. “What did you do today?” I wink at myself and respond, “Nuthin”


Rolling around the floor shaking pill bottles is no longer fun.

A single capsule rattles around.

If I sit it on the windowsill, it will melt.

Powder will remain.

The flies and spiders will get high.

They’ll no longer have a purpose.

No eggs to be laid.

No webs to be spun.

This spider will get fat on flies.

This whole place smells like shit.

They’ll roll their fat bodies over and listlessly look.

We’ll make eye contact.

We’ll condemn each other for letting ourselves go.

I crawl upon the counter and lay on my back.

I let my head hang in the sink.

Every now and then I turn on the warm water and rinse my head.

I ask the spider what he likes to be called.

He doesn’t answer.

He’s thinking about old girlfriends.

No matter how many webs he spins, he thinks of her.

Whether it be…

in an abandoned car, beneath a porch or in a pair of someones favorite shoes…

It’s always her.


They met each other while avoiding a dog.

He took her out to a barn and brought her dinner.

They had hundreds of kids together, but they never call.

Days are spent lazily weaving weeping webs.

The flies that are near death are the only ones being caught.

They’re tired of living.










The kids outside are beating the shit out of my car.

They laugh and play until a loud or sharp smacking sound occurs then crying…then quiet.

This counter is sturdy.

I should take out the trash


Dig down on Sheep Skin Street.

My pointy fucking shoes kick wool in the faces of passing assholes.

“Why you son-of-a-bitch!” is all they say.

Stolen wool is hot.

The wool stops blowing around my ears.

There are thirteen trays.

One tray for small raspberries.

The other trays are for summer squash and genetically modified cucumbers.

The women hold their crotches and quickly exchange cash for goods.

A dove flew towards the heavens.

One of the women said something about a hungry cunt.

I strolled.

A half block down, electrical cables were ripped out of windows.

A black band plays rock-n-roll.

Babies, daddies, mommies and homeless were all dancing.

The players looked like they were birthed for war.

Someone fucked up and gave them loud fucking guitars and loud fucking drums.

They didn’t play for race, money or statement.

They played because their lives depended on it.

A few tourist shrugged their shoulders and violently thumbed through sightseeing guides and emergency numbers.

They don’t belong here anyway.

A dog started to look at me.

We made the corner.

Some kids popped a hydrant.

The boys tested themselves.

Who could get nailed in the nuts the longest?

“Hey faggot!!!”

“Me? Why? Do I look like your dad?”

The further I walk all I smell is shit.


Bored people sitting on stoops.

Bored people chugging beers.

Bored people with wash clothes on their heads.

Bored people failing to shade children in strollers.

Bored people losing their grip near busy intersections.

Hot radiators slam into poorly made strollers.

Mother dead.

Baby learns to walk.

Baby buys a pack of non-filter cigarettes and sunglasses.

He doesn’t wear them till it gets dark.

I ask the baby, “What’s the what?”

He responds “It is what it is…is that your dog?”

“Not anymore.”

He takes the dog.

“Your name is Tippy”



The baby watches the cool man get impaled by a falling angel from the top of St. Judas’ church.

The baby walks past.

Bored people with wash clothes on their head.

Bored people chugging beers.

Bored people sitting on stoops…past kids getting sprayed in the nuts…past some badass dudes play loud rock music.

“What’s up little motherfucker?”

“My dick and taxes.”

A vegetable stand owner exhaust himself from thievery.

He smiles at Tippy as they turn the corner.

Wool covers the streets and walkways.

The baby looks up at the passing assholes.

The baby follows pointy toed prints to a white brick building.

Someone wrote cool in primary colors on the sidewalk.

The baby sat on the stoop.

Tippy sat next to baby.

An old woman helping her frail husband into the car, pinched his oxygen tube.

He struggled.

“Hey kid, want a creamsicle?” said the ice cream man.

“You got change for a $50?”


“Fuck this!” said the baby.

Wool covered the tasty treats.


Exposed claw hammers scrambles brains.

Fluttering childishness…

Feathers too black to be a cardinal…

Feathers too red to be a crow…

Brow-beatings turn into rape.

Glitter horses have to be drawn to be remembered.

Hulking tumors leave either half-smiles or predatory nature.

New horse shit is used to cover old horse shit.

Soft old baby sheets bring calm and comfort before sad teeth end you.

A stinking maw parts to kiss your face.

Drunk bones work without the heart.

Screaming out at modern culture begs for dismemberment.

The quiet people notice the wilting arrangement as the others cackle.

Arson makes sense as the season changes.

The hardest part of cleaning is getting started.

Small fowns greet a smudge on wing tipped shoes.

Elegance is always lost before the bloodshed.

Parading ones quills isn’t always the best strategy.



Dig in deep.

When you need to be removed it may be too late.

A person on a machine talks about a hit-and-run accident, footage is shown.

A car speeds.

Bodies fly.

A driver smiles.

I draw a series of misshaped circles in response.

Soft old baby sheets confuse me.

I feel calm.

The blood stops pumping as fast.

My wings tuck in uniformly to my body.

I close my mouth and forget I can fly.

Then I remember how to beg for my life.

Then my cries for help turn reflexive.

I am nothing now.

My husk carries on spasmodically.

The dying creates the dead, afterward, self-centered ghoulishness creeps back.

A concern for ones own husk returns…

Floors remain…

Electricity remains stolen.

Heartless bones continue to move.

Tumors continue to feast and fester.

Harrowing days come in all shapes and sizes.

Cowardly behavior resulting from kindness ends in soft and languidly drawn periods.

It’s so slow we hardly notice the sand in our eyes.