sketches.
 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alright--

Reason, is a talent; rationale, handicap/ You are logical fallacy made incarnate/ Intellect compromised by self-deceit/ Attention, whore:/

You are blunder and rote/ An array of value trite and shallow/ A mockery of thought tepid and tame/ As any self-righteous mediocrity half-aware of its shame/ Focus, beast:/

Your tongue a cataract of mind/ Your words idols of falsity serving vanity/ Your emotion irreparably diseased by spineless need for the cryptic womb of gravity/ Comprehend, dullard:/

Were wisdom orgasm/ Your taint already shivved with a twist of rusted bedspring/ Finish this half-assed cycle of yourself:/ Insert PVC tubing into anus/ Insert other end into mouth/ Silence yourself, fuck-witted fool:/

The world evolves beyond necessity/
The messenger is a tool.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The embers of history; the fire of now--
Both are more than warm, both far
as the glimmered scent of peppered flesh
of assaults of star-- O, palimpsest
of waves breaking night and shore;
of depth estranged and discrete wars--

Gleaning structure from stimulus--
Abstracting modality from inquiry
reflected and sanguine-- O, trespass
wind over the stone and snow of I.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

First and only chess game gainst an old man
as dinner guest and at bequest--
Early-middle, and it’s not that he doesn’t ‘check’,
but that the bishop I touch must be moved--
Which is more dessert, than win.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

some words are scripture
alloys allayed
some words are clay
coin-fired
and concave

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

"="

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 



 

 



 

 



 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 




 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

to prove moonlight is not snow,
i touch the cement and know
like-hued grass and road as cold.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

My hate is a beast of seasons--
A spine of February rain,
eyes of August venom and breath
clawing clear an October moon.

My love, a demon of reason--
A fulcrum tongue canting knowledge
toward verisimilitude
biased by cock-mind and bole heart.

My apathy, inconsistent--
Neither full nor hungry, I sit
that frailty breach twilight sheer.

My will I wish inertial-- Death
a mechanism of muses
fractal-edged in flame-- Death a flute.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a marble christ

squats, figs in his hand
halfway thru a shit