Crushed arm


Slept on side, having noticed that some who refer to themselves as politically progressive do tend to tell others what and how to think and act.

Compelled to move very slowly to prevent arm breakage, and then forced to rush, or just to shutup.

Crushed arm until arm is a dead thing, needles pricking at fingers, and so surmised the uselessness of that, since others will always taste dissatisfaction,

and couldn’t move, could not roll over. Little wonder then at anxiety on dead arm in road, the large red pickup truck which turns and hustles ahead.

Felt urge to say something bad and so said it.




Colorado, stunningly cursed by the visual
effects it evokes in humans, is yet one
of many categorical impositions on an other
wise unbroken map. How did it come to be

so stupidly square? Colorado could be said to be tall
but not tall enough to escape the distances
between the dull wit of its tracing, likewise,
the concrete nuances of who’s doing the taking.

Glassy eyed automatons boxed into triviality, this package
transcribes a peripheral indulgence wherein arrivals
conceptualize a tangle of crippled roadway, a damaged

matériel device. Wind through timber diminished in ice
and a vertical crag, where, and toward what end, does
one inscribe upon this breeding enormity an emblematic line?


voices amongst a crowd masked either one way or another
a series of lists and so also she leaning lists

I after item this then collects as a condition of face in
stance and open made eyeballs and ears cumulate not only hair

I time after item it physic and placing face rearward as
wearing an intuitive nostril wear item a corporate mechanic

a person no person conglomerate voice either lawless an
uncertain gravitas collecting antique what mumbles the matter

that thus something marked who notices words which recur
something or other on glass plain and in one rough kiosk

can he picture that picture that never so leaden that
which is taken lacking consent a word hither and fit

more so a whole phrase or even a page upon which he plasters
his forehead his cheek and his chin and unlined of course

he thereby ceases to age declaring that this then is meaning
one wouldn’t doubt then that this landscape transposons as porous


phony epitaph


You’d eat gravel, also

in every other saga it’s the other way around
those who do the dirty deed can everywhere be found  -A Ppope

How did he arrive in this coulee saloon
somewhere out west of El Paso?

Woody, the incendiary Woodpecker, bore
himself another walleyed door hole,

where nothing’s made of lumber,
lest timber happen (and it hisn’t),

shoved aside the filthy mexicano quilt
stood back, and then he smelled the room.

A sod affair and all too dark it stunk
of urine, kerosene, cigarettes and spew,

and even with that flaming face the bird
did waver, and with neither eye could then

he cut the gloom. Who’d never thought they’d
see the bird give in and act despondent?

He’d finally found his home where others,
cartoon trodden cull and moot, to each divers,

a host most hindered by the slur at brunch,
that eidetic bunch regarded freak, did wonder—

rabbit man and roysterer,
cockatrice and crow,

“hey ride mine birdness blind”
and, “that hand it hain’t so steady,” at

whose dissevered human twang that did dis
service, now that he’s a sot.



Fate Merchant and his inebriate associates, lit pink in daybreak’s broad angle, pose.

They have become accustomed to cameras, the concept of privacy willingly forfeit, self on display and archived somewhere on some remote server. Darkness and light may measure, divide, and tint atmospheres according to macro and micro cosmic or cosmetic spatial properties, but human privacy, however petty, no longer exists.

Supposing Fate strolls off alone toward a National Forest, his path to the trailhead is already tracked. So also, today, he emits an electromagnetic pulse, no implant even required, each individual biometrically providing unique imprimatur until decease, and this organic data filed remotely by satellite, “for your own safety” and, as a matter of course.

Due, in any event, to some puritan lapse, the drinking age has been reduced to 18, an age at which the notion of contributing to the delinquency of a minor ceases to carry much of a threat.

Street side self, inebriate selves on display, in company divisible one by one plus one minus one, gender determinate male, sexual apparatus, indeterminate, inside auto, three watch fourth pull handle, release latch, push open passenger side rear door, swivel ass and, place right foot on curb.

Eyes squint at angled easterly glare, glaze refracts blazing pink faces deflecting from the hood of burgundy automobile.

Mundus subterraneus secant, who lives, lives by soil deflected and, thus, elemental and atmospheric courtesy. Ryder Ponder, last located scarcely prior to seven, lifts right arm and pummels with fist the door of Barney’s stout saloon seeking breakfast of tube pickled offal plus pursuant, and preferably flammable, fluid.

Obsolescence of newspapers but a visual demand for another onslaught of incessant distraction, Ryder twists then tugs at a locked knob. Thumping his hypothenar eminence against the unyielding door to Barney’s saloon, he vehemently seeks intestinal tube pickled offal plus combustive rinsed gullet.

Behind him, a burgundy Skylark idles and reflectively distorts his wasted physique. Ryder’s inebriate associates squint sedentary midst another pink triggered dawn already cracked.

To the useless question posed by driver, Ollie Fivestring, regarding the time, Fate responds “sometime in the near future.”

Two thousand years plus the birth or death of some fuck known as Jesus,” Syd Nitchevko counters.

Down to the microsecond,” Ollie says.

Who’s in charge of the narrative content?” asks Fate.

Don’t matter one fuck,” says Syd, quickly scanning seven corner mount cameras. “Everyone wave.”

Cameras record unwashed burgundy Skylark depart containing three adult males at dawn waving, sometime and always set in or beyond the near future.

Left alone on the sidewalk, Ryder repeatedly booms meaty eminence against Barney’s door.

Open up,” he bellows.


No one person can trespass until another seeks to prevent or resist the action of that. Prevention and resistance to trespassing thus precedes an inevitable impossibility. To preemptively block trespassing guarantees incursive activity on the part of another who is otherwise prohibited. The security apparatus nervously guards against the impossible. Rather than spending dull decades cruising around with William Shatner in search of places where no man has gone before, some people are called upon to intrude into spaces where they’re not otherwise wanted. Trespass insists on voicing its transgressive etymological potential to challenge The Estate and its attendant security apparatus. Gathering predominate legal connotations along with the trespass of this same word from French to English, to trespass cannot completely shed its association with death. With their usual flair for eliminating those annoying consonants, the French transform the Latin transpassare to the more nearly familiar trespace and subsequent trespasser, to pass through or beyond, which the English subsequently transform into an impropriety or an insult. Interestingly, and although English speakers commonly refer to the death of another as passing away, if one were to say instead that the deceased has trespassed, listeners would be puzzled. Despite etymological consistency, the literal meaning remaining basically identical, any casual reference to trespassing in such a context would seem odd and even senseless. Given the negative connotations commonly associated with the term, such a reference may even be mistaken as a tactless joke.


[of] / of


not thought [of] nor of thought not restricted

not thought [of]
of thought [thought]

of it if it is

cancel the order

is it this when speaking in
common phases

meant when

aphasiac slash phrasing

I was just thinking

meaning that recent but
connoting the process

whenever it’s common then
it isn’t what we call it

when we call it thinking
is it

statement intoned to be heard as a question
whenever it is acts like it isn’t

red shoes


I am and have been despondentstillborn/assassins
stupidly so for a fact
then again work—me

and my dead trees—me
and my stillborn
assassins—I sent them

out dead—already dead
so that I could provide them
with warmth

outside one self I am he who looks out from inside
a serial experience

he is merely the voice of that which precedes him
and sometimes spots beauty

by an act of naming it such
that it is as he imagines when it even isn’t

I call I that when looking upon a dead apple
tree with one low lifting branch

tightly budded in deep rose blooms yet to unfold
all under an early day drizzle