the fist of my gut

in the fist of the earth
enstrata, folded warmly

is that person who
spoke into clenched ears
acted against deserted rows

their legacy may be grasped
a scrap of fabric hooked
and torn away

a few shorn word, no longer
contexted, slipping under:

I open my mouth, felsic,
fecund with their antiquations,
belly-deep, spewn

in the fist of my gut
is the was


this season is full of nothing
& nothing is as heavy

torrents obscure white dashes
wilderness bisected so

we could connect to we
on either side new species

brook along babeling
canticle nothing
chorale nothing
anthem nothing

Father Christmas bursts through cokeflame
singed & sooted to deliver his verdicts

incandescent yet another year
we beg: coal, coal

yesterday’s forest afire
breath it in breath it out

smoglike greyness
letter nothing
phoneme nothing
pronoun nothing


two roads diverged &c.
so I took them both

long story short
now-me is wise

and she says
at least I took the right road

can’t say I disagree though
I do and I don’t

to choose to freeze is
to choose to burn

one way
and the other

feels like home

don’t remember much now
says the rocking chair with his
wrinkles down to here
covered in a blanket
riddled with holes


The fabric!
The static!
The electricity!
The spark in a dark room!
The viscous loom shuttling!
The sputtering note of petroleum!

burned but survived
preaches the bedpan hollow
out into the halls hallow

no-one listens without anguish
so no-one listens


Inside you the slow-breathing coal accelerates.
It’s fierce now. You expand like an old star.

I write down what I can.
Inkstained snow falls and lies piled around my chair.

I bargain. I accept nothing.
I say, Perhaps instead you can take…

So tomorrow I will lead you into the chamber
and feel your heartbeats flow between my fingers.

I cannot keep them.
I cannot be rid of them.

one of eleven

Write eleven; choose one.
To find that one the eleven must be written.
There’s no way around it.
You’ll find it in revision.
Five might seem like enough, but no.
Or ten? but again, no.
Eleven is the magic number.
Eleven is when something pops.
Still, treasure the first draft.
It’s not right, but still you love it.
It’s not quite, but it’s got that magic.

know your enemy

long in the quicksilver know your enemy
clings wetly to your bones know your enemy
shouts slurs in dark corners know your enemy
would if they could know your enemy

most virtuous most despicable know your enemy
crawlspaced bodies pigeonhold know your enemy
whose cloak of invisibility screams and screams know your enemy
under eye ink pools know your enemy

the accuser is: know your enemy


shocking wave en
jambed it lives allatonce

tied up real nice & set adrift
sea’s aspersions
waves hello

today’s rent due 10 years ago
same block but crumpled
but creased (who

2018 / 2008
nothing between friends
who anyways just sort of fade

Deep Calls

such warmth that grin which
i’d’ve butlered cloched quick-as-you-like

drips instead drops instead down
a narrow mineshaft

no ladder built to follow
no chain no bucket

lies strewn amidst unsailable scraps
stationary gemless

a flashbulbed minute tethered
in amber plunged

copper-wrapped its thrumming core
calls deep unto deep

& you shall
& you must


child with mud in its ears
thesaurus for mouth
that’s not me

sinner with fingers in
pies pies pies pies pies
that’s not me

fool suburban
nothing to do nothing to see
that’s not me

what i am is an excuse
for myself

what i am doing is what
must be done

where i go is where i am