the red wire or the green
it’s critical you try to find
a method to tell, sighted unseen
raised colourblind

it might feel like any cord
is every cord (spoiler: it’s not)
when untangling less-sword
this frightful knot

whose sailsmen blowing smoke
tell us it’s supposed to remain
this way; not a joke
but a work of frame

a washline on while to hang, eventually
with accumulating junk
an ever-bending knee

into divots well-maintained
by copper-wound scarecrows who
(disinterested in pain)
are not concerned for the you

so you search for wirecutters
and attempt to discern
(crowd watches, frowns, mutters,
in the good old that’d burn)

a way forward, sane, unnumb,
without setting that dynamo
spinning in your cranium
a way go to

without going anywhere, not really
and to hell with those who disagree

stories (yrs & mine)

the stories we tell ourselves are untrue–
as ourselves are untrue–
they come seeking after themselves
always to find

your hero and mine remaining at odds
with eachother and with the always-
story’s story

which is known in the distance’s distance
shrouded monoliths who never

who might as well be tea leavings
read amongst scattered awful
some deserved future

where the stories we tell ourselves are true
and we are true and it was worth it
and we and it are more than whatever
we and it might be


I have three eyes

Two for the hues that are
One for an unnamed suffusant elsewhere

Two of concrete everyday
One indolent undercovers

Sees sooth on occasion whose
Untangled chords remain

Unoft unblinking wide
Into the neardistant

The yestermorrow’s frayed vibrato
Could be anywhere, anything

Echoes of not is nor never was
The essential maybe

I have three eyes

Two for the hewed at hand
One for unamended unquarried

For which when sleep arrives
Arrives for ever


On the shores of Lake Ontario we built hell
And a skyway to see it from

There is no night here nor is there day
But a braided arm of coke fire reaching up, up

To shake down cancer from the clouds
A fine, particulate way to go

Breathe deeply, your unconscious participation
You must die so that others may live

60 storeys up and 60 kilometers away
Where snow remains white

Where a sightless horde
Of engineers and accountants

Shovel you unmarked
Into the blast

what must

he speaks brawn into it
why not me
already knows but anyways says
why not me

never been disappointed while expecting injustice
why not me
balled fist leaks red scent
why not me

whispers whirl into wind again & again
why not me
again already knows what must
why me

perhaps sings

today is prosaic
a chorus of flat words trudges
towards the horizon

we have forgotten how to speak
& more to read

the age suffocates the urge
whose palette is technocolour
all greys

we are labour we are grown
we are approaching it

except all at once a bit flips
& we see these marvelous
objects are more

song we sing
or perhaps sings

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