Down Goes The Moon

The throat’s waterwheel turns over as the brain fights for air. Eyes watery, tears stream down cheeks of the asleep. Bundle up in warm blankets and place faith in whatever comes next. Casualty comes not without guile. Pick until it disappears. Increase volume until it drowns out winter snores. Crawl into nest and greet slumber. Nights are numbered.

Wickenburg

There’s this little town between Phoenix and the Hoover Dam called Wickenburg. It’s like the land that time forgot. One long main street, with a saloon, a gun shop, some restaurants, and a lounge. It’s the most beautiful little nowhere town i’ve ever seen. And they breed these incredibly hot blond girls there. And they all work at the same Mexican restaurant.

Junkyard

Cardinals chirp on a Monday morning. Paperboys crash on a Monday morning. Scattered bumblebees gather pollen, and some families don’t wake up on a Monday morning.

From The Untitled Series Of Works That Begin With “Oh”

Oh, when it’s one-on-one you like to change your face, a lie is small enough to go unnoticed. Sure you laugh at love to see the smile, but if it bubbles over you just look away, better to keep distance than burn your fingertips. Content to play the game for now, the choice to join in longs to break your back, it happens, a little more each time–do you believe in karma? Well, you should.

Roasting In Austin

Each entity, even if standing shoulder-to-shoulder, perceives the world in varying degrees. I do not see what you see, and you do not see what I see. Maybe you are enraptured by the blue sky, and I a particular cloud formation. Trying to share depictions of the universe is utterly useless. It is the consummate fallacy. We move through existence alone.

Be A Friend. I Like You

My sole intentions were to put everything into words without being passed judgment on, and to sing as you lay like a bride.

In A Manner of Speaking

The windows were opened wide last night. Records were spinning and the moon was dropping fast in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe side two of Houses of the Holy, but it’s all so hazy. Without a steady breeze the room remained warm. The marrow in these bones refused to freeze. If you looked close you could see death’s reflection in the glass.

For Skokie

The heat of the fiery star we call a sun chars skin. If the air is wet it makes us stick. Our necks and our ears are searing flesh. We are all wicked witches wasting in the malaise of summer, weighing ourselves down, lowering our centers of gravity, slinking along the earth. Today is a microwave and we are TV dinners. We are dried out; no more sweat.

Yellowjacket Hive Built In My Eye

Caught in a summer wind that sweeps along ghosts like loess, the departed vanish like debris in the mist. Lady of the isle peeks her head out from the shadows to whisper words of yearning that no man can decode.

No Millionaire Here

unravel, unraveling, unraveled. s p a c e t i m e t r a v e l .

cold digit. morning history. sideways naps. among thieves.
dynamite highlights. catered affairs. itchy afterbirths.
working overtime. rhythmic grinding. bending spines.

harmonies waft above the din.
she sing sang sung swan songs.
big. pitch. black. hang. high.

salvage, salvageable, salvaged. t r a c e g r i m e g r a v e l .