Ensnared Snarl

I’m always looking up
at him, my uncle, hooked
grin on his huge,

and I’m caught, taut
as a cod scuttling in air,
too startled to thirst

for backyard pool water,
tank’s expanse, briny-

I know he will have me
salted, will fling acrid risk
in the deep end either way.

Regression halts,
reimagines trauma,
almost-thrown rocking
halite-soaked toddler
body, skin shedding

with impressioned
solution, flickering
mirrored screen
lapping at my figure,

small enough to plunge
my snivels back up through
nostrils full, bulked immensity

now too wide, he swings me
back, in my teenage unease,
streaming, advises me to utter

clearly underwater, assert my
helplessness, then cuts me
loose, out of his grasp.


Run, Pace, Steady Somnambulist

My mother
told me once,
stop thinking,
so I tried to keep

my head underneath
laterigrade dampers,
where the conscious-
ness runs on vexation,
streamed distress

steaming with anxious
remembrances, where
then the recurrence
and the emotional

numbness didn’t end,
the current pulse of
overload never ceased,

and the insomnia mechanized
me into maniacal somnambulist.


The greatest
thing about fame
is hiding your face.

Your eye is the eye of
a needle, sticking out
like a salted wound, a
million bullets setting
the black and blue

bird free. It isn’t
as elastic as it once thought
it would be. Angel roped
with wings, it learns what
alive means, breathes into
itself until the unstoppable

force of fire to gasoline
breaks the chandelier
of a cloaked face,

broken glass of a smile
undressed, everywhere.

Glazed Frappucino Stew

Mocha never tasted
so much liked chestnut.

The coffee cream caramels,

The cast-iron pot
boils the chocolate coasters
of cherry candles, hints of

cumin, minted dances crusting
inside the rusted custard,

a Bailey-tasted ale.

I’m in the kitchen again,
looking for the familiar,
lush inebriety.

Chopping board of lost
pieces. Amnesic cup,
same sin, named differently:

Crocked chicken, sloshed
in the crockpot.


-inspired by Glitch Mob’s “Animus Vox”

I am skimming the edge,
underneath the    progression
of motor resonance, that
drop. The drum-gut  sizzle
striates a sepulchral  ringing,
a repercussion in the  back
of where I stand,      bridged

bass. Repeated  voices of
animals     lacerate the
threshold of  modular
urgency,    creeping up
beneath the black-noised
space, the  howled depths
increase, then leave
a resounded respiration.

Missing Lime-Sliced Smile

That kind of calm
does not exist.

The impermanent
missile, the smile
of a day, washes away.

A simile for miss.

The missed target,
the missing of a familiar
blessedness, sacred seed
bleeding on the mouth
to mark that sort of peace.

Pieces of a prospect
seep through and charge
into the tidal upsurge,
a dialed mind that never

In the desert, that kind
of calm does not exist.

Sticks, mulch, rest.
Impermanent missiles
in the day’s trajectory.

The wash of that
a limed-sliced smile.

Kamikaze Harmonica Riddle-Stone

The mismatch of a stone
inside the tilt of a
kamikaze blow
landslides, hollowed,

This puzzle reads like
a freeway bridge, a red-
clayed maze lit with the low
bioluminescence of a fairy
shrimp sipping

the vaccine of hyper-
saline solution, until
the solution is found—

to open the rock’s
hindered solidness,
treat it like a pillow.

The granite will weaken,
ease into softer soil,
until the pill-shaped
granules thaw—

the glacial brine
will salt into star-carted
mixtures, carnal