Selected Poems

Numbness gives way to heated pain— you think you can thaw them, the hope of a flame— of the iced pine needle—burning hot enough to burn the black frost fingers. The flames here do not burn hot, or bright—seldom burn at all. Each finger claimed by the cold, by the cadence of the march. Each counts, men taken by the frost, by the bears, by starvation. A thousand miles from home— a failed expedition chills to the bone. God deemed you gravekeeper of those buried here in this glacial cathedral.

The mucus in the back of my throat— the phlegm—it's dry. Salted. Much like the earth below me. No water, they said. No water for the last meal. Potatoes. Bread. Salt. They walked me. I could see— the grey-white tones of the concrete, even through the suffocating black cloth shrouded my face from the hot— oh so hot— sun. The guard spit. I could hear the rifles of the firing squad. The cadence of the overseer— barking directions. Everything distant. The noise buzzed— a tinny, metallic whine. "READY!" Final thoughts cascading sublimating into singular phrase. "AIM!" In the back of the throat, salt. Workers of the world, unite! "FIRE!"

Self medicate with weed flake— shake and bake— head straight.

Friends house, afterschool fucking playing Nerf guns and his pops would be nodded all the way the fuck out nerf or nothing in the trailer park living room den— the chicken nuggets on, nodded the fuck out, Great Value forgotten, Great Value always burnt. Trailer parks taste like burnt Great Value chicken nuggets. Great Value Mold, and Great Value fentball black tar. Trailer parks sound like— dragon ball —Z What we'd watch with our Great Value chicken nuggets.

I always see dead birds on walks, I know why they are dead. The heat is fierce, no water flows. All blacktop, all cement. The mind does wonder, lost in thought– The last song of a dead bird, Scared, alone, bedwetter cooing.

Crushing stones make for effervescent tears, Yet under that weight — the weight Of the abyss inside bottomless pits. We are what we fear. As we lug the boulder, The light becomes clear From the darkest recesses; An infinite salvation near. A burden to bury, a cross to die upon, Strength beyond strength — All for the ability to bear. The boulder rolls down once more: Will we be able to carry on? Can we push the weight of the world away? Accept our defeat at the end of the day? Are we able to do what must be done To embark upon a battle that cannot be won?

Oh, field of grass, Ravaged by concrete catacombs, Smothered mass, asphalt cask. Unlike stories from ancient tomes— Here, not even birds roam. Oh, field of grass, Brown bristles swaying in the wind, Brash with lifelessness. Humanity's sin—plastic soaked ground within, Apathy, a collective unconsciousness, Oh, field of grass. Oh, field of nature's trespass— Bottles, bags, and needles amass. Parking lot dust, cars, and trucks, Human creatures now outlast— The beauty of nature's past, Faded like a photo in a worn clasp. Mowed down like machine gun fire, Heat of the concrete, nature's vampire. No room for play, not even an umpire. Shadeless trees—totems to Anubis, Once aureus, now—shadow of human hubris, Oh, field of grass. Oh, nature's land mass, Once prairie, pond, or forest, Now nary a songbird's chorus. Lady Justice, her figure malnourished, The natural balance, now— Brutalist flatlands, now squarrous. Oh, progress, oh humanity. Taming of the shrew, pollinators too, Polymer rebirth, that is our curse, for— What was reaped, never had a choice. What was taken, never had a voice, Oh, field of grass.

The blood flowed as I whipped, Whipped, and whipped again. Each sting, each strike--a remorse, The burden that those carried, For what's sown must be reaped. The blood flowed, rivers once great, Each sting, each strike, muscular quivers create. Atop this tower, worn and grand, A wasteland view of loss and pain. A story told of man's great hand, A world of radiance, now stained. From green to sand, the wasteland expands, A war by man, on lamb, is won--in vain. Exposed, the ropey sinew, bared, I whipped again, the air was snared. Each sting, each strike, a species lost, The whip, the pain, the heavy cost. No pain compares to sin ordained, They're gone, yet we remain, unstained. The blood flowed, like rivers once great, Each sting, each strike, skeletal shivers create. Each sting, each strike, apologies bear, To what was stripped, to what was bare. Salvation sought for days of sin, Charon's river overflows its brim. Hades' waiting room, in ecological bloom.