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The Corrupted Race of Man

I sit and watch this corrupted race of man.

All meaningless people

Doing meaningless things

For the sake of people that mean nothing to them.


Want is one thing

Greed is another.

They lie




And plan

For the mere sake of their fellow damned.


I can no longer sit here and watch young girls

Hike their skirts up

As they slip their bras down,





That “that one man” will come for them.


what you receive is entirely based upon what you gift.


The fall of man.

A Moment Cherished

Kiss me
And even though
We shall miss thee
A moment cherished
Shall never perish


spilling out and over listening to yawn and hiccup of

people preachers someone knew. Indoors on ugly carpet

feet bleeding begging for an ounce of grace

but Nothing comes, faster than he could even run

a curlyheaded gauntfaced lover shouting from the lawn

shouting from the lawn to our thick windows how to care he

taught us all a hell of a lot of things but not about

how to die so we will live I guess,

when all we want to do is watch the thin lips tremble

tongue and heart and hands run rampant because

he was an Opinion

growling about hurt and burnt and

scared first sex and angry loving wretchedness and

how to grow and hate, respect, the dying

starry tigers in your simple supernova eyes.

They built the pyramids for you and you didn’t

even blink. They hung the birds midflight through

skyscrapers the other afternoon in New York

City and waited all night for your clipped warm

approval but it didn’t come because

you were in Africa starving for royalty and

reading Socialist essays so they took them down

and now the skyscrapers are crumbling.

I took a look around and decided

not to cry.

The Continuing Story of Truman Peyote

Part One
Truman was feeding Lunchables to Laguna Lake geese when a towering Neanderthal
Slapped him with his country club cane and asked him if he’d read his daily Isaiah
Truman said, “No sir,” and was blasted like Ringo’s drum with just a dash of criticism
The Neanderthal threw Truman a haphazard Rolex before ascending into God-knows-where
But before Truman could pawn it, three beatniks nabbed Truman’s soul
Truman awoke in Bakersfield, taking hits off a lit jerky.


Part Two

Truman was eradicating the zydeco from his iPod one afternoon in Paris

When some fat-fingered book ‘legger called his unhealthy cell

And asked him if he wanted a copy of either Ecclesiastes or Fritz the Cat

Truman accepted the former

After all, he once ganked Brautigan’s razor so counterculture made him queasy

“How much will that all be?” asked Truman as Bitches Brew went to the gods

“Search your heart. There is no try,” said the book ‘legger

A genuine non-sequitur.  And during the dusk of Truman’s lunch hour, too!

Part Three

Truman used to come over to my place after M*A*S*H
In order to poke his mythologies in my neck
This was after I achieved Tommy Lee Gatz’s goals
And became the first Jew on academic probation
My folks walked out on me in order to adopt a studious refugee
Who managed to send me daily death threats on YouTube
Truman would sit at his Commodore all day, trying to persuade the moderators
That as I had written some good screenplays in ‘06
I was worth saving.

Part Four


Truman wanted to register liberal so that he could defeat the draft

But he couldn’t shit on Zionists, teetotalers, and the freedom to choose virginity

So one night in Baghdad, he decided he’d start his own battle

When the soldiers awoke, Truman declared War on Juggalos

And sat in the hot Iraqi sun as Our Troops put each other in body bags.
Part Five
Back when I was in university, a girl on Floor 9 wanted me dead
A made-up clown, she made every day look like Halloween
Every Saturday, Truman would show up at my apartment
And, having left his electroconvulsive equipment at home,
He’d tell me that life is just a cup of root beer
It’s always shorter than you wanted it to be
Might as well reap what you sow before God starts looking grim.

maybe her body followed

Breaking the surface of the pomegranate
felt like penetrating human skin.
The purple blood trickled down my fingers
and splashed onto the meat of my bare foot.
I saw it falling towards the ground,
and even though there was ample time to react,
I was unable to pull away.
I felt knuckle deep in fresh Jello
or 15 minutes into a hot shower
on a winter morning.
I knew I had to let go,
but my body refused.

Girl in the Bleachers


She used to adore me in the days of short recess
The lean, made-up face, wonderful, beautiful, godlike
But last night after I entered that packed, old football stadium
I saw her flirting behind bleachers of familiar faces
And when she came into my range I took careful note
And when I prepared a conversation

Well-thought up and full of her destinies
She simply turned away as if she had never met me before.

Mad House Blues: Part 4



flower grows

among the dead

bodies of children.

Carrion crows tear flesh

and drink congealing blood

as we danced upon the hill

in a drug-fueled orgy of sorts

around cruxifictial silhouettes.

One by one we were martyred for art.

We became the ultimate martifice

the return

Loneliness rests in the nook of Eve’s arm.
It is the crease opposing our elbow,
the indentation which evaporates
before our covered identifiers.
Pupils are cloaked
and uncloaked for amusements sake,
like gigantic
holy movie screens;
palettes of projected immortality.
The red velvet curtain ruffles up,
momentarily faking existence
before unfurling
with smooth

Loneliness is a beauty mark I had removed,
a cyst I nurtured night in and night out.

But early this morning,
beneath the unchanged darkness of dawn,
the two of us reunited.
The unremembered face,
the miserable mug,
the beast I so proudly defeated
cried into clasped hands beside me.
His tears watered the colorless upholstery
as I embraced him with every muscle in my body.
I dug the ends of my fingers into his tender back
and clutched his hollow spine.
For the first time in years
he appeared beautiful.

Forgotten loneliness is a lovely thing
when you’re driving home alone,
surrounded by the unchanged darkness of dawn.

The Valedictorian

By twelfth grade, the town was a thriving spot for evangelical Christians

And not enough of us took offense to my high school’s valedictorian

Who refused to inspire us, or even affectionately namedrop any of us like the salutatorian did

Instead he simply told us how much he wished we would someday be as pious as he was

Leaving no room for growth or for passage

And while he could easily hand his beliefs to the heathens

He couldn’t make them pray in the way that he did

We turned away from his mythologies

And while his valedictions from sin failed

His valedictions from school were a gift from God.

Mad House Blues: Part 3

Eye’s darkened with eyeliner we lay together naked flesh pressing against disgusting flesh so beauteous and repelling buttocks flashing and we sat up discussing Dali as the Marlboro’s burned out and we lay again enwrapped in dreams sweet and lustful our teenage desires undiscovered by the world outside our room how we thought we’d never be found but like all good things it came to an end.