Wacko with Cheese

It’s hard to describe the sound the man was making. It’s as if he was yelling moans, I guess, the way I imagine a retarded demon would sound, but it was interspersed with a kind of infantile babbling. Whatever it sounded like, the man on line at the Burger King was convinced he was actually…

Whiskey in Summer

The Whiskey poured clean down from the light-winking liter to the worn Gatorade bottle to the mouths of me and my friends. The copper vapors swirled lazily in the wide heat of August so we imbibed whether we touched our lips to the bottle or not. The sun was a universal melody that sung vibes…

Honey

She had brought him another crossword puzzle. It seemed like she did this at distinct intervals, but time was hard to measure when the light rose and fell outside the plane’s windows every few moments. They were passing through a dark time now, so Honey dialed up his tiny airplane light to better see the…

Purity

                Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.                 -Pro-Ana saying Left foot placed two-and-one-half inches from the left edge of the scale, abutting the third raised line on the weighing surface. Right foot about three-and-one-quarter inches from the right side to compensate for a slight imbalance in…

Razor—a fuck-poem

  I’ll fuck you so dark it’ll all turn to light— blackholes sucking supernova-explosions driving into you pupils burrowing into your doorways— deeper than you’ve ever been spelunked deeper than I’ve ever plunged I’ll immerse you in me bend me in half and I’ll accept you into my orchid-and-thorn garden dark with thrushes of the…

Poetry is Purity

poetry is purity —not aligned with the plots and justifications of the short story But instead— The pure pump of blood Inky, flamingo-colored, without thought, vibing off the chemicals of the mind the streak! (write it, type it up) Whether the chemicals are in-born or huffed The pure gasoline screams —of Serotonin, endorphins, what-not (the…

The Nitrous King

He had cases of Nitrous. Actual cases of the crackers, what looked like 20-packs. The cases’’ ends could be torn off along perforated edges to access the crackers, like those 12-packs of beer that were designed to be laid in refrigerators. And, oh, he had torn them. He was on box two when I saw…

Burning Boy/Hippie Kids

The raging, dreaded hippie kids, swirled in by a technicolored tornado of glee, glitter and hallucinogens, sent by the hippie Goddess to anoint the unblessed with ointments and doses and liquor belted straight from the bottle… “…Chris…Christopher DOY-le…” Chris’ Subaru was slapped on the side of dusty street running along warehouses in the SOMA district…

One-Third Begging/Piss

I’m not saying that certain people don’t canvass for NYPIRG because of the greater good. I’m just saying that I was not one of those people. NYPIRG stands for New York Public Interest Research Group—it’s essentially a progressive lobbying organization. They’ve been heavily involved in fighting the natural gas interests that have been trying to…

The Horror and Beauty of Beds

The Darkcamp The 12 levels of the subworld Must look like a cross-section of ant tunnels I am reverse-birthed downwards every night, one choice at a time through the plasma womb into greater worlds —the haylight and the ocarina’s harmonies but the fanged proprietor makes me forget every morning— —the trick Down to level 11…

Demiurge 24

Based on Kandahar 24 Phillips jetted up through the levels of sleep and was reversed-birthed through his mattress. He laid on his limp, sweaty sheets for a moment. It was still the middle of the night—he could tell by the thin air’s harsh edge. His clock had hit midnight—the new hour, the hour for new…

Kandahar 24

One boot: apply pressure to the ground, slightly shift the sand-silt away from the heel, the sole presses to the earth’s center (way down there, oh way down below)—the earth pushes back and the body overhead moves upwards. Right foot: lift it, quadriceps kneeing the desert air. The arid heat descended down from the stars…

Poor Man’s Cocaine

An extremely short conference table squats in the middle of a cavernous corporate board room. Three men in their early 30s, Carter, Binwald and Vince, enter, all wearing stylish suits with the collars open. They are all coked to SHIT. Vince: …so I says to the stripper, ‘you should be tippin me!’ The three men…