2016, May. On slop buckets and hate medicine

The walls are spongy, here. They grew as coral does and now are appropriately bleached to death. On the wall is a crank which activates a window buster. Take a shot. Let out the smoke should the insurmountables cause your soul to set aflame. That’s how we burn them now.

My drug my Sweet keeps me pleased and discreet and how often have I thought, “Give me dope and distraction. Give me legal (e)lixir, suffocate my eyes in instant glamour. Fill the space between my thoughts, censor silence. Brand me so I can buy me.”

We’ve lost our bolts and we’re all screwed. Our capital is conceptual and made manifest by green flyers and cheap metal badges. The stars printed on them convince us of our decorated status. From mind to market, if there’s nothing on your table we say we know we assert that it’s because you simply lack the necessary funds of imagination. You can’t eat, because you lack imagination. And do we ever.

We lack the flyers and badges Man-Aged by the boy scouts. While we also bow to the girl scouts we look past their leadership and teamwork both, reminding them as we bow that it’s the cookies we’re after. That’s how we’ll anticipate them, that’s how we’ll remember them. “How about a picture boys, by the fire? And girls, how bout them cookies?”

And we blame them for our own morphing into morphine monkeys. Hit. Like. 2 hits. How many likes? Hit me. Like me. Hit me like hit me like hit me like it. The following generation will drown us in laughter and we’ll like it. We’ll feed like city pigeons on the hate medicine they toss at us, their old fools. Buckets of sensationalism will slop down and we will bark as fatted sea lions at the zoo. To be the attraction, to be the it, that’s what we wanted and we got it. We wished for what we were Care-Full.


tea house writing collective, first session excerpt

If your voice was captive, where would it be?

my tongue is captive, were it captive

one to two, fallen to themselves beside seven mirrors pIddle rUddled and hydrogen held a lea tohria

aleatoric aleatoric 6 to corners, one to two to four

spatial? cordial. yet mannered pFhasCe of Ruby from Amber, two women to Ink,

its image is sweaty, a projection called reflection, where heads lead and necks fold over paper,

over generosity

           over one to three, over

                                        what Leaves blank, and brim the tongue

                                                                                                 over who sips most tenaciously the floor

        to their mouth


 stylus, coloured by a circle      

started one to two                          ,

continuedzerocurrent 0 ohm                                   

an open resistance against the shape of

liquid as tastes the form of our mouth,

it adjust in mutual agreement

the Sense is in Togetherness

now one to 4, one holds! – held? enveloped