youth, that tiger knee, shatters the teeth of anyone who claws beyond it; sends mouthbones scurrying abt the floor pill-form in prescribed explosion. youth grips the opponent, mounting methodical twards offense, thinks only of itself, its tattooed immortality nd not what it would do if it only had more time to ask for more time because it’s squashed the gas pedal ever since it turned sixteen. youth is too busy firemanning the world nd slamming it with sweet nd swagger — ‘yes. i’ve heard of atlas but you can get maps on yr phone now, y’know.’ youth shoots pipebomb-screamingly into night until its vocal chords gather infection nd purple on purpose to cut off all airflow, save a hole for ativan or atrophy thru asphyxiation. youth retires, tucks you in before leading its new life.
recent publication on the american site spankTHEcarp.
thx to Ken the editor.
Carleton’s student newspaper was gracious enough to do a write-up on my poetry + community (Hurtin’ Crüe Press). Feel free to check it out below.
I reviewed the latest album by my favourite band with an unabashed bias. Enjoy, I guess.
i have a friend who drinks me under the table every weekend and while i'm down there he shows me surgery scars from his acute liver failure, s t r e t c h marks from ascites and a tattoo he got after seeing himself in his dead mother. i can't read the scars at least not outside the proper context or without consequence but i manage to get meaning from the tattoo: there are words wrapping a greek bird, wrapping a knee, with all letters and flowers laid out in the appropriately extinct and silent latin language. it brings new darkness to the black ink and makes the phoenix look like he got out of hand trying to provide himself new flights with new flames. desperately flapping young and younger wings: playing icarus with a homefield advantage but still coming out the burnt and burning underdog. and while there are real problems in people beyond greek gods and literature— i wouldn't know. i'm white and have a penis and ample beer money and i suppose so too does he but he's also got faulty guts known to balloon after a few shots so i guess my question is whether or not he sees the sisyphus of us sucking back beers and watching fluids settle at the bottom of a glass or whether or not anyone'll hear me when i tell 'em there's a problem down here on the barroom floor.
february 10 somewhere in the back of my head a doorbell rings—penetrating like an alarm i'd set 13 years ago and pretended i'd forgot about. and holy dinah, like her mother used to say, it's as if she's here glowing golden vibrance: the mother of a thousand sons or parvati or god who knows but i'm glad she's here so i'll open the door now i swear i'll open the door. february 13 your father came to me in a dream, screaming like the freight he used to move through the night. he was still bald, still wearing overalls, and stood still staring deeper into me than he'd ever done before. he tried to tell me we're men now but i don't have the hair nor his total lack thereof, so i didn't really believe him. i never really believed him save on those nights that he would scream past on the rails just to let his kids know he was around. february 18 i have a hard time seeing you as less a child than myself, but there you are holding one and it's yours and it's beautiful. a lil annette like you used to be and i wish you were still but that's selfish and immature so i guess i'm selfish and immature. at least i know that catalogued somewhere in my heart of hearts there's a file, a prediction: i know i knew you'd make a helluva mother. it's just hard to take it all in through the eyes of a child.
i had the pleasure of talking to one of the most talented vocalists in post-hardcore history. check it out here: