Daily Archives: April 11, 2022


Look down on your hammer.
You had it for a short time but your fingers are still thick
Your larynx not as dumb as you’d like it to be
Your tongue is dry and your breath wheezes
And there, daddy, at the root of your maw
the steel rod stays planted, because evil has made you.

If your shame and your evil still lives
they will stay anchored in your hammer.

And the stones and gravel that are forever with you,
they too are forever free

The wind through your brown hair
gives me a heart attack, your moustache
makes me sick.

In my muddled mind, I know Daddy, you can lie back now,
and the voices can no longer say that you are a jackal.

Nor the soot from your fire has any further stain.

When a rat that’s always wanted to be a man
did your name for the jackrabbit kill itself?

That which nature didn’t know what you were.

And I think if I’m a golem, it must be too good
to be true.

Father Knows Best.

I’ve seen your work with my own eyes but I always
thought it’d be in movies.

In the bargain basement at Rite Aid
dies every day with your family.

Father Knows Best.

The Kids in the Hall once made fun of you.
Father Knows Best
The Archies had the Grand Finale
where all the songs in one strip,
didn’t make any sense.

Father Knows Best

When you didn’t send your son to college,
he wore a bucket on his head, and became
the world’s greatest magician.

Father Knows Best

You always said, “The car needs fixing, son”
So you fix it, but it still doesn’t run right.

Father Knows Best

You put up with Lola until she got an eye disease.

You let everyone live in your house.

You couldn’t keep me away from rock ‘n’ roll.

And now you are dead.

:: 04.11.2022 ::


Anything at all! Less wondrous than these dead beauties?  To whom I am devoted when other dead beauties sing I appear and vanish like crystalline birds, like aurora spangled flowers.

What more pure than dead beauty?
To whom I am devoted when other dead beauties weep for me. 
 So name them to me — name them in praise:

‘If e’er thy delight did belong to my caresses thou wouldst be bound with lead to the palace of Fate; you never will prevail — if they were crowned with a sable Queen and a robe of the sky.

I would not only expire but love you dearly in the Palace of Fate.

Every time, and every place, the dead beauties are the same; eaters of all things lovely — Time!   Upon whose watering lips
the world posies a moment (futile, proud, a costly morsel of sweet tears) gesticulates, and disappears — of all dainties which do crowd gaily upon oblivion and sweeter than any one; in life’s very fragile hour (when the world was like a tale made of laughter and of dew) used to stroll (very slowly) one or two women like flowers made, softly used to wholly move slender ladies made of dreams
(in the lazy world and new sweetly used to laugh and love with crisp eyes and frail, in the city of Shambala).

So three cheers for tyranny! Keep your dead beautiful ladies Harun Omar and Master Hafiz.  Aught less wondrous than these dead beauties to whom I am devoted when other dead beauties go vanish to appear like crystalline birds, like aurora spangled flowers.  What more wondrous than dead beauty?

For whom (aye) of all things it is to love, the dead beauties are the noblest (of all).

Somebody gave me this very wonderfully heart-melting poetry-spell, just in
time for the purgatory of my explosive Soul and Heart. For Dead Beauties are lost opportunities and nothing more.  

Anything at all!  Gaily upon oblivion and sweeter than anyone!

:: 04.11.2022 


To know the correct line of despair.  
It has no face, does not stand up when called upon.
It is a perfect stance while my own face is full
of Earth’s dirt and grime so i stand at a table unserved
upon a terrace, in the evening and at midnight, by the
ocean of despair.

While our soul’s motors run i curse the gasoline
within my own heart — the road too long, the mileage
is a silver chain around our hearts.  It is not so much
the quantity of small facts like seeds which leave a furrow
for another night’s fall.  Not the last kiss or touch by
a warm body — it’s a deep hole riddled with snow.
   If not for gravity dead birds could never fall
 and my blood isn’t even thick.  i know the correct line
of despair.
   No, not the foam of a dying blue crab
nor the drinking glass // or the hair caught within the
earrings within your jewelry:  but the chase we run against
between living and dying upon the road to unknown routes
like a loose noose \  like the fan of despair around midnight.

Such breathless despair, whose mirrors never tell us if we’re
dead.  This despair cured by the nature of our world:
 to discover the beautiful uprooted tree of your Night.

:: 02.07.2021 ::