The Archives


Spooky’s re-generating human hair
now she is at soft arms checked
her cotton at soft arms because I
have the same hairdo but am really bad
at soft arms a patch of waving
grass divides this book inside
the cloud these instructions
these expanses echo wordless
inside the mouthpiece and are not
lucky at soft arms a foul-smelling
ox-faced ghost boy grinning at
soft arms in all four corners
of the waiting room spitting
teeth into a paper cup at soft
arms the widest shadows held him
at soft arms in the mirror where
are you going back inside your blood
she said at soft arms she said at soft arms.

Posted in Texts

The Afternoon Report:

The motion of our solar system is slowing,
pulling power from the bodies that still have love
for each other. It is time to attach the homemade
electric helmet. The earth just rolls upon itself.
What else can it do? Our world now could
be viewed as mostly tape and wires. Perhaps
there is not a living thing here. Look up!
Do Sun exercises in the Sun. Moon exercises
in the Moon. Check your eyes by taking
hold of the lashes and pull up slightly
to the left. Can you feel the percolation
of water inside? Listen. It is almost time
to drink. Soaked by sudden cold, FOOT
could hear the dripping blood inside
of what is essentially a falling away of body
from spirit here in early Autumn,
icicles hanging from Yak fur. I forgot
what to do with the stars. Why
do you have such a low paying job?
Time Crushing Breakage is looking
for someone to pay for all this ruin
once we finally have the entire
world to ourselves alone.

Posted in Texts


I cannot pause
your loops

a lit up circle
ash thousand

bodies in crust
and mantle crack

and boil stupid
artists deliberate

the seasons grey
green blue orange

smoke my jaw
aches Vesuvius.

Posted in Texts

COTTON-BOLL-WEEVIL DESTROYER Patent number: 847887 Filing date: Feb 28, 1808 Issue date: Mar 19, 1907

Posted in Patents


Just because his eyes

popped out the other

day and a bump began

rising from the blow

Herf claimed that

the surrounding skin

was flushed with common

sense and that it was

the perfect time to provide

Skunk with another

pestilent example.

The shirkers clung to their flanks

hard still from the mud biscuit

rum slamming dust slugs

in the stateroom door coughing

on every fork The Admiral

of the Hulks thought nothing

of the sputum and returned to

writing up his daily log: “The sea

lion is nothing to us; I will eat

its heart on the prayer mat

then sun lazy facing

the only one inside

this prison is a bunk

bed of me.”

Posted in Texts


The Bunny Manuscript

The Bunny Manuscript

I’ll be back in the Pacific Northwest from Singapore for two exclusive reading dates (both with fantastic lineups). I’ll be reading new material from The Bunny Manuscript(coming 2015) and will have books from my back catalog for sale and trade. See you soon!


The Switch at IPRC
with Susan Landers Kelly Schirmann


Margin Shift At Vermillion Gallery (Capitol Hill)
with Daniel Comiskey, Kreg Hasegawa, Bryant Mason

Posted in Events

An End to Library Season

Finally! we might pass the while entertaining
our time-creeping heart murmurs. The pork
dark flesh fills the drained reservoir
of the university. From department
to department there is no clean water
glub-lubbing inside. Belly hums or silly
Army-man signals, melted green plastic,
their secret whispers of each other’s destruction:
Fire fire rings fire, until it is all fire illuminating fire
before erasing faces. Goat threatens goat,
high-up munching the bonenight’s collar,
and from the hills, yak lovers cooing blood
hammers popping rivets from blue jeans.
Give dreadful, give rupture, note to preparation:
the country cooks throw in crow to make
for them a randy stew. The clocks are dolls
and drowsy but proud of their numbers;
their hands still go slowly round and round;
over-lusty BUNNYS the Aardvarks play
dice and complain. Cripples come tardy
to the front limping in such hobbled perfection
I feel an ugly tedium in my body squirming
inside an inmate lighting up a tower of witches.
Broomstruck and running up the staircase
and flying out of every belfry, tearing it up,
wild and thatched. The night has gone down.
So many Evol ghosts, but are they not just
afterimages from roasting the optic nerve? O now,
who dares behold The Submarine Kaptain
under this ruined sea. Walking from deck to deck,
from periscope to torpedo tube, he pulls up
his wooly socks; a dread army has surrounded
the craft; one jet of color in the white weary
all-watched night. Kaptain watches over the bears
as they turn to chalk and pluck out his good looks,
hair by hair. A largess sun eye, that gives sight
to everyone, coils and flies brawling ridiculous,
shooting maggots out of the mock meat. It punches
the moon out cold. The valves close incompletely,
the blood rolls back. The name of the Airport?!
Let me see it. The wrong way! Let me say it!
And so we must split this wild scene, unworthy
of this place, in all its pity and fancified defilement.

Posted in Texts


While I was watching the night
BUNNY looked down at its
belly and saw that its pouch
had disappeared. “That’s funny,
but we now have on the Earth
large and destructive animals
so I suppose there is no more
use for such a whelping pocket.
Good thing you cannot tell yourself
a story about a cricket, that is why you
need to keep BUNNY around.”
A group of Yaks gathered in a
circle around the BUNNY as
it rubbed its hind legs together
their song set the wonder-book
on fire a peculiar way for the Yaks to
suffer (them again!) again
descriptions of vanished fauna
rose from the pages in smoke form,
corn baby goat, log-legged reptiles,
vulture jerky strengthened to a hoof
large as a sheep. BUNNY faded into
its wonder-book embers and continued
“From this book two figures, both fire,
have been reborn as EVOL Ghosts
coated with molten. The word EVOL,
just so you know, is not synonymous
with real beings inhabiting
one of the thirty-one dead rings
pressed into an fugly smudge.
That’s the all-clear blast from the Pumper!
We now can leave the earth! Flocks
of soft plundered arm-arks flap for
the skeleton mountains where no cricket
nests or sings to open that gap
in the sack of fluid, the trauma
of a lunar birth, empty sea beds
and nucleus balls withdrawing back
into the body cavity, a blow
of marsh powder from pounding
that satin fist, pulling the pink
cloth to the side for better look
at the meteor strapped to your face
it is your most private version of flesh
sighing against unstoppable
all-star jams. You can look
down at your dead body now,
mouth and ass agape
and then you will know
the pleasure of grass
mats spread out
in this very field.”

Posted in Texts

When the heart prophesies this crisis of blood

Cross river ferry home inebriated
black stretch pants want everything
bottles of whiskey by every cashier
gasping “just so just so” knocking
kneecaps we are having it all:
stale popcorn and sweating meats
false eyelashes and fingernails
a profane succession of parts
all the way down well oiled
tongues missing the mouth’s
circumference I want my face
without any nourishment trick vinyl
greased and grouty gunk gnomes
consider raising Alpacas for food,
fur and fun the light is a kind of façade
the alien visions come energized
in circles micro scratches on the skin
filling with pink but we are not
in reality inside the infection
rubber peeling apart the fisheye
mirror watching our necks bob
faster until we consume every last drop.

Posted in Uncategorized


Then I invited all
the Bunnies in the sunflower
field to join me in the refreshment
pond for a late afternoon snozzle.
I asked them, “Hasn’t my pleasure
in writing ever been more
than to make of itself an object
alone or is there something
more, what it is that I am, I mean
I’m writing this but no I am
walking in the woods now
wound up with grog there
are no clocks here the pipe
weed is dry but aromatic
I circle all of the capital
letters in my pocket volume
a purely animal landscape
the birds look at you they
REALLY look at you the sky
is 50% leaves now must I
be an egregious donkey goat-footed
and gleeful attempting some chaste
self- circumcision suitable for the infant’s
lips must we always be doing something,
or more than one thing, agreeable?
even whilst skulking from the bailiff
managing to poach some eggs or
scarf down a family of pheasants
whist reading aloud sordid romances
or ghost stories in a comically
nasal voice humping pumpkins
it is the desire of a moth to be a star
feeling unfit for the jostling and ugliness
of life it would be poor service
to spread my language like this
blue devils praising living things
as they are crushed under foot
there seems to be something
truly original in reciting these tired
examples leave me now to
my sub-lunar torpor I
just want to stare out into darkness
surrounded by borrowed light.”

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Posted in Texts