All my life

i’ve wanted

to feel something…

be something.


Truth told

i feel strange

in my own skin,

a suit which does not seem cut for me.

i cannot get comfortable inside it.



the option

of oblivion,


i would surrender…

as if by the soft closing

of my eyes i might

erupt into a plume

of flames,

a pleasurable, exploding

flower of my own invention,

my own bright spark.


Desire, of course,

is not a path,

but a given power,

circling within us…

…an arc,

a dreamwire,

a looping



its orbital path,

scouring the night

with thickening

layers of laser lines,


cutting the

booming darkness

with their high trajectory,

carving from

fathoms of the

upward void

the lines of

a brilliant,

dizzying vault,

resounding with

the echoes

of our cries.


Who, or where, am i,

if not dwarfed, standing

at the bottom of myself?


What do i feel

but vertigo,

looking upward

into nothing?

Verses, 9.1 – 9.53, The Deep Well, The Rushing River


9.21   He sits with you, by the nighttime river, and sings these tales over the babble of the rushing waters.

9.3   If, when you hear these singing tales, you become curious, or secret your feelings, it means you feel desire.  And if you deny yourself, perhaps then you have handed down a hard line of austerity unto your mind, and, therefore, have suffered.

9.31   If, however, the river flows in you, perhaps you have forgotten everything already…

9.312   But the river is a riddle, and a paradox…for the defiled and damned have no greater desire than to ride its current, to rise and fall on the curve of a wave, to dissolve in the speeding waters…just as the enlightened are dissolved, and sparkle like the daylight which dances on the turbulence of rapids…

9.32   Here, on the river, now, the dancing of the lights is beautiful, and yet, on the instant, it is nothing…for it is neither the sun itself nor is it the river.

9.4   Feel no guilt for this pleasure of the eyes!  When words dance on irises like the glittering of the lights!

9.41   Yes, fill yourself with with desire…then, when the sun sinks below the touch of skin, converse in the languages you know.  Sing, dance, and rejoice in your heartbeat and your breath; rejoice that your skin retains the warmth of the day you set to pass, as you watch the sky go slowly out…

9.5   And know, that if you have danced, you have transmuted the contents of your feelings; you have signed the language of desire.

9.51   And know, that if you have sung, you have transmuted the contents of your feelings; you have spoken the language of desire.

9.52   Sing, and dance, and let sing your heart…and know that we are conversant in these tongues, and that these tongues are rooted in the darkest, deepest well.

9.521   We drink the waters of the well, and watch the waters of the river, and feel them flow free within us.

9.53   We know we want to ride the river…to feel ourselves drunken on the thrill-ride of our ignoble experience.


(Back Door: Enter “Chapbook” into the search bar.)

rated x

He likes to take the emotional ride.

Yeah, you know what I mean…

When you stand close, take in each other’s scent…

…when on the instant of the first touch of fingertips, your sex grows full and warm under the crotch of your clothes…when you slide together, grapple, and your bodies lock…pelvis to pelvis, belly to belly, chest to chest…when he holds the back of your neck in the roughness of his hand and the two of you feel the pressing of your warm, clothed bodies, the pressing of  your cheeks, arms, hands…even the bones of your noses, pressing, almost to the point of pain…softened only by the heart of your kiss…

when your hair mingles, when he loses his breath; when you inhale sharply and touch his back with your hands; when your tongue grows wet, and alive…and you grasp for him as if grasping for food…when your hands work quickly as the two of you speak in stuttering whispers, fumble with buttons and zippers…when you look into his eyes and feel the magnet pull of two dark whirlpools…when the clothes slip quietly to the floor, almost noiselessly, and you tread them with the gentle marching of your naked feet, forgetting what you wore, like so much strewn-out evidence…

when the sensation pulses in his body, and you cup his root with a low-slung hand; when the two of you linger there, for the sheer pleasure of kissing, of making out, your bodies naked…

until your own warm inertia turns you slowly, oh so slowly into bed,

and the hours roll by…

with your palms resting  on the crown of his head as he kisses you, covers your sex with his mouth, his tongue darting and sliding under your nap, making you slippery, contracting you…until you say you want him inside you…

and he slides his verge balls-deep into your yearning, opening yoni…and your skins meld, so that your fuck is one body, one breath…your foreheads touching, your spines bent into a heart, your bodies sealed seamlessly together in a driving, railing fuck…so slippery you don’t know whether your yoni is hard or his verge is soft, so that you are simply coming, sighing, in and out of your skins…until time fades away…

and you fade with it, dissolving into the air with the first lightening of the sky…

when, ever so faintly, the color blue passes across the room, when you’re resurrected, and remember you’re awake again…

when the clock spins like a wheel in the sea, when a fist wraps his root and yours…

until the hump and thrum bends your two spines like willows, your yoni and verge, your two pubic bones, melting together so pleasurably as one,

the sheets wrinkled and warm beneath you,

while the room, small and tight, hot and damp, closes and expands…



Can’t open up

‘Til I’m inside out

I know you got my skin

C’mon help me on out

Electric anemone

I eat my own particles

A thousand ideas for

Ocean floor articles

Houdini slash a priest

C’mon float me on out

Chamber fills with water

I’m a creature filled with doubt

Sticker anemone

Crawler on the glass

In a diving bell prison

Say your underwater mass

Know my secret combination

But I’m on the inside

Can’t dial a lock

From the other side

Anemone inside 

Ocean floor dive

I used to be dead and

Now I’m just alive


(A Footnote:  The doggerel form of these verses was inspired by Kurt Cobain’s writing for Incesticide and In Utero.  I began writing punk verses in this form in 2010, and recorded them in notebooks dating 2010-2011.  Now I am adding to this collection of verses, and posting the new work here.  The work is dedicated to Thom Hunt.)


I kissed you

Five times

Before you died

Five pointed star

Gate to the other


Man to man eye

Didn’t even cry

Staring at my tattoo

Like it was a spy

Bristle brush

Hair like



Made you so punk

‘Cause chemo

Is the law,

Room like a green room

End in sight

Stage your infinity

Enter into light.

(A Footnote:  The doggerel form of these verses was inspired by Kurt Cobain’s writing for Incesticide and In Utero.  I began writing punk verses in this form in 2010, and recorded them in notebooks dating 2010-2011.  Now I am adding to this collection of verses, and posting the new work here.  The work is dedicated to Thom Hunt.)

Do no harm, and Do not disappear…

…in which anthem I felt a darkness, and an impulse…in which I heard the rush of a mountain river in the dead of night, in whose sparkling rapids I caught fishes which leapt up and turned above the whirl…to snatch at air before falling back to that frigid, rushing creek…in whose rocky bed I saw the darkest, crushing force…a-rocketing its waters down  canyons in the black of night…a time of gloom we so easily forget, when streams do surge and course…a time we dream, and sleep, and lay abed as rivers run, and do not stop…as I, floating in the detritus-strewn wake of childhood’s venture, when dust motes swam across the kitchen sunbeams on wide sargasso afternoons, recalled that unstoppable and violent child I was, who tackled boys while at his vicious play, and bulldogged heads to frosted ground before the thawing march when I let my feelings pour instead into a girl who sat with me for hours…near a heavy yellowed-concrete sculpture casting  “H E L P” across the shadowed lawn…in the stifling heat of southern afternoons…while a dirt-drenched wizened colony of teens toked weed in sultry air between the dormitory and the trees, where I became a vampire, and, drunken on that girl’s pain, and hooked on trauma, I stared down the tunnels of her pupils, so large and dark I saw the souls of stars: the alcoholic dead professor, the mirror ball confessor…whose addictions I did rotate like a destiny-wheel of whores…my goal to bed them all…though no flash of spangle did spark the pilot light in that blackest corner of my heart, a vicious dungeon hollow…packed with lovers corpses, with carloads of their broken hearts, dried and empty, and folded up like unremembered letters…

…in whose confessions I stayed drunk until I stole away (my worn-thin shoes I lined with acid and with E, until the nights of dancing turned bright mornings on a train, me the headphoned freak before the brokers, in whose eyes I caught a flicker of contempt which fired my way back to a buzzer at the grate, a terminal in the last rusted tenement on earth…where I made my habit of do-not-call…and do-not-call…and do-not-call…my alone-est worst, where I nearly vanished from my skin; so a thin banana was my daily meal, a sugar wave I rode back to Union Square, by then so far nocturnal I’d turned the corner into wide-awake, seeking out the drug of staring crowds, where kids’ laughter peeled out that “dope sick bitch” which rang my ears to pain…

…until I, the self-neglected eye, did see myself, no junky but as sad, my spine like wire at the backs of hanging tees, hollow on my frame…my knees hurting I was so thin, no fatty stuff to pad my joints, my face a skull the day a tiny hallucinated voice came through the car alarms and thunder claps, when a good sandwich and a bowl of soup brought me round after rain broke out…and I sheltered in a diner, where I could not resist the comforts of a meal, and of letting fall the torrent of sensation after long thin months of hunger, the substitute for loving touch…the day I first stepped toward appearing bodily again…the day I knew that no man once broken stands intact…his fissured body still striving to make its way across its little span of time and space before he dies, hoping he does not harm, or hurt, or disappear from view…or fail to perform his acts and incantations…that he may live out his time which blessed enough, he hopes, will let become beloved at least one other, because of him, on earth.