It actually smells like several aunties, like several aunties but with sequined sweat-shirts, with sequined sweatshirts and a brackish stream, with a brackish stream and a chain-link fence. It actually smells like a chain-link fence, like a chain-link fence but in summer storms, in summer storms but with sticky hands, with sticky hands and a high-pitched whine. It actually smells like a high-pitched whine, like a high-pitched whine but with smelly cans, with smelly cans but through a cracked windshield, through a cracked windshield and through a tear-shaped window. It actually smells like a tear-shaped window, like a tear-shaped window but with the word technique, with the word technique and with palm-muting at the end, with palm-muting at the end but on damp concrete. It actually smells like damp concrete, like damp concrete but with chug-chug-chug, with chug-chug-chug but scaled to size, scaled to size but with an open part. It actually smells like an open part, an open part but with some loose rules, with some loose rules but pre-sliced, pre-sliced but with no muffler. It actually smells like no muffler, like no muffler but behind the barn, behind the barn but five-pointed, five-pointed but with some kind of structure. It actually smells like some kind of structure, like some kind of structure but stuck in the ditch, stuck in the ditch but with no way out, no way out but with no way in.

excerpt from soft mosh 1-3, in POETRY IS DEAD #18, “Metal”, October 2018 

* * *
A Spent Thing is, um, Gutting the Small Land. The Spent Thing of Being Together Everybody Makes Is a Small, Old Land, Having to Be Zealous. In the Wood it Goes to Spend All Together, Cleric and Big Boss, His and Hers, Radical Root Vegetables to Politeness Apropos.

Where is the Celebration of Opposing, not to Live Again But to Give Being Together, Yelling Words? Where is the Celebration of Opposing, a Fortress of, um, Scribbles, a Detective of Walled Disagreement? Why is the Lording Over of Forward Thinking Back Together, and not Pieces of Slight Revulsion?

No Two Ways to Get out of this Thatched Roof Shed.

from Manifest Manifest, a poem and/or asemic translation of the Communist Manifesto (excerpt) 

in Lemon Hound 3.0.4, June 2018

* * *

We lean out in favour of worn order, horseflies and mosquitoes. Semblance makes syntax with the others, a sham of consent. Small language is noisy and translucent. 

Along old barriers, it is one or many. Desire to flatten displaces in a swarm of its own kind. We contain what isn’t, avoiding registers and the natural course. Our dirt is to follow and rub between. 

Maybe this mouth contains a machine of closing. Our one spasm suffices to pile, switching places, especially below. Of this same apparition, we are even fewer among.

Orbits reconsider, swallow a storehouse of ragged things. This air isn’t with flesh, exiled in every way. Scattering over and through, our position is null and lacking separation. 

from USES OF MOUTH (NEW AND OLD) in Otoliths 49, May, 2018 

* * *


What Are “Sighting”, “Speaking” and “Slumping” if Nothing At All? 

This Is Faultiness of Human Selves, a Nothing Feast For Something Given, Sounding Out New Shades of Speech and New Speaking of Jest.

This Is Saying You Know, Staying in to Finalize Another Spoken Guess.

Should an Even Farther Image Be Known To Wander and Breathe? Should It Give Itself Unto Counting?

The World Itself Is Mumbling Jest, Running Ashore To Make Speaking Speak. As One Matter of Vegetables, This Is Some Lifeform.


excerpt from Bad Anatomy #23, in ZenoMagazine, March 2018

* * *
WHEN FLEEING WAS IT in The Blasted Tree, March 2018

* * *
Published in Vallum 14.2, Fall 2017


Up to here, every time is a variant. We pass ourselves, for the ending dirt operates on denial. Of not knowing, unaware and bereaved tumuli agree on a defined point.

From here all iterations are the same iteration, passing for finite mud and operating on exclusion. Knowingly or unknowingly, small mounds meet at this sad point.


Shapes are surviving but encounter not once the tranquility of agitation. At selfsame horizons, cushions wake and hollow out. Our needful burrow of confinement is no stumbling for this mammal. A clear affirmation of fog.

Conditions are present but never met, quiet and disquiet equidistant. Pillows awaken and shovels dig small but necessary tunnels: fear of confinement is no obstacle. For mammals and what is, a message is mixed or unmixed.


Peppery sauce constrains slurring itself. This is language. Indistinct twitching or clean hands. Hoped-for efforts glower, partially full. Obviating, a draw traces elsewhere.

Rust prevents rust, and mumbling is language too. Faint spasms and hand-washing make for an honest effort, in part or in whole. Evidential markers mark away.


The subject is what is, a bad idea. Weight is gloomy and like vocabulary. A box of broad ones and the twigs take form. He’ll lose to take it back. Featured parts disband and find unpublished wholes among. Marching beside and toward another horizon.

Subject to what is, a bad idea and weight are morose and equal: a dictionary, can of beans or large bundle of twigs. We take form, lose it, and take it up again. Constituent parts scatter to find new wholes. We walk among them, or by them, and walk away.


More the sweater ages, the falls are a recent version. In this way, a heavy light. We remember it sadly with a given snare. The substance is what misses us to become dirty. Dilation that doesn’t, really. Our weight is of others.

The older the pulling, the newer the fall. With a heavy or light thud, we remember this: a sad and substantial trap, one of many. Missing elements contaminate a growth that doesn’t grow. It is surely someone else’s burden.


Using the value of smells is familiar. Mouthing hurts, obscures the refraction of confirmed sauces. There is little assemblage. Tracing isn’t not in the dark without our hesitation. A place where some eyes are porous.

Use-value wafts and familiar mispronunciation happily obfuscates. Our prism is smeared with old mayonnaise, socks are unpairable and outlines untraced. In the dark, reluctance is out of place: our eyes remain open.

– – – 

Hidden allergens
the inability to unthink unintentionally thought-of ideas
the age of a given stain
the etymology of cultch
envelopes designed to not stay properly shut
the appropriate use of ain’t
all-out global war
not knowing which is preferable
a rock, or the idea of a rock?

– – –