"The Man Who Played Dith Pran"

opened like a drain
the infinite paths of abjection

the things that accrue to one of these years
nothing has accrued

i who aspired to leave no trace
raven-brought clime
of Zubenelg


    "Star Witness in MySpace Suicide"

their crooked litanies gleam

the raven-fetched evangel
the never-ending sickness


    "A Book of Pyramid Architecture"

And those who perfectly know
and their speech, many-fathomed, churns
on the delicate cold air
and doesn't say
what they
have suffered
and we look away, ashamed to ask
the shadow of its darkness
the entirety of the long wounding
and those

who perfectly know


    "Miniature Groovy Wings"

twin cantors limn the fallen
outline of a monarch.
when i write, i siphon
garboil through my teeth,
and gurgle like a siphon.

the leader has no teeth.
amidst this night-fright fallen
only the worm reigns monarch,
of book-devourment monarch;
of hourglass the siphon.

lying through my teeth
to prove i've never fallen:
this protocol has teeth,
to use upon the fallen
from villager to monarch...

follow the gliding siphon.


"We strum our banjo-strings and call them lyres."
--Paul Laurence Dunbar


The Great Texas Airship Mystery.


"Survivalism, it seems, is not just for survivalists anymore."


Robosaurus.


One Thousand Tears of a Tarantula.