not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Sunday, March 12, 2017

a ruthless winter to defeat


from A Secret Gratitude by James Wright

We are men.
We are capable of anything.
We could have killed every one of those deer.
The very moon of lovers tore herself with the agony of a wounded tigress
Out of our side.
We can kill anything.
We can kill our own bodies.
Those deer on the hillside have no idea what in hell
We are except murderers.
They know that much, and don’t think
They don’t.
Man’s heart is the rotten yolk of a blacksnake egg
Corroding, as it is just born, in a pile of dead
Horse dung.
I have no use for the human creature.
He subtly extracts pain awake in his own kind.
I am born one, out of an accidental hump of chemistry.
I have no use.

Monday, March 6, 2017

Wednesday, March 1, 2017

Sunday, February 26, 2017

Thursday, January 26, 2017

the childhood inside us

Glancing Back

Is tracing the past
always like laying one's hands against glass?




Glass can break, cut.
Blood runs thin, until it coagulates.



Welcome aboard mighty homunculus, 
tiny, but more powerful than the us.




*

Outside the flowers are leaving the dirt
and climbing into this milk glass to wilt,

their sour-sweet scent following us, always.