It had always been that way

It had always been that way

Our people soaked in pain

Creeping along that path

Never crossing that river

Never hugging the bush

It has mostly been that 

both then and now and tomorrow

Our teeth will become powder

Our fist burst into flow

What we do and don't are desires rule

And now just a puddle 

Now just a cup of tea 

An infant can drown by either

I love you shitty me -you the fuck of us all 

I will remember our dirty lousy hell 

with plant life and sweet insects and the lies between our ears

I will recall the flicker riding from flame to flame flicker

Passing in and it

pure up and up and gravity trickle low

In the time of twisted bones and goitered flesh 

Smiles so large 

they make you cry in private places

Fashions metal steel iron

geometric down runways flanked

Livers, kidneys, intestines

How do you mend a severed head

And what kind of jewel is appropriate

and how many pills does it take

And will the shades blank blank the shadows whole

The Fighting Book

Many of these pages come from my time spent at the MacDowell Colony and Headlands Center for the Arts.

First Stanza

First Stanza

First stanza
is something about desire.

Why fear the dreadful words

never meant for a poem.

A yawning accommodates
the souls dirty mark.

In the distance

I see an assembly.
And I know that house quite well-
the dynastic of jumble and maladroit.

The blueprint is love-

whose erection is a creeper-
with rungs made

of evanescent sluices

And night pines

the dominance of grief’s

habitual stair-case. 

And all and all

   and all.

The friendliest vein

of stratum
is a cool and brightless

shattering:

This is not me!
This is not me!
Not what I am!

Not...

Yucatan Zine

This is an older zine I made with Suzanne Goldenberg during a visit to Mexico.

A quick ipad drawing for a sculpture that I ended up makeing for an oudoor exhibit here in Bushwick.

I wrote this a couple of days ago at my apartment in Brooklyn.

The books
are no longer held
with staples or tape.

Gospel today

fills the soul
like glue

from a Wonder Bread bag.

Like the photography of some vital

motif.

A passing of traitor -

disappearing the early morning

dew.

The gelatin silver print blisters
with foresight.

A reflex assumption.

One perilous lineage

hooked by clairvoyant creations-
only to defecate the denial of truth:

The dying beast is your child,
your demon,
 your God.

If your interested to read more check out my poetry Blog:

http://lickingjunglecatclaws.blogspot.com/

The Chrome Book

I made this book in Brooklyn, NY 2013-2014

Shan Traditional Tattoo Manuscripts I picked up in Myanmar.

The first two I found in Naung Shwe and the last one (with red ink) is from Bagan, Myanmar.