I'd love to look as Bohemian
as I feel, but I simply
can't afford it these days.
I begin to trail off between
sentences as work blurs together
from one job to the next
but I always wonder why I
don't have any money.
I'd love to look as Bohemian
as my sentences blurring together
from one job to the next
but I'm simply not that cool.

For king and country,
For slight apparition whose presence
   is unknown and fornicating,
whose essence is a piece of laughter
   and all of shame,
(he can't be blamed)
For each of eighty souls whose
   minds died in vain every time
   the winds came and brought the rain,
For all the slimy characters, unscrupulous
   whores of human beings, unfaithful
   wretches, and those just tired of love,

rest ye peacefully, and wake not.

pink neon beams illuminate my mind.
(where is my mind?)
who is in my mind? not me.
hermaphroditic semicolons illuminate this prose.
(where is this prose?)
my author has written no
self-referential works in quite some time;
but I have no sense of time,
only a sense of foreboding about the end.

sleep sleep sleep sleep sleep
wake
flush buffers
inhale
exhale
slam the door closed like you always do
it's raining outside
and you have no umbrella

it will happen to you, too

slithery slimy creepy crawling
things under my skin
stealing my bodily fluids
filled with precious nutrients and
the foundations of life
new life springs forth
my blood the foundations of
life emerging from this rotting corpse
this rotting corpse serving the dead
serving the living
serving the greater purpose
of interacting beings
of greater power
of interacting purpose
of greater beings
of interacting power of
beings greater than me

sookie sapperstein blues

dancing in some farmer's field under a full moon
surrounded by everything that's good about human nature
and nature fills you
in all those ways you thought you never needed it

slap sounds like saccharine slipping seeking
its target in the night air and some man is made human
through humility and his companion is made human
through anger