Hair Back

tunneling through straw

at the curbside, ridden

I can see it in your sooty eyes

it has befallen this city

it will come for me too

this sickness entangled

in the disengaged air

windrose, the root at peak

soon they will be crying over me

for who can remember

when the rope knotted

like a noose swung slow

around our necks

begging the silence to begin

ring the kindred spirits

let them loose from the den

of sin and keep a finger pointed

at the mirror within

kill me on this mattress

I'm alone with the rest

decrepit and bleeding

waiting for death

the streets know more about this

than we could ever imagine

in the sorrow of the hands

that sweep around the public dial

a recycled flat deficiency

with many ways to burn

and leave, pandering to

the exhibition of life with no reprieve

we slip small tokens of God

unprepared into our pocket chasms

and suck down floral residue

full of indecision

it's the reign of darkness

the siege of disease

its compounding swill of ignorance,

the rest of me

I lie still in the wake of repetition

and turn the other cheek to

episodic lessons

left in time to be touched

by the never and enough

The Flagellant

the self-repentant suffers

slog along in spellbound

crowds to escape their health

and quell the dreadful distress of

three-prong leather whips

a demonstration in the despoliation

of fear, to liquidate the evil shell of

sin bubbling within lymph nodes

beneath the skin

mortification of the flesh,

a scourge in every hand,

tormented by the wrath of

the fallen angel’s swift descent

they travel far from chapels

collapsing on the ground

flailing in the thorns of crucifixion

and bones of the damned

a public display of atonement

voyeurism unchecked

sweeping through every city

their tri-tails dragging in the wind

so violently they shake

plucking people from a mood

of horrific apprehension

feasting on apocalyptic food

mystery of the final moment

what the welted lacerations

bring, savoring fidelity

from under cover of

the second coming

the trumpets sound delirium

of psychotic, panicked grief

stricken down by the awful

scent of boil-ridden disease

a statement with four corners

fixed by broken belts of wood,

fooled by strength that pulled the weight

of a crude remembrance misconstrued

in the calculated dirt lines drawn

to delineate the final sketch

of a predetermined afterlife

beyond the shadow of death

City of Dis

at the quiet end of a corner

where many people pass,

a man sips his coffee with

his eyes trained on the glass

a stout reflection stiffened at the neck

the daily paper unfolded in his lap

the obituary section steals

his glance and he smirks in bitter

ruthlessness at those left dead

before him, slipping in

and out of different states

of consciousness

there’s a wailing of troubled

voices vibrating like insanity

a tenebrous shadow manifests

to ignite an internal attack

and though he cleans his plate

reaching for the check

he knows somewhere

in a fathomless depth

that there is no end

to endlessness

for some time now he’s

spun a dance like delusion

of darkness living in him

and when the call of night

comes to suffocate the sleeper

it torments the intersection

of bodies before the light

that creep along the edges

to kill the righteous

hidden in the swallow

of sorrow, the reality

of nonsense brings him shame

over the rainbow, out

the café and down the street

he peers through

small-framed windows

on a search for warning signs

that tingle when pulsation races

through his fingers

like the membrane of

a moment that defines

how it hurts to be human

moving through the city

in a casted role to be the viewer

inside the bedroom, the

prisoner considered

an ever-present sleeper in

the wake of a terrifying dream

he once heard someone speak

in tongues, pulling power

with a fall from grace

fighting against the circles

of fate with carefully

constructed phrasing

calling out His name

but there is no end

to endlessness

the dials connect

and spin

there is no end

to endlessness

infection comes again

Inside the Walls of Kaffa

corpses flung from the trebuchet

lie in waiting beyond the stone

when the people of the city came

to dump the masses in the ocean

death the equalizer

democratic, we shall see

that when we’re even, heaven

opens up to let the workers

of iniquity deliver their decree

anything they’d understand

to cry out Lord, please hear our plea

of subjugations unto nature

from the coil of slight bodies

the toil of mass induction

panicked sellers taken leave

spreading out along the sea ports

from Crimea to Capri

they don’t have to choose

between death + no destruction

for when fear grabs hold of principal

there’s a loss of a skilled

thought process

shameless shaking below the deck

sailing across the channel

to an unknown end

away from sorrow toward

desire of the free,

unlimited breadth of spiritual

ecstasy to exist as is

Death Fog

it came by way of a

foamy miasma, a mix

of gas across the sea

tuned to kill with equality

churning like a wheel

with twisted spokes

bowed into winged-beings

the lesions drained of

absolution, the fool’s

maker on the rise

apprehensive waiting

for when time meets

no time

waxing figures melted

by the bedside,

an hourglass wound down

one breathless moment

to lift a dying refrain

which drives these weathered

carcasses slinking back

into the lifeless womb

the interloper sheds

some skin beneath the

dusky light of homespun

tales, peeling back

with retribution to lay on

shades of slow decay

ley lines reeling

sitting by the edge of the sea

uncovering the wistful

blips of meaning

in a fog intent on billowing

like some sick siege machine

to tell them you misunderstood

things aren’t what they seem

and maybe in two hundred years

someone will rewrite history

Love + Desertion

solitude by candles snap

the air in subtle moods

discoloring the bending motion

between two lovers in a room

when it happened she knew

not what to say nor do

so instead she stood in silence

manipulating attitudes

an elusive breeze brought

the death of waiting in the air

as she covered up to ward

off waves of violent bouts

of anxiety silenced in her throat

a glance cast back at her lover

lying there, his skin fading into

pale and ghastly shades

contrasted by the black

intensified protrusions

emerging from the creases

of his weakening body

he fell quickly into darkness

far from the flame

her love losing its luster

in the grim reality of death

she already knew what would

become of him

fear is like a bullet from the barrel

so quick you can’t escape

in the hours of the early morning

he called out her name

“I’m going for the doctor”

was all that she could say

then she walked

out of the house,

and kept walking away

Glass Eyes

breathing was heavy

in the days of due infection

through aromatic discretion

the beaks came through the city

rebalancing humor

he made the injection to drain

their blood on demand

solid eyes reflective of

disintegrating flesh

dispelling the smell

with a cover and a catch

stuffed full of flowers,

herbs, straws, and spices

withering away in the days

that lie ahead

to play the only role left

until they were all missing

and the rise became the fall

across street

translated health kept

tucked under slow reform

when they lifted their beaks

to the unknown and placed

their rubber hands upon

each patient melting on

their rotting beds

bitter, brave misleading

masks which came in peace

and left in death

Memento Mori

he awoke in deep reflection

on the transience of life

tearing apart the mirror

of vanity to learn the proper

art of dying

through detachment he sought rest,

bending over backward

to peel back all his skin

a classical invention to

turn off and fall apart

the ritualistic expression

just the way he had been taught

if you love enough

you must give up everything,

remember that you have to die

the thought returned from taking leave,

and in the wind doubt came

to pass like a suffocating

hand closed firm

around his neck

nobody wanted this

he didn’t ask for restitution

twisted into dilapidated

compounds of flesh and disease

the bell rings

when you’re too close

to the sound of trouble

it spills over when you’re not careful

to touch a bit of the taste to

your tongue, then rip the

label off of everything

you’ve ever known

proves more powerful

than the strongest of elixirs

don’t act like this is

something you’ve never seen before

don’t act like this is foreign

we all know where the

sallow, somber fear of

nonexistence comes from

Creaking

three to five

a waking life

fit for fools and dying needs

a piecemeal wish of

shaking stimulation

wading through carefully

placed reeds

when what you want is to desire

and getting what you want

is to regret what did transpire

you hide inside

a prepared meeting

while fighting time contented

siphon off the energy

leave you there to waste

slaughter you,

grind you down to residue

like broken, dusty frame

an unchained seasoned victim

roosts inside, dormant kept

tranquil in desperation

sucking down each last breath

creaking at the summit

of a distilled expectation

tomorrow is the last day

and no one has the answer

respect kept still for the chosen few

who up and left the country

who took their time

to make plans for the future

ripe and keeping faithful chains

taut for all to see

membership depleting

for the fools down on their knees

The Cradle

inside a shell

the pit emerges

gasping for resuscitation

some mothers assume

this counts for something

a barrage, a purge

down countless numbers

the call kept calling

while their fathers fled

for solid ground

it’s easy to assume

that the cure is buried

beneath unfound knowledge

when supple breeding leads

to overproduction without

ample supply

and you know you’ve met sufficiency

when the hell hounds come crying

scooped up into her arms

a sleeping child is cradled

in the external womb

of elongated flesh made

to work like utensils

fit for petting zoos

she sung a whispered lullaby

down the canal of unremembered hope

if the children could speak

they’d know when to say enough

it’s abundancy, abundancy!

the dark cloud announced

as it came crawling over the cities

of the western seaboard

like a trail of diffused tragedy

meant to even the proportions

if negligence and disregard

are human to the touch

the world turns over in its grave

to make more room for us

Huge thank you to Amy Miller for collaborating on this project with me. She followed me through back alleys, burned down buildings, and sketchy underpasses to get the shots included in this series. Don't let her modesty fool you, she is incredibly talented and truly made this project come alive. It would not have turned out the way it did without her.