For me, this is exactly what's so pernicious about the morality of debt: the way that financial imperatives constantly try to reduce us all, despite ourselves, to the equivalent of pillagers, eyeing the world simply for what can be turned into money -- and then tell us that it's only those who are willing to see the world as pillagers who deserve access to the resources required to pursue anything in life other than money.

-David Graber,
Debt, the first 5000 years

Heaviest are the needs of the few

Eating our minds as
it sears our flesh
seduces us as
it steals our souls
as sure as the monarchs
but we
do it to ourselves

Just a thought
an idea we choose
as if the greeks reached
the pinnacle of
political achievement

So transformed to
more precisely republicanisim
learned the lessons of
the war to end all wars

As everything is simmered to
we stand enamored
and in awe
afflicted masses with

Stockholm Syndrome

What once was cherished

Sleep inspires
past lives organized
approach Dewey Decimal System
another premature finale
categorically unimpeded
we burned the words so we
could breathe them


She gave us
first breath
and we took it from there
setting about her form
with needles and
tattoo machines
of tombstones sermon
the value we lent
things inside

Never considering
we could have been the jewels
about her neck

Still could
rather than
flesh eating bacteria

Please pass the Echinacea

custard's fast bland

the calvary came
on clouds of dust
and gunsmoke
belching leaden

they stormed the plains
seeking conquest or
some sort of retribution

finding a just
pooled in blood

Overprotective anxiety

What good is rope
flaked into bag
waiting, slowly molding

Well used rope is a quantity
lovingly laid out each day
flaws apparent
the weaknesses to avoid
or reinforce

This bagged hank
wastes to age
brittle with stasis
obscured delirum

While the other true
may break or fray,
will always
know it's use

Heavy Panniers

My legs strain with
my timpani solo (no finale)
, inverted digits,
frame chain on
tiny clicking
spoon abraided washboard
turns evenly the
myth of perpetual motion

trying to make anthills
out of snow tipped crags
acrid vengance reminds me
eventually, there's always a
a coast, a
border made of

The will to endure and
get there

As I ponder my
life desicions

a road traveled

flat earthing
ever Trumpers,
I would
to call ignorance
rather than
see hordes of
bob-ombs wobble-waddling,
winding themselves
up for Ragnarok
or Q

not butterfly
elevation adjustments
bouyant wings
bright agustin updrafts

its another type of
hot air
demand the temperate
face, peering out from
mirror, mirror
for simplified
to sip from
a what?
a grail?

Full poem @

Taxonomy or-

placed into files
obsession to classify
a simple action that
cuts a prismatic mist
into 7 seperate colors
discovering where each division
begins or ends in
poetry, prose or gibberish
cultural icons we embalm
looking the dead in the


systemic speciesism

building a new world for
sterile paradise grown
with what we
sewing patches
bubbling repairs
just afloat
treasonous rapids remains of
damns we couldn't repair
testament to skipped stones and
crumbling bridges

we predict the 9 point,
oh, or night
of mushroom storms
bespeckling the horizon
or the slow decay
depletion of every need
till we are
left to our wants

cockroaches will farm our bones
for five thousand years

but mother will be fine

zone 8a shenanigans

moist, loamy spirits
pirouette about the
midnight excavators senses
nails full of mud
satisfied nostrils

moldy cupcake in the back of the
fridge, lot
moonlight seeping through
wrung biodegradable sponges
sheds its awareness on three
tending to their gifts
kiwi vines
growing through
unnamed apple trees framed by
Queen Anne's Lace and

Full poem @

5 more minutes

this drilling, gnawing
viscous thing
muleing reminder
I live to forget
rock in my mattress
four days a week
five in the winter
electric death

belated I disarm and
disarm again
tenacious beast
feeds on the misery
of my blooded ears

never a placebo
to subdue or subside
waking world laughs
every time I rise

Photosensitive epilepsy or night terrors

UFO over my bed
screams before death if
I mind the cells
steady green,
red flashing
firefly clings to the ceiling
smelling for co2 or the
crispy potatoes I burned
for breakfast
but it never sings
for my salad

The birdcage

aven wings beat franticly against
the inner walls of a
calcified prision

a spider tiptoes up spine
hatched from a curdled
to settle the cranium

could it be
the social contract that
nobody signed
can split you
open up remorse
ethics of numbers
authority swarm
that has failed us
so many times


Full poem @

Spoken word

8 years old
I, souped in pallid exemption,
(Grandfather spent pigmented slurs
as punchlines,
Polock jokes costumed
for every occasion)
sleeping fire
set by the friction of
outsoles and playground
as I tried to out pace
looming violence
a city and a grade of
two away

But now a
mirrored peer
and I.
Beat it
one glove
I'm not sure why
and I will not make excuses,
I spit the lynchmans shackles
on the shag carpet
between us and it

Full poem @


slate of papyrus
set ordered,
empty half or
of strings of hushed

frontal, temporal
to pitter-patter of
slothish card shuffling
between title
and synopsis

unknown percentage of
fired synapses
pages contain
gravity or
suggestion of inertia
leaden to begin,
hummingbird wings
father dies,
mother turns us
to day break
and new begginings

at once
clowns in a mini cooper

Photosensitive epilepsy or night terrors

UFO over my bed
screams before death if
I mind the cells
steady green,
red flashing
firefly clings to the ceiling
smelling for co2 or the
crispy potatoes I burned
for breakfast
but it never sings
for my salad

fire and rhinestone

the end times
have been engineered
so near every age
believed they paddled at the brink
flat sea
what need to swerve when
judgement looms
just repent
and ride

tidal waves
and particles betray the
theory of
everything is everything
mingling in the
quantam soup
and if god is that
and I am you
then can't we refine

our will to survive

A beautiful death

it was personal
not monitors and launch sequences
or crosshairs from 10, 000 feet

it was watching an addict nod
but bloody and booming

it was personal
and I had enough
as I dragged myself under the
fluted knees of a cypress
masking myself in a brown puddle

This is a longer one, did full poem @

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