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The wisps of my lips

do whisper in twists

and thorough through night

and day do sigh

Some Cocky Young Lad (draft)

Yes ma’am I think I will
Nail me to the darts and drink the ink
Boil the room in your clouds – contagious hazes
Kockamayme jim-jams oodle from your lips

The Future Man

What monkey with heart and soul are you

that knocks at my door with meaty hands?

Who sells gazes like the gazes you sell

to the people who pass – who see

you in white?

All Standards for future existence aside,

what muck does digest in that withering gut?

A Short Walk to the Blade

It was early, maybe 6 am when they took me from my holding place and marched me through town.  The morning blue skies hung heavy above the muddy streets and mobs that wished to watch me die.  Some of them booed and threw rocks and vegetables at me while others cheered my name, still throwing rocks.  My face had become a scruffy mess in the past weeks and itched horribly but my shackles prevented me from scratching it.

As we turned a corner, my wife’s mother leapt from a doorway wielding a large, wooden bucket.  I ducked my head in preparation for the worst, a bucket of boiling water or tar maybe, but instead felt the sick, warm