dead man’s trigger


i offer prayer,

an incantation of

intent to whom it

may concern.


the closet is a lair,

a cave, cradle to a

gravedigger in the

crippled fist of the

severed forearm

of a brunette


werewolf under the

ever hungry eyes of

a costume vulture.


an american blend

of rocket fuel swill

to wash down the

debris of

dissent and

weaponized food.


i trip down the stairs

on the way to the

toilet, snap my neck

like the crooked

fingers of father time

keeping beat in the

world’s worst one

man band.


my eyes refocus on

a corner of ceiling 

from the couch in

the living room of  

my childhood home.


an eight-year-old

body brings me to

my bedroom cut

in half by a thick

sliver of sun with

the herringbone twill

of the plaid tweed

cushion still pressed

into my cheek.


i stare into the light

till it’s decoded.


the earth is a

seventh dimensional

galactic seed planet,

kidnapped by a race

of dystopian dracos,

detuned to a prison

of the third



the devil’s haarp

plays operation

witch doctor in d

minor, culls the

country to sleep. a

collective nightmare

wheezing under an 

inorganic red shield

atmosphere in the

circuitry of the city

in various pockets

lit with quicksilver

bulbs buzzing with

the poisoned light

of the russian

woodpecker signal.


the ss-100-x was

originally a standard

nineteen sixty-one

lincoln continental

four door convertible

(model seventy-four



the spread puts the

smart money on a

gift horse from

ancient troy named

agenda twenty-one.


a cautionary fairy

tale from atlantis


oppenheimer and

the iron thunderbolt

of the mahabharata.


beware the light of

corporate samsara.

do not go to the light,

go to your heart.


eight-year-old hands

hara-kiri with a

banana knife and i

refocus on the olive

slope of my current

bedroom ceiling,


the fingerprint


blueberry bark

of an oil tree.


left a redlined lover in

poorly written science



a footrace to the sun

it is then.