sanford and sonnet


a fever twenty-four

months in takes me.

i flow from another

and ebb into this

world. out to sea,

set adrift the whim

of tide and then a

race to the center

with savage

purpose. i capsize

in red onto the

shore over the

fourth of a tetrad,

the second sukkot,

a super harvest

blood moon.


the coast becomes

concrete carved into

the landscape and

shaped into a

labyrinth. i wander

for eons before

stumbling upon a

path that always

leads to home.

a stick and bindle

sanctuary balanced

on the shoulders for

a brief reprieve from

the hot wolf whistle

wind hissed through

the blood stained

teeth of the

great american

twenty-first century

corporate ouroboros.


a fourth industrial



witness rings the

doorbell, soliciting

the early adoption

of a subcranial

community of

sentient nanobots

programmed to

operate an intricate

neural lace city

wrapped around

your brain like

the digital fingers of

an ancient titan

of forgotten legend.

i thank her kindly,

her sea monkey

slave labor brain

city springs into

action, tugs the

corners of her

mouth into a smile,

points her at the

neighbor’s house.


i keep her leaflet

for kindling a

ceremonial fire

set in the kitchen

used to smoke

signal the throne

of the fourth

intercalary day

and prime number.


a fifth dimensional

sasquatch elder

unzips a patch of

the fabric of space

in front of the sofa,

steps into the living

room and closes

the hole behind

him. he begins

balancing the cat

before a little one

legged wheel, then

follows up with

a firefly to finish.

his mantra of,

sovereign ra om,

echoes off a

san fransico


penterone olde


diving helmet

ice bucket, rings

my skull like a

tibetan singing



i gather omens and

the day’s provisions.

a left fist around the

waist of a convention

exclusive zombie

galactus, a joystick

right with thumb at

the ready.


the signs alongside

the road read:


be impeccable.


do not feed

the demons.