some gadgetry



some gadgetry

may work

and some may suck



and some may snuffle into your intestines

and come up grinning



red eyes blazing

over silver teat



your grey guts

pooling on the red earth

beneath



it's a matter of policy

to blow up families



mothers, brothers

and the arms off kindergartners



and it's a matter of fucking reality

that ready or not here we come



and we are insane

and we will rule you

and we will kill you



and we don't care if you die



god bless america

like King Midas, but of crap



the egress in my conciousness

for this sort of thing

has today shrunken

to the size of a metaphorical

pinhole



next, as I'm about to wrap this shit up with lines like:

if only it were an egress

if only it were a pinhole

and other tonal bloviary



I instead check my

company-provided, paperback

version of the American Heritage Dictionary

for proper usage of the noun



"egress."



Flipping past ejaculation,

and then, epenepherine,

I'm all: Promise?

and: yeahhhhhhh



Like I said:

a metaphorical pinhole.



Plus anagrams:



ALPHAMERIC LITHOPONE



Chatham Nipple Oriole



Tacoma Hereon, Philip!



Menthol Pariah Police



POTHOLE ANIMAL CIPHER



Cheapie Pomona Thrill(s)!



CHILEAN MOOLAH TIPPER



(The) Charlie Pelham Potion



Ethical Moolah Nipper



OPTIMAL HEROIN CHAPEL



Hooper, PHALLIC INMATE



Alcohol Inmate: HIPPER



HIPPER: Coital Manhole



Loathe Oilman, Chipper



Menial Hoopla Pitcher



PHALLI TAMPON....CHEERIO!



Internet Anagram Server

winter is a lonely bitch



The snow won't cease hassling the inhabitants of our town.

There's not a soul to thank or talk to. The powerlines

are down. The church urn robbed my proper burial.

Why can't they mark my streaking embers now,

mingled in the icy air, like glints of fireflies?

I spent a hundred years today shivering in a stand

of birches, sitting on the snow. With streaming

blackberry eyes, I finally trudged the cold pine

ridges all the way to Pleasant Street, shouldering

my shade. There I paused outside her house, waiting.

There comes a time for breaking, even for the deceased.

I've got my mission. I shall be released.

(2) drunken phone calls

welfare haiku



free and clear

hologram cylinders

combustible brainwaves

*

damp, grey sky

I wish I was home

writing a story

*

black tar cornea

ignore the world

moss on my scalp

*

I, thief.

My boss stirs.

Alt + Tab

there's no wrong or right, but i'm sure there's good and bad



i was out in the yard

walking drunk with the dog

last night, thinking of a poem

about old bones in the ground,

all the bones of everyone

who's gone before

irradiated with some kind

of forgiveness or absolution,

radiating this eternal understanding

up through the earth's soil,

healing everyone



then the Red Sox went to 16

in Florida and I fell asleep

on the couch but didn't spill

beer on either myself or the couch,



and Jenny fell asleep

on the love seat adjacent

so Jackson, the dog, had sole run

of the house for at least a couple

hours, but he didn't chew

any furniture, jump on the table

or eat any of my books,



evidently all he did was repair

to the front room and lie down

on his blue pad beneath the window

and snooze and keep watch