- The poem I started last night shouts at me this morning. Lordy, my jones for louder and quieter.
- We all hate the lion-killer. Here's a comment I wrote on the post when I was lion-killer hating: Fuck humans, of which I insist I'm not worst (egoist that I am) but am amply shitty. What appears in this post bears little to what I first wrote. I wished the fucker professional ruin, which I stand by as his profession affords him his killing trips. I wished for ruin in his personal life too. So, I was wishing harassment on his employees (like he would answer the phones for me to tell him to fuck off or open all new suspicious mail etc) and pain on his loved ones, some of whom, though they love him, may not be despicable fucks themselves.
- So yes, fuck me.
- My Favorite POTUS. I like you, Jimmy, but things same as they ever was.
- The Cimmerian Hypothesis, part three.
- And you thought Greece had a problem.
- In Ewigkeit.
- He does not wear bladder-leak pants.
- Nearby is the country they call life.
- What you can buy me for my birthday.
- The new Vollmann isn't working. An old McElroy isn't working. The new Jeremy Davies is sort of working but not like it should. The new Matthea Harvey was working but now it isn't. So fuck me.
THE HURT SONNET
Dark days when I awaken so I slump
back to the swamp of his armpit, a whit
from the arachnid he inked to the stump
that's left. So close to the vestige of it,
the danger he's a reliquary of:
tattooed noose to venerate the fist
of a slug buried still in his butt above
a white cross for the men he didn't miss.
I sleep against and be his liniment,
gloss over the explosion, the mishap
phantom he feels in a forearm itch.
for me, so I amend the story.