Death Will Always Exist

Death might happen all of the sudden
whether you want to admit it
or not. Then the rest of you will be shattered

into pieces of other’s interpretations instead
of your own. He always thought your hair was ugly
like the color of gangrene even though
you always liked unnatural colors
and making up your own.

She always thought you were the weakest link
in your family and succumbed to the worst bad habits,
but she had no idea how terrible your habits really were,
and how good you were
at covering them up (hiding them inside the lines
like heavy duty vodka in a sugar-rimmed Lemon Drop Martini).

You could sort of manage
to come across as sort of normal
in spite of being otherwise,
and disliking what a lot of people loved
and loving what a lot of people wanted to stay away from.

Maybe you just pretended they didn’t know
or maybe they really didn’t know you.
Maybe she was uncomfortable that you didn’t believe
in God and one day she’ll be uncomfortable about where you are
after you’re dead. You’re horrified by the idea of not existing
and that nobody will remember you very well.

You won’t be able to remember yourself
or think for yourself or speak for yourself
and that’s your current interpretation of Hell.
Whenever you have one of your unexpected seizures,
you then spend weeks feeling negative and afraid
of unexpected death. You don’t feel ready to not exist yet.

Field Dressing Fantasy

“I said I liked your wife’s style!”,
yelled the man buzzing on a red shot
with chest hair bulging out his blood-drenched shirt,
with repetitive mechanical horse vision
covering the vortex of his gaping eyes.

To make things easier yet, tie each leg to a tree.

She wasn’t your wife. She was deceptive
animal body parts to him. Covered by a ring
of hooks to be hung and gaped open wider.
Like fragmented deer meat with human breasts
to be pried until she decomposed into oblivion.

Hang the deer from its neck to further drain the blood.

He thought this doe-eyed deer didn’t belong on his fairgrounds,
but managed to sneak herself in anyway
and now she will get what she deserves.
Undressing, gun fuck, field dressing
until another fractured female breaks

herself in with a cutting edge knife and screams,
If it’s a male, cut and remove the genitalia.

(the lines in italics were taken from “How-To: Field Dress a Deer in 10 Steps” at

Body Captivity

Part of my brain now connects
shoveling snow to creating
a seizure. The snow
an evil culprit, potentially
toxic. A sloppy gross mess
like my out of control body.

An ugly jerking flab fest
that’s hard to get rid of.
A big fat display of blubber
that covers up everything else.

It starts from out of nowhere,
then won’t stop growing.
If I get rid of it, it will come back.
If I shovel it, the next seizure
will break a rib to prove a point.
How much my body doesn’t like my bones.
Doesn’t want them to show themselves.

I’ve never been very good
at shoveling through ugly stuff
or even letting it melt away.
Instead I let it grow weird wormy larvae
and I toss my worms all over the place
like dirty ice princess tirades
against myself and others.

My mouth opens like a sludgy exhibitionist.
Flings unlikable pets onto another surface.
Attempts to position them the way I want them to be
until they start shaking uncontrollably
until they start shaking insidiously
on top of this persistent slab of snow.

When it finally melts down,
my conceptual stunt double
might be sinking further into unpalatable
like a sick dying whale.
Bad parts regrettably exposed.
Red pens turning into flensing knives.