Whiskey Boy Revival

A plea for acceleration
Headlong into sandbags, dry levies, iron grates
Animalism, tribalism, primalism
Hail Agraria, the shepherd, and the nomad
Sticks of cinnamon submerged in apple pie moonshine
Distilled from boiled crick water
I derive a minute of comfort
From the spirit’s warmth
At risk of discovery
I can only afford to light a smokeless fire
It is nighttime outside my Appalachian cave home
From Yellow Dog to Shagalee
There is a Whiskey Boy Revival
Fine lads headstrong in rebellion
Versed in code-switch
and led by Vishnu in his many armed form
Pay tribute to Armageddon’s shrine


Comfort is
      the bane of
      the bane of
      the bane of

The Dead Egger

Boxed wine tears
and a barren womb
the dead egger
decrees her disdain
for all things lovely,
fertile, and full of life.

The Yaeger

Fuck the Fates
Harbingers of History
Horrible, heinous, hideous, hags
I will hang them by their own string
   At a time
It’s rope day for destiny
and I am the Yaeger

Joyous in Stillness

Revel in your own absence
   You are not the falling stars
      You are where the stars fall
Be jovial, jubilant, joyous in stillness
   Relax your borders
      Force your damn equilibrium
The void only feels empty when you step outside of your contentment

A Humble Young Few

A humble young few
Who boast liberties truth
Still remember the prize which blood bought
This soil and clay
Where our ancestors lay
Once ours is now all but lost
The hell that we made
While we rejoice in our grave
Threatens to devour our claim
We take pride in our chains
As we curse our namesake
And feast on a crows meal of shame
A fool we’ve been made
At a game we abstained
Now shamed by yesteryear’s shade
The men of renown
No more are they found
All drowned by a subversive red rain
As wolves on black couches
With gold stars on their blouses
In lily-white houses
Eat cake while the people draw lots
On who gets to serve
And who gets to die
While the goslings eat the old ganders pie


I erected my capital city
     with its spiraling marble tower
          on the crest of your heart
the walls may fall
     the streets may flood
          but death comes before defeat


Pines! Pines! Pines!

Rolling hills along the Appalachian wilderness
   fertile bosom
   mountainous birthing hips

Frasier fur fields
   trees jut out of the soil like Gaia’s teeth

Concolor citron
   with orange zest and lemon hints
   citrus smells with earthy tones
   and the sweet cleanliness of pine

Beige blurred baby blue spruce
   the needles glistening with snow
   iridescent, wetness, shimmering, refracting, dancing in the sunlight

There are needles everywhere
   poking me, prodding me
   Sticking me with their finger tips
   Sharp then, snap!
   and the itch that follows
   Needles everywhere
   Needles are my hair
   I hear needles
   I am being fucked by needles
   I fuck needles
   I am walking on needles
   Needles in my lungs
   Needles on my tongue

Crisp, bitter, acidic
   I taste Gaia
   and can smell her ripe cunt

Pines! Pines! Pines!

Drip drop

Drip drop

These trees bring snow flurries,
   rain drops, morning dew

My feet are prunes
   I have lost my toes
   and found peach pits
   in their stead

Slosh, slosh, slosh

My socks have turned black, heavy, saturated
   each step wrings them out like a cloth
   three shades of brown speckle my jacket
   a wet brown
   a damp brown
   a dry brown

The water has seeped through my gloves
   pockets of pine needles float at my fingertips

I am knuckle deep in Gaia’s sex
   she has soaked me to the bone
   marked me as her own
   with her crisp and pungent scent

Pines! Pines! Pines!