i’m hardly ever sure
of the things i write and whether
i should have written them

but this was a writhing
phosphorescent worm
and here it is for better or for worse

and then i'm in the ambulance
and the sun is sinking
everything wells up in the corners

trembles for a moment

and spills out over the brim

there are bits of me rattling
in the ice bucket riding along beside me
held just beyond my peripherals

it is pink like the smudged and drowning sun

the traffic extends beyond the limits
of the pain killers they gave me

it starts as a slow radiating burning sting
where my fingers used to be
around the open end of my hand

under the loosely draped bandage
delineating what is clearly no longer there

the throbbing starts gently
in and around and out
through the clipped nubs of bone

and at the base of my brain a slow ignition
a smoldering notion that catches fire
and explodes into an enormous conflagration

none of this will ever be the same
none of me will ever be the same

i’m pressed up against a yawning uncertainty

i lose my breath in that ambulance

rumbling through traffic
toward rescue and salvation
toward painkillers, stitches, and steel pins,

toward missing bones, muscles, and fingertips
toward dead nerves, shredded vessels, and tendons

toward that big and terrible loss
toward the next me

i step outside and my mind goes blank.
all I planned to do vanishes.

i feel this sense of prolonged absence like I've been away.
away but not gone.

a familiar stranger.
a nagging feeling of incompleteness.

the distance felt of what I was
and what I have become;
am becoming.

i trust that my labors are hallowed,
propelled by an unfathomable deity.

not by the god you profess to know
or the one you swear to understand.

but by the gods yet to be discovered,
for there must be a multitude
hidden in the sacred toils.

a bestowing benevolence with
ten thousand and one faces,

slowly uncovered and illuminated
from within the hypogea of
the glacially beating heart
and from the pitch of the cavernous mind,

teased out in meticulous detail
with crude and obscene tools.

ho! and judas,
with his left hand of envy
and his right of greed,

toppled over mountains
and whipped down the trees;

driving the biting sands
into your growing deserts.


you lift your billowing heads
your eyes molten and hot,
weeping fire;

the grit of this endeavor
takes the skin off your hands

and from your feet
as you press forth

of stubborn
pride and spite.


the fever spikes and you
dream of shaded rivers;
these visions pass on

and into an incongruity
of solace

enraging your hearts
and their strings of calling.


god’s lowly creatures gather
up around you,
no more;

for you, the meek
have renounced your inheritance,

your bloodied mouths
choked with carrion;

your dazzled sanities
bludgeoned;

there is no one,
no more,

left to save you,
to lift you up
and bestow upon you
one final squandered
bequest.

oh! my injured brother.
my lost tormentor.
you beast
of the severed hand.

travail through these nights of fire,
sifting through the bones
and ruins.

i lay down into the sprawling fields,
a series of small
explosions go off in my brain;

i sink into the inky darkness
as words escape me,
pulled under by the distancing reports.

my throat goes dry and full of copper.

my nose choked acridity.

i look up toward the dead and dying,
a vicissitude reflecting; refracting.

the vicissitude
a monolith of my new becoming
clicks on,

starts to play and replay.
again and again

and again.

now you
my injured brother;
sickly and scarred,
damaged and harmed
hang there on the brink of surrender.

slowly bringing me to recognize
that I am becoming;

that i have become now
a beast
with a
severed
hand.

we will not be;

we can not be praised for
the manner in which we suffer.

we've crawled over
these sprawling cliffs of ash;

built up palaces of tangled
bones and branches;

but even now, even these
venerated places have been stripped
of their gold and light.

not all suicides are lonely endeavors;

the mud and water macerates the walls
the ceilings are coming down
the floors

cave in.

and what of our future?
it was there
sparkling on the horizons
until it wasn’t.

just a fading twinkling for a decade or two
and then nothing, a saturnine glare;

an unknown and unwanted solution;

our weakened hearts palpitating
erratic and wild.

the sun’s full of bleach
raining down merciless light
through the wheezing atmosphere;

what are we now?
the unsaved,
almost forsaken;

forgotten in the reaching tendrils
suffocating in the newfound
unmitigated eclipse.

at 2:52 in the morning
in the stagnant black canyons
of insomniac fever
and self defeat
I miss making things I once
made.

and my brain
grinding
out in agonizingly torturous
slow-motion
the reverberations of steel
passing through bone
and marrow.

the moment stretches out
into endless enormity
before the pneumatic guard releases
and I'm set free
but no longer whole;

my composure frayed
like the skin and
veins of my hand;
tender tissue amputated
and mangled

the four little nubs
of what used to be
my hand
clutched desperately
into the palm of the other.

it would be something
to let these things pass
quietly, silently
without the regret
of these utterances

but there is this memory
of screaming
a distant
and disembodied
screaming.

one more hour
and then another
with our backs against the fires
in this stifling pitch
and the dogs
starving and restless
pacing lonely parabolas
through the sifting ashes
trapped between the conflagration
and the stygian outer dark

the whole day
the sparrows screamed
and fell
flailed and gave up their ghosts
premonitions of the coming gloam
encroaching upon us the terrifying quietus
an inevitable calamity

if we make it through this night
we can watch the sun
emblazon the eastern hills
with the wild horses
cresting and dying
in rising lucifer’s new light

we’ll devour
what's left of the young
this was never their place

the trees will slowly fall and tumble
from their mountains
feeding our tortuous infernos

this is the new order of things
our dreams have become wolves
in the darkness
with eyes glinting and nefarious

in the small hours
they'll sit atop their mounts
brilliant and foul
drinking tea of piss and ash
surveying the rapidly chilling fields
of splintered bone
calcifying in the moaning winds

the wolf drawing crimson
from the throat of a unicorn

its beastly eyes glazed
with fear and death

you hold nothing in
your burning hand

but the ruins
of your fingertips

the stench of mercy
reeking of cordite

and the screeching of the songbirds
a parting rune does not make

after what most
couldn't call a night
you awaken to a congeries
of churlish sutures
snaking up the palm
of your resurrected hand.

your brain sends signals
to the mangled meat
and gristle

it welters and spasms;
it pulls and tears free;
nothing does what it's
supposed to

slowly,
after the rigors of
attempting function
have cramped the
the lower sinews
of your arm;

after tiny confused
and clumsy movements
yielding but a tiny
wriggle in what you
once called a finger

blood starts to pool
and seep
past the spidered
black threads and
last night’s
cellular adhesions

a slowly forming stigmata
growing to resemble
what once you were
taught to be;
what once
it might have been

a healing hand of christ;
a hand of longing
and forgiveness;

of redemption

with the strength of will
and the benevolence of cowardice
the unfolding of a midwestern gothic

in the deep dry night
when these tired stars glow ablaze
your hair aflame swaying and dancing
within the hyperventilating wind

the pills you were given come up short
only manage to muddle your senses
and turn your stomach

the sterile bandages have their own stench
you'll vomit up bile with your hair still aflame
reflecting softly in the porcelain

you’ll act as if this suicide was
mandatory and not a matter
of stubborn pride

the blackbirds now scream and claw
around your rotting mouth, they want your
tongue and teeth, they want your dehydrated eyes

you’ll worry and fray at the stitching
pulling through that spun silver thread
as it breaks free and loose
from your tattered soul

to go shimmering
effervescent
evanescent through this
deep dark midwestern
hallucinatory night

in the soft light
i have forgotten
these things that
i stood with and against

softly upon my nape
i feel that chilled patter
of time
running down
and out over the flimsy
membrane of anamnesis

a gentle coup de grace
a whisper of mercy

the point of this or any
other matter blunted by
cowardice or a doubt
steeped in apprehension

i know it does no good
but i do resent the abrupt
and violent end
to my sense of self

and to now having to
fill that void with clumsy
lesser things
and that sectioned second
elongated in my memory

of that moment when the
sky fell all around
my sight tunneled
and the fingers
from my left hand

cooled into lifelessness on
a steel table

and from somewhere
as if
from a great distance

a disembodied screaming

we stand in huddled masses
hunkered against the driving snows
dreaming ourselves sheltered

but in actuality waiting
with dumbfounded appetency
for the poleax

ineluctable slaughter
a slow march toward relief
away from this frozen bastion

ululating into the indifferent sky
their ears deaf to our hearts’ beating
the clouds encroach with malice

they've stacked our bones high
as kindling into towering bulwarks
all in the name of progress

and these shorn, trampled forests
have become a nidus of their iniquity
somehow all of this became accepted

abiding of this prefatory miasma
dim views of birds falling
and gray ash, susurrous

floating through the whipping grasses
all the beasts lying down
their tongues lolling

they have terminably broken its back

all these lowly beasts
of your flowered heart
drag you off
into and through
those fields on fire

you’ve cut the heads off
your tin foil gods
cut their hearts out too

you are lost and you have lost
Acheron boils over and
your hand looks almost real
in the glint of a traced arc

you shudder in the sudden rain
you are out of time
without time
the willows have begun to weep

this excrescence suffocates all hope
your heart starts to bleed
in this wretched light

try not to
yowl into the sleepless
sundered night
with these visions
of annihilation and other
things such as this way come

there will be times

where it will be
your flesh and bone

tendon and sinew

against steel
and momentum

carbide and pneumatic pressure

and you will not win
you will not come out whole

but with just enough wherewithal

to know what it was
that has been stripped from you

you will be shown how deep

your strength of will actually goes
how to don you’re bravest face

against the inequity and
trickery of your own mind

and you’ll be shown

a more nuanced definition
of resolve

you will know what it means to ache

with the desire for surrender
and what it means to

deny yourself that too

these are the severed beasts
of the left hand
of a cowboy gothic
the stone caves in
your chest.

wield it against the dust
against the hundreds of miles
with no rain
your hair will stand on end
at the moment the bone is peeled
of its skin and muscle.

your eyes
like smoked glass,
your skin tight
and jaundiced,
your mind a meadow
on fire.

the rivers now are of gasoline
cutting down through those
mountains of steel we left behind.

at night the sun never seems to set
anymore.
it never seems to rise, either.
and this world can hardly get to
sleep in this perpetual half-light.

the trees howl at the holes in the sky
vacated by the moon and stars.
when it gets like this your heart explodes.

you squeeze the air with all you have,
the air shudders a few millimeters.
with nothing to hold onto
and nothing to hold it with.
the bones drop from your hand,

one by one by one by one.

they came in off
the deserts
blind from the sand
and wind

baying at the
western moon
well past any
decency at
such an hour

frothed by mouth
and desperate paws
clawed your door
to splinters

you burned
your home down
in the nadir
at dawn

just to try
and keep them
without

unable to hold
out or on
with your blood
igniting in your veins

these actions devoid
of empathy
and too
lacking in
malicious intent

they retreated
to the skirting
just beyond the
encircling venal light

there you were
hoping that the
sun would rise

before the
ashes inhaled
the palling light