top of page

Don’t Eat the Blowfish

Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not.

The liver is Nagasaki.

The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and

Dear Old Death comes to us all but

the quiver is fantastic.

Like lips full of bees.

Like a bucket of glue and no one but you.

Hey Toshi! It’s Number One on the Hit Parade!

Who cares that The Deal is about to go down the Crapper.

Or that we may have to eat the pets.

Elsewhere in the Kingdom it is dark but this is the Shit.

This is the Rush.

Like finding Jimmy Hoffa in the attic.

Like kicking Mother Theresa in the teeth.

Like fifty-fifty at best with tubes in the chest and second cousins eyeing the Will.


First Published by Milk and Cake Press: Dead of Winter Anthology

The Boom Boom Room

There’s A Room In The Back. It’s The One That Prints Jack. The One That’s Front Loaded. The One Sugar Coated. Take The Fork In The Road. Take Your Pain A La Mode. Take Your Cue From Your Gods. Get Wha

On The Edge Of A Field

A line of yellow maples crack Spilling branches on Late autumn wheat. This is the sound of Something Ending. This is the sound of Being Alone. Evening. In Majesty approaches. Listen. Be still. There a

The Time I Was Taken To Psycho

Drive In. Black And Dark. Gear Shift. Stuck In Park. Trees. Choke. Limbs. Poke. We’re All Here But No One’s Woke. Slasher. Use The Carving Knife. Slasher. Plan Your After Life. Mother. You’re The Stab

bottom of page