Skeptical Knowledge

Never          trusted

left        or       right

Only             trusted

brain    and     sight

Never           trusted

what   they    write

Only              trusted

those    who    fight

Never            trusted

wrong      or     right

Only               trusted

shedding           light

 

How To Become A Writer

At night
Throw yourself away

At dawn
Remake yourself fresh

Fluid gender
Fluid sex

Be nowhere but
Let your eyes and ears wander                        everywhere

Be novel
Be the .5 kid

Write in ash
Turn voices of the past
Into a group of one

Bleach your heart
Dress your hands in dirt
Soak your mind in tears
Dry it in the yellow warmth

Walk half a marathon in another’s shoes
Walk the other half barefoot

For months at a time
Exercise only your fingers
Be only your fingers

Become a shadow amongst the shadows
Then emerge with a cloud of words

Rain them upon your listeners
Until they say, “You’re as essential as the weather.”

 

(Published first by the Eunoia Review here.)

Another Lamb In Need Of Slaughtering

I imagine you walking along the edge of the shadows, using “Q-tips” to remove the skeleton-layered truths about your ears, sticking a finger down your throat to expel your blame-filled stomach, even warming yourself up with your own tears because you’ve tired of fire. I imagine you then closing your eyes so that you lose your shadow, wishing for your horns, your barbed tongue, your hooves to ripen and decay. Perhaps you pluck out your eyes when they don’t. Perhaps you’ll sew up your mouth and penis just so you can refrain from making fog. You’ll even burn your hands to ash. But you’ll still hear of your elephant-like touch, of your snaky tongue banging eardrums, of the imprint left behind by your fingerless fingerprints. And your eyes will sweat enough to remake the Flood. And then your knees might kiss the ground and you might pray to the prayer-answerer to be the next lamb slaughtered.

(This piece was published by The Bookends Review here. Send your work there if you’re interested in publishing.)

Birthdays

The challenge is not to blow out the fire. The fire should only shiver, shiver as if in need of the flames of another fire. And the candles should never weep. They should have wounds but never scars. And before you gather your storm, words must wake, happiness must season voices, a group of lungs melting into a chorus of one. The wish needn’t be wrapped in wrapping paper either. No, the wish should undress itself until its clothed only in the flickering light. And as the darkness falls gray should rise, fumes fragranced by the scent of your younger selves. See, the challenge is not to blow out the fire; it is to convert that fire into smoke.

(This piece was published by The Bookends Review here. Send your work there if you’re interested in publishing.)