A collection of Poetry I've written.
I'm inspired by goth, horror, Emily Dickinson,
The Mountain Goats, My Chemical Romance,
and Catholic theology.
All works are my own.

What are you grateful for?

Covid 2 (Regurgitation)

(September 2022)

    Rot – decay – and swarm –
    Be born –
    Something in my stomach churns –
    I think my father’s best friend burns –
    Every worm I know has turned –
    Fix your heart – you’re getting old – so cold – 
    I am so cold.

Do You Remember That Day, When We Met?

(August 2022)

          “I feel like we get to be more ourselves now. 
          I felt like I was wearing a costume for a long time, 
          and now I don’t feel like I’m wearing one anymore.”

      I don't wanna be pretty,
            I just wanna be…

      Day of love and day of pain,
            Day for all our growing pains.
      It won't get any better,
            But I know we’ll always try
            'Til not one more lover here
            Ever has to die...

      Lord take us now, if this is all that's left —
            But love, what a delightful dress!

      Well haven't you seen Helena? —
      Emily and Claudia? I hear
      Michelle's been feeling fuckin’ fine!
      And fuck, I think I might not wanna die —
            I don't think I wanna die! — Yet —
      I kiss you once and ask you twice —
      Have you seen the new green dress?
      Felt the beautiful new dress? — Like moss
      Have you smelled the flying dress — ‘cause
      As she spins it spans into wings and
                — a halo     
                            — a day-glo
      — a bob of hair that hangs low as
      He holds her head into his chest.
      Have you seen her lovely dress?

      Never was a big surprise —
      Dog piss dripping down a thigh —
      Looks like something's in her eye —
            She comes to me in all my dreams,
            With broken books and purple knees —
      Does she know just who she is?
      A little more than just show biz;
            The Matron Saint of something Better —
            Beelzebub's Goddess, dressed in leather,
            Fur trim crown — electric scepter —
            She reads my mind!
      But won't read this —
            Carried by angels with a velvet crucifix — Oh,
            I love her.
            We love her.
            Drum kits shouting LOUDER:





      So see her beautiful new dress —

      Better than the one she drowned in;
      Ghosts watched over that old pool,
      As black fabric unfurled itself
      Like petals,
                          and tulle —
      Widow's glamor, lip gloss trim —
            She must’ve mourned some kind of sin — But
      She gets up — breathing — strong and grim!
      I love her and I love her change!
      The new dress and
      Her metamorphic wings!
            Brighter — Lighter —
            The jock, prep, and the fighter —
      Twin wolves guard her mansion's gates —
      Reflecting gothic license plates 
      On the hearse — no more! 
                              Won't you see —

                                                          Forgive me I think she might be me.

Isaac’s Final Ecstasy

(August 2022)

      I am the Devil — I’m Kurt Cobain — I am every grieving Mother’s pain.
      My own effect — a hit for hire — but don’t mistake my hurt for Fire.
          I am the Hollow Wandered Man! the Quiet, Darkness, and the Ram!
          Now if you lay your Head to rest — against my quivering fur Chest —
          And reach out for my Hand… —
      too sad to cry
      too sad to cry
          Avert your gaze from marble Eyes —

      I am the wooly Sacrifice —
      An axen shadow eclipses Paradise —
      A black veil crosses my lowered Head —
      And I’m the one who’s lifting it.


(August 2022)

      (I pray;)
      How pathetic we fall.
      Family values always Born to Die,
      So Below: above All.

      — the midsummer's high Sun 
      Burrows into You like a ruthless
      Mango, young — as You — 
      Pour a swig of HYDROGEN peroxide
      Down your Ear canal for once —
      For the third time — unwavered — so it can kill in a Storm —
      Of easter Egg 
      Scented seafoam suds now — fluff and creme and — 
      It feeds on the Blood hungry, at the cavernous dead end, the cave of flesh, and ugly.

      Those jagged rust flakes that cough up itch as they freeze-thaw suddenly 
      dissipate into a cool breeze with a sigh of mist from my chest.

      One day, smelling of HYDROGEN and Oil, I sit at the picnic table opposite of my divine guest; 
      A Sparrow, brown and tan — one feather upright between His shoulders from a tussle somewhere
            else. And He speaks words I dare not repeat.
      Only once He's finished does it dawn in my mind as a question —
      For me. My stomach jolts — like a missed step. my eyes dodge like a shadow I thought was someone else.
      — then I respond, carefully as you must: 

      "My greatest artistic flaw — which deeply cracks within me — is such that I'll never be honest, 
            because I can never be honest. The more words I say, the more I'm Nothing at all."

      How clever my Lyrics —
      Oh how pathetic I fall.
      I can't kill myself yet —
      So below, above all.

      And as my naked Chest runs slick as slip, 
      A Bird bleeds into Our Sun.

Cathedral of Our Forbearer; a Hymn for G-d

(July 2022)

      Spirituality is not
      the same as our physical World; spirits not politicians.
      I say I hate my landlord — oppressive, cruel — I mean
      I want them Dead.
      I say I hate my parents — oppressive, cruel — I mean
      I want them Dead.
      Say I hate my god unnamed, the broken hand above all Rest, broken backs and noses Here — now suddenly beautiful
      Hate rises in all haze — blaze — out sanded craft-store frames of Love — it rises —
      — essential
      — soup-warm smoke — and nourishing, then, under my pink Tongue —
      silent contortions like a Kitten, hammocked —
      some distant Nails soft away behind Molars small, out of sight and safe for later — oh what Life
      is there to live germ-free? What Life
      is there to live without that heeled face trailing delphian Adversary’s eyes? What Life
      is there to live?

Warm Leatherette

(June 2022)

      My God – I understand
      What Jesus meant
      When he called himself both the Son
      Of God and God
      Let my face splatter against the window.

      – and pop like a sack 
      – vacuum sealed film, porous – inverted over cracked bone 
      Ground beef perfume                                             suffocating 
      Sparse seran dioxide – Pink and Orange waxy eggyolk leaching out the membrane – watery milk – 
      My bubbled sunset – oh, my red speckled stars…
      Yes – Yes! wouldn’t that be nice –
      More than nothing: I look down onto the World –
      Through the one-way crystalline glass, Crushed –

      Something is beautiful here.

On Montana and Grief

(June 2022)

      In the beginning there was light – 
      And our Ranch feels the heat, today
      Under the ghost in the dry – white clouds of dust –
      Last week, we repaired our grandmother’s antique, redwood, hutch. Tomorrow, we mend
      Our tattered Quilt, yellowed in pools, with sweat.
      And the Cattle, here, need nourishment same as us – so the Farmer,
      My love, the Farmer bleeds himself for our Beast. “Do you understand?” –
      He holds its tender chin upwards, velveteen, spit dripping down in loogies, and I don’t ask why –
      All the blood bubbles up and down the same –
      And the Farmer, he bandages his arm that night by the light of the blue box –
      It’s only the two of us here.

      By the rainy morning, the Cattle are starved dead. I see them
      Through the holes in my Quilt. I don’t ask 
      Why – In the end
      There was darkness – The Lamb starves. Mud and tar sticks to my windowpane.
      The Ram starves and the Dogs feast on what is left
      Behind – I could tell the Farmer to unwrap his flesh – again – and give
      More, please, I beg, let us prosper, the twist in my guts hurts please all I can think of is how
      Empty I beg my closed throat feels please – oh – I am the dog I am the heel!
      I am the snuffed sun!
      – but I am not cruel. 
      I am not the Farmer – I let his body rest justly! And thus the dust – which is so dense my horns 
      jam in the silt mid-air and my ribs rise and fall mechanical in place – fills my spirit
      Cold cold cold with old blood.

      I grab him by the shoulders like a ghost – “Don’t you understand?” – but my confessions come 
      out like wine. And he doesn’t recognize the taste of my skull.

Gender Nonconformity as What Brings Us Closer to God

(May 2022)

          God blessed me by making my transsexual for the same reason God 
          made wheat but not bread and fruit but not wine. - Daniel Lavery

      She’s never gonna get a job with that scorpion tattoo across her neck – 
      Her jeans a size too small – dyed black – 
      Dyed blue – running ink like a creek staining old converse shoes. 

      Yet – Triumphant, she counters! “let he who is without filth run his first polo shirt through – 
      Dig his own muddy grave – and give me what beautiful things we must find in decay – 
      Coagulated – again” like a lamb to the slaughter – she’s martyred – she’s splayed –

      What beautiful things we find when our bone’s scraped away! 
      She pours her friends new red wine – a toast of chemicals through skin – Celebrating
      One more joyous night, honoring our long loved kin – 

      They garnish each other – in fabric and patience stretched thin – 
      No blood on her hands – but her lips – speak a noble decree to the art 
      Of creation – of chosen pedigree – then to health – to magic 

      – And spirit – and trees – To a life left behind us – 
      Died black and blue – You shear a sheep in the winter, 
      By the spring he is new! 

      To the warmth of Her touch – 
      She breaks the bread proud and true – She proclaims to her Family: “Rejoice and debut – 
      is my body!”

Ode to the Golden Dove Sculpture Made Small by Distance

(April 2022)

      On Easter Morning I’m visiting the Cathedral
      For 9am mass, minutes late –
      Printed en mass, the usher hands me hymns –

      Along the walls and down
      The aisle, the procession passes by
      Past wooden carvings

      Of dying men –
      The auditorium is shaped like a cross –
      I walk quickly

      To a plastic folding chair –
      Light streams in from round
      Stained glass windows

      A halo and a domed roof –
      I see the holy spirit at the center of its peak –

      I wish I could tell my friends.

G-d as the BIC in My Pocket Half Used

(April 2022)

      G-d is the lighter
      Pressed against my skin.
      (Where are we now
      Between the beginning and the end?)
      Cold-sweat heart, boiled
      My animal guts twitch
      Through the pain, you hold my 
      Bleached cheeks. you hold onto
      Me, you hold me.
      You hold me.

      What use is a body
      Blistered red by his light?
      If G-d appears as anything
      To anyone; different to everyone -
      Who else could he be?
      How far did he fall 
      From his own primordial tree?
      Which sin is it then, if I trust him
      Less than you?
      You must cover your mirrors
      (I pray that you do)
      Reflecting dusty sheets
      So effortlessly, mask barren and knit.
      Yet still drinking your wine
      From his bleeding rotted tit.

      So if I scraped, stripped,
      Peeled the burn
      Would I sever the line?
      Could you be my casualty,
      An atrophy, agony?
      Satisfied or hungry?
      In another life, we dine.
      I’d be yours, your comfort mine
      And in the water we’d swim
      Not thinking, never speaking
      Skin exposed, soft, forgetting,
      We’d laugh
      Our gray blanket above
      Ice soothing our tails.
      I’d hold your hand. I’d hold on
      To you, I hold you.
      I hold you.

Sunday Night in the Corner of the Goth Club

(April 2022)

      Our man-made fog, thick and thin
      All at once swirls into an odor of skunk
      Then illuminates latex red by rays baroque
      Hailing from the rafters above; industrial shadows
      Where unseen diamonds perch and watch us move,
      Bravely spiting our discomfort in ill fitting platform shoes.

      The older couple in the front row hold each other loose,
      Laughing on wine and years, skirts swaying.
      Two young girls sit nearby, faces white and smudged.
      Their cameras raise like echoes, ghosts of the show.
      And both wooden booths in the back, cherrywood, chipped,
      Are occupied in full by matching leather jackets,
      Each man a smiling fortress, quilted in patches.

      B-movie gore, crimson rubber melting,
      Painting portraits of vampires like a Sistine miniature,
      Silently looping under dusty box screens above the bar:
      A wall lined with crystal vials, lit golden and shimmering.
      My companion, a dewy glass, disintegrates
      Its paper coaster into a pulp under my fingers.
      For how much longer I can linger?

      But on stage, at eye level, no barrier between us
      Besides the cool midnight air glossy
      And trembling, her chords catching, ribs shaking,
      Stand noble our blessed Halloween masks, sweaty
      Wedding gowns bloodied and worn like drag.
      The singer, an angelface
      Black mohawk greased back, flaunts
      Red velvet pressed like pansies.
      He wails thunderous of murder,
      Terror, damnation.
      Eyes wide white, one arm outstretched
      Towards us. Empathetically in response,
      We dance.