So many people seem to think
that the realities of everyday life
should simply
like a
flock of birds
when they pass through them,
but the realities of this world
are not skittish feathers taking flight
at your slightest plaintive breath—
they are hailstorms of
and you are always in the
You can bleed out with
you can harden your
and temper your heart to be

A Smattering Of Offensively Honest Stereotypes

Tiger mom whipping her
mass-manufactured children
as they drown in
polluted waters.

Trust-fund fratboy
partying himself
into a blackout of

Prestigious butler
apologizing for being a regrettable
while looking down
his nose at you.

Dojo master
serving green tea
with a crippled fist.

Five-star chef fixing food
without gloves,
barbaric finger-food
as he picks his nose.

KGB agent camouflaged
Punk-Rock protester clothing,
shouting scripted lines
and lobbing
for the State News cameras.

Coyote smuggler shoving
migrant families
into the
of the Roman Catholic Church.

A Nazi commander conquering
Non-Aryan people
by invite-invading refugees
into his own
overcorrecting country.

leading IKEA raids
world-wide living rooms.

Dead man walking
with a blithe attitude
toward countless open graves
dotting the outback hellscape.

South Africa:
Biracial man who
wreathes his own neck
a burning tire.

Metrosexual lumberjack
caught in a love/hate triangle with
his loudmouthed next-door neighbor
and his
snooty French cousin.

Small lady-boy
the overbearing
dragon-lady madame.

Saudi Arabia:
A chic sheik soccer fan
with a handful of
scarlet letter stones
for the halftime show.

Imam admonishing young men
to wave the
stars and stripes
to fan the flames faster.

Banker sitting in complacent
his coffers replete with the
blood money
from wars he had proudly
divested himself from.

Israel And Palestine:
Stepbrothers warring over
their bunk-beds
too close together,
their hearts
too far apart.

Shoggoth writhing
within the ice caves,
sick of eating
Emperor penguins
and of
human drama.

Pyramid Schemes

They sell you on being made a useful
telling you that you may have as many
wishes granted
as you wish
if only you would enslave yourself
to their lamp.
Meanwhile your dreams come true
only in your dreams
and they charge you a profit
for Sandman’s glitter.
It is a cynical alchemy
that transmogrifies hopes into
labor, like turning the
in your head
ones and zeroes
for some other person’s bank account.
I used to scoff at
ponzi makeup saleswomen
who sold the overpriced makeup
which had been sold beforehand to them;
women who gathered in
sales-pitch parties
to sell the same junk to each other
and their tight circle of friends,
all hoping to become rich
and yet all so
to the Chinese Whispers
being played on them.
Now I see my reflection in their
gaudy “compact” mirrors—
a reflection
done up with a rich lather of
egg on my face.
It is the kind of dream-baiting
that only hopeful
born among the proletariat
can fall prey to,
whereas real
born into pharaoh’s family
sit comfily atop the pyramid capstone
and let the rest of the us break our backs
at the bottom as we yearn so badly to
move up one rank
that we fail to see the
Tetris entrapment
we’ve fallen for.
The weight of the pyramid
presses us deeper into the sands.
To be conned by a conman
you must first
con yourself,
make-believing all you can
so you can believe that your
will be a hit,
that your
will make you rich,
ignoring the fact that
the most popular blogs
are the ones that claim they can show you
how to make your blog popular,
that the best-selling ebooks
are the ones that claim they can show you
how to make your ebook a best-seller.
It is recursive absurdity
with diminishing returns for you
and exponential returns for the
wearing the gimmicky crown.
Sinking pyramid.
Sinking ship.
Keep rowing, oarsman,
upon the sinking galley
and hold your breath
within the submerged deck
because your head might someday be
above water.
And keep following that carrot
always out of reach;
keep reading that blog
about reaching that carrot;
keep reading that ebook
about eating that carrot,
and keep ignoring the fact
that you are being led
straight to the glue factory
by someone happily straddling a
pulling its own foundation block.
That pharaoh needs
that block, that glue,
to build up their pyramid
and keep it together.
Rejoice, genie.
You’re making the pharaoh’s
come true.


I have been suckling on a
chimera’s tail,
nourishing myself on
scorpion venom
as I watch others welcomed to mount the
grand pedestal
and don the Golden Fleece
of apotheosis
to outshine the rest of us.
Wanting to set fire to their
laurel crowns,
I bury dragon teeth
and pray for an army to rise
on my behalf,
whetting a hydra’s fang
for the assassination
of modern day kings and queens
whose works wear thin
my tolerance, like
Medea’s poisoned dress
eating away at Corinthian pillars.
Green with envy,
I retch at the renown they reap,
the overstocked stores of their
earned by a baffling conceit
and charlatan charms
as thousands genuflect before these
false idols,
and so I hammer at their feet,
debased as I am beneath them,
chiseling with the hydra fang
in the vain hope of razing their looming pantheon
to the level ground.
See their bland temples
crowded with admirers?
See how their cultists rally behind them
when mortal measure falters
beneath godly pretense?
As Heracles laboring in the
Augean Stables,
I wish to wash away their
widespread acclaim
with the two rivers of
spite and reason,
and yet I see the refuse being gathered up
by Lotus Eaters who have lost all sense of
as they hold a grand banquet
and celebrate the chefs of such wondrous
cow pies.
I gag to think of it,
sampling their bovine expulsions.
None would be fit a beast
to have its throat slit
in honor of the Muses.
Keep down, venom!
Burn as lime
in a clay kiln!
The coals need flame
and the salt is just right—
become a Brazen Bull Boiler
that burns itself inwardly,
remolding with molten emotion
a purpose ablaze with merit.
Burn, venom!
Burn, flame!
Burn, lime!
Burn, resentment,
until aught remains but
a flaring ember
against fateful obscurity!
Does not the sun burn with envy
the stars,
unwilling to share the sky
with so many other suns?
So, too, the resentment
in this heart.
Yet, heed how these
controlled fires
of malignant envy
yield fertile lands of plenty
with teeth-sown soil…

21st Century Wickermen

A slow fire burns
in the temple of the world
and by the smallest turns
we are roasted as we are twirled
around a workaday spit
for someone else’s meal,
cooked however they see fit
to have their cannibal fill,
for we rarely sacrifice
as we did in days of old
when a virgin would suffice
in the ancient pagan hold—
a throat slit, a heart torn,
the blood of one’s firstborn.

Nowadays it is a subtle price
which the poor must always pay,
an odds and ends sacrifice
on every menial workday,
for life is made of dissected time
and our time is given to others—
to those willing to claw and to climb
up the heaped bodies of their brothers.
A little time sacrificed from a lot
to benefit only the wealthy few;
a little from which is thus bought
the Devil’ intractable due.
“The cost divided among so many
amounts to little,” they say, “if any.”

Yet, instead of notches on bone
we have notches on clocks;
instead of feudal seeds sown
we have dividends and stocks;
because many are slowly killed
in the dead-end, daily grind
to maximize the market yield
for the stockholder hivemind,
which is why the aristocrats
overwork others, and fire some,
just so their bloodline brats
can inherit a bigger kingdom.
The only way to insure your blood
is to make others toil in the mud.

Blood may not stain the chopping block,
but blood does sustain the gears,
lubricating the industrial clock
for machines throughout the years.
Paradise has always come with a cost
even in a world of cornucopias,
and our guilt will never be lost
in these ostensible utopias.
There is a reason the word “fire”
is used when terminating you,
because they are adding you to the pyre
of the unemployed, too.
A pink slip is the pagan mark
to light the wickerman’s spark.


I palm the early morning sun,
holding back the molten glow
that teems as if to overrun
my eyes, my skull, all that I know.
It seeks secrets best left in the dark
lest the revelations both destroy and enlighten,
like the golden lid rising off the Ark
to burn away falseness, and to brighten.
My hand, it is as skin and flame
pushing away the infectious light,
but that light inscribes every sin and shame
like a tattoo needle, or a sharp nib’s bite.
Sins are written in the folds of the brain
and dwell in shameless shade for a reason;
the brain cannot bear what it is, the pain
as the sun illuminates, season to season.

Agenda Goggles

Agenda Goggles, a dime a dozen!
Get one free, for yourself and for me,
for each parent, sibling, and cousin!
Come see what you want to see!
Wear them when out with a friend
to see a movie meant simply for fun
and find yourselves foes by the end,
arguing politics as you come undone.
Take them with you everywhere:
to the park, to the café, to your job,
and see things with a tinted stare
that will make you want to summon a mob.
Never enjoy anything ever again
while wearing your Agenda Goggles—
no book, poem, comic, or comedian;
nothing’s safe while your brain toggles.
Make a career out of your impaired sight
by prospecting for online outrage,
instigating fight after fight after fight
to gain clicks on your blog page.
You can also feed your Twitter feed
by spotting prey with these sensitive glasses—
prey of every gender, race, and creed
cobbled together from the mosaic masses.
And while normies carry on in a quiet life,
you can see everything as a war of tribes
and profiteer from that traffic and the strife
like a corrupt judge blinded by bribes.