True.

I. I’m calling this a poem, and sticking it in the poetry section, not because I’m giving it line breaks to control the flow, or because some of the lines can have multiple meanings, or even because I consider my inane ramblings the slightest bit poetic, but mainly as a big Fuck You to all the people who tell Brien and I that what we do is not poetry. If I say it’s a poem, it’s a goddamn poem, so don’t tell me you think it would work better as prose, because I haven’t packed up my life (or my...

for Sarah I’d like to poison you with hemlock Every time you pout – Or slice across your stomach And rip your entrails out. I’d like to chop your head off Every time you whine – Or gouge you with an ice pick, Severing your spine. I’d like to roast you in an oven, Or bash your skull in with a bat Every time you squeal on me, You little fucking brat. I’d like to send you far away, Or throw you in the trash – Or put you up for auction And make a pocketful of cash. Or I could chop you into to pie...

Carotin, your eyes Shine dark Blindness Cricket thighs Rub theremin Your hands, Antennas. Catching radio waves, Pheremones, A scarab. Talisman hangs Pillows, A pyramid. Asp & Mantis Thorax, abdomen. Blindness climax, Your eyes gasp onyx Exhaustion.

One day in the summer of ’69, 30,000 angry mothers showed up at a Doors concert to scold Jim Morrison for dropping his pants on stage at a previous show, said the radio announcer, as she paid tribute to Jim on what would’ve been his 62nd birthday, adding that the incident resulted in the cancellation of 25 shows that year, before turning the microphone over to Jim, who sang a haunting rendition of Riders on the Storm. Riders on the storm, riders on the storm, Into this house we’re born, into ...