tepid disco

I told Kanye West: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He flipped over his iPad, silently, and showed me all the memes.

I told an old black man: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He laughed, pulled the red handkerchief off his neck, showed me his Clint Eastwood, then tried to hail a taxicab.

I told a blind Indian woman: “There is no such thing as hate.”
She took my hand and let me feel the scars from the acid burns on her face.

I told a man in a white hood: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He gave me a thumbs up, then set the wooden cross on fire.

I told a migrant worker: “There is no such thing as hate.”
With her hardened and calloused hands she pulled out her paycheck and handed it to me.

I told an Arab: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He looked me in the eyes and stared.

I told a homeless man: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He pulled me aside and showed me the spikes on the concrete.

I told a gay couple: “There is no such thing as hate.”
They took me down to the courthouse and showed me the law.

I told a runaway child: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He extended his arm and showed me the bruises and the cigarette burns.

I told a teenage girl: “There is no such thing as hate.”
She showed me a magazine, then walked towards a mirror and pointed at her reflection.

I told an old Jewish woman: “There is no such thing as hate.”
She pulled up the sleeve of her blouse, solemnly, and showed me the fading blue-green ink.

I told a sage: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He replied: “No, there isn’t. There is only ignorance, inequality, intolerance, injustice, war, misunderstanding, confusion, fear, untreated mental illnesses, anger, jealousy, greed, pain, retribution, vengeance, envy, laziness, cruelty, perversion, religion…” And on and on he went.

I told a poet: “There is no such thing as hate.”
He wrote a poem.


The Art of Breathing While You're Dead Inside

my head is in the oven
it is electric

it is June 5, 2021

the built-in Plath Safety System
prevents you from turning it on

my hair is beginning to smell
of burnt sugar

my body is still
in the bedroom

the machete is still
in your hand

the oven becomes a toaster
my head becomes a finger
my finger becomes bread
the bread becomes toast

you are butter

it is June 5, 2014

we are in love

The Irony

March 11, 2014

lost all meaning between a song
and an escalator —

the radio traffic was incomprehensibly
clinging like static on wooden mittens.

Boxes tied up with string failed to make
me miserable because they didn’t have
your cow stomachs like the last time I wrapped

This is a seed text
with seventeen syllables
of brain gelato.

Revolution, like DNA,
replicates while you sleep.

Try not
to wake up

THIS IS AMERICA, the melting pot,
{insert your curried lamb tacos here}.

art by purplemonkeysexgod69

gromia sphaerica

we are running
black mascara
saving breaths
for Finish lines
and Swedish bikini

we are bonfires
like cathode ray tube
projectile regurgitating
analog forms of egoism

I have seen the future
and Charlize Theron
still looks gorgeous
in a post-apocalyptic
world without Photoshop

we are black ink
from tentacle porn
Christmas music
like Chomsky chunky
chocolate chip
ice cream sandwiches

go forth and multiply
leave the division to
the single-celled organisms
on internet dating sites

{photo source}

prose with line breaks


Seven semi-suicidal Shaolin monks
struck my sternum with Buddha-palm
death strikes in an attempt to silence
the screaming centipedes crawling between
my ribs but the microchip in my brain
remotely detonated an electromagnetic pulse bomb
that penetrated their tinfoil skull caps
and deactivated the synthetic soul cells
powering their black magic Kung Fu
before they could do any real damage.
They tickled me in Myriapoda Morse Code
and communicated their gratitude. 


I wear my heart on my fuselage
in order to maximize the casualties.
I plot my course through interstellar misalignment;
building my religion with body counts.
White flags stain crimson
as the baptized gurgle their surrender. 


An armada of blood vessels
armed to the teeth with canons
of Talmudic law surround me
as I turn hard to port wine
for redemption.
I can feel your nails in my wrists,
digging into my crucifixion as
my loins Lazarus.  


I am no messiah, this is no Sparta,
it is okay to stop sucking in this six-pack
of flesh that refuses to polar bear your name.

tus ojos son como lenguas de vacas con salsa fresca, es muy caliente


run towards your dream
not from it
and when they take
away your legs–
and when they take
away your arms–


as a world completes another
revolution around an unsuspecting sun
we milkshake, we heartache
we splinter, we earthquake
we frost, we cupcake


“Besame, culo.”
she whispers in my ear

her smell as sweet as
petrichor on pachyderms

Mercy. Mercy. Me.

a love poem for my zombie girlfriend

it has been two years
since you were infected
and ate the brains
of our neighbors

I miss the taste
of your lips

I wonder where you are now

the last time I saw you
we were running from
a horde

I’m sorry I tripped you
so I could get away

I am forever haunted
by the WTF in your eyes

it should have been me

it should have been me

I’m sorry