Blackness On the Vine is a performance piece written for and inspired by the performance art/literary series, Ghostland. This piece was specifically crafted for Ghostland’s dream themed event. I could smell the ocean air as I woke with a dryness, skin already peeling. I opened my eyes to the blinding light that magnified sand …
Tear down all old statues that allow for even half a man to feel even the most minor shred of immortality. Reap the one of liberty for her fruit has grown rotten as she watches over us; eyes a lone sclera, piercing grey skies like some alien moral beacon. Let her torch fire and fury …
Seven years past and we mistake this ancient majesty for lack of lucid double-takes or absence of straining the neck past it’s makers mark. Bellies no longer dizzy in the aftermath of the elevated mother as we hydrate in salt baths we lap up the dead lakes we lie in empty reservoirs in homage to …
[divider] I. The future is goulash. I am scared. My father had an affair with my luck last night, and I cried myself to sleep letting crooked purity touch me. [divider line=”true”] II. This secret is empty; is a crutch; is feared reality. I miss my soul and the memory of feeling broken and drunk …
You know me well enough to know that I haven’t been wishing for an exit on high, especially now as things seem on the up but I know just as well that if this thing dipped in a hiccup of sorts you’d be proud hand high; captains salute, eyeing me off to a million secret …
[divider] H O W O F T E N I S I T [divider] T H A T W E W A L K T H E L I N E O F O U R E G O S [divider] O F O U …
In order to pay rent one month, my partner and I ended up taking a Craigslist call last minute about a junk hauling job. We met this woman at her newly purchased 3 bedroom 2 bathroom foreclosure on New Years Eve’s eve expecting to quote the job and come back the following day to …
It is impossible to know just how long it was after rising from between my mothers swollen hips that I turned on her hooded, kid-cobra frightening by way of gifting bright red fingertips. Dripping of twin blood she slipped away but I don’t remember watching where she went or which expression she fit to her …
Walked through the art museum forgetting Warhol was there, hair green – like in his printings shirt striped – like his muse. I didn’t mean to abuse the 60s or the Silver Factory, not my intention to become a carbon mirror of a life that ended at my present age, one I spent a lot …