He has had poems in Fordon Kwedge, Umpion Revox, and The Launch Receptor.
This is a chicken thigh uncooked, bloody,
and it comforts stone tablets. Trust in Ra,
Geb, Nuit, 40 oz. Horus made his malted rounds
and won't be back until some hooded fishermens
have fallen in the creek with corn cans.
He won't be able to register his whitewater name
because he don't have any more tokens, you ducky.
His name badge is already wrongly pimped (butter telephony!).
No women know he's here for the presidential crown,
but the snake inside his pants is named Ontrol.
With a living steeple rigged by a few regal damsels,
iron pikes packed on a truck, they can't be
no more wondering without hills of ruby dirt.
This is a virtual getaway: camera One 'A', give us your picture:
a clock hand waves across the mountains from Sylva to Hazelwood, declares a leap.
Jellied tires can't get from one clime to another, even only five miles!
There is a blank slot in metaphysics. If he investigates poorly
there may be consequences. He'll put black pepper in his shoes
to ride the booger man out and burn his face off daily.