wanker anchor

i didn’t write this, my friend did

i didn’t write this, my friend did

the room and the sea

At the precipice before a wild abyss rests a vaulted room washed white with pale marble.  In it are four open portals, all opposite one another and without a door each.  Its peace is disturbed by waters of the paradise that surge to enter the cathedral.  Angry and stammering, they are stopped by some unseen border and fill above the doorways, never to slosh and splash in the chamber.  The churning sea whispers things to their denier, like, “fuck you” and, “we’ve swallowed a pure baby whole, and only you hold the key to its life!”

But the marbled room does not budge or reply, choosing to sit in defiance.  So the waters drown the infant and slink away back to the trenches of whence they came; leaving behind a desert, the color of butterfly weed, with towering dunes of fine sand.

dogge on the shore

The sea trucks its sorrow towards my feet, only to be tugged back by its mother.  The moon.  She’s hiding her face, and I tell her to cut it out and just let the kid bother me.  She’s only making things worse.  There is a dogge beside me.  It has patches of black and white hair.  I am not sad when I pet this dogge.  There is a shell in my hand and I throw it into the blackened murk.  It splashes and the dogge runs for it.  I hope the sea is not sad anymore, now that it has a dogge.

Teens pee in the sea.  Some kids a ways down the shore.  They have a fire and beers.  They’re loud and overtly sexual with each other.  They look happy but they do not have a dogge with them.  I’m a little confused and I wait for my dogge to return with the shell.  It makes a happy bark and I tell it to come back to me, the sea has had its fun.  There is the dogge, its shakes and paws my legs.  There is a warmness in my chest, like if the sun moved inside me.  Still you must pay me rent, sun, if you wish to live within me.  You are a good thing, but I am poor and I cannot make exceptions.

Down the way, the teens are all having sex.  Sand is flying all around them.  So much I can barely see their naked bodies writhing around the fire. There are six of them, each in a pair of two.  They lay equally distant from one another, creating an equilateral sex triangle with the fire in the center.  Suddenly they become ferociously sexual and the three pods of entwined teens begin to burrow into the beach.  My dogge is confused.  I pet it to make it calm as I observe this magnificent sex act.  What brilliance.  Walls of sand fly around them and cascade into mounds around their holes.  They are lost beneath the earth.  Judging from their initial ferocity I can only imagine their speed will grow exponentially as they plunge through the crust.  Calculating it in my head I estimate they are now speeding towards the core at two hundred miles per hour.  I’m so happy with their progress and effort that I hug my dogge.  It makes a happy bark and we share a beer together.  Me and my dogge.  He has beer in his tiny dish I brought him and I have beer in my hand.  We are happy by the sea.

My hand grazes her hoof and she chomps on my shoulder, chewing as if her mouth were a rotary washing machine.  My erection points eastward.  I can hear the sound of the sea in my ears.

life’s too short to have an ugly heater

A striped square of warm light lay isolated in the room,

moving through venetian blinds. 

Her bare feet cling to the hard wood floor.

The pleading of the blue whale hums through the house.

It is not warm outside, nor is it inside. 

Snow fell overnight,

but the clouds have left for the morning. 

She holds a kitchen knife and a coffee mug from college;

an orange gutted on a cutting board in the other room. 

The cold air of the den spreads through her lungs  

and the heater bellows in the kitchen.


Sliding feet, barely leave the wood,

but still manage to make that fleshy smacking

as they pry themselves from the covetous floor.

The frozen arms of cherubs lift from the panels,

grasping her calves; eager to bind her to Earth.

Widening the blinds’ aperture with two fingers

she eyes the neighborhood.

President Eisenhower’s dead heart boils with pride.


it’s five o’ clock.

Yards and houses wear coats of white;

thick powder plateaus on top of her Subaru.

The goddess is restless in a cage.



She’s left the coffee on the end table by the door.

Eschewing boots, her feet tighten in the snow,

yet still crunch as they press it down.

Thrushes in her pine.

The red flag still raised.

A blackened obelisk splitting the road.

Pulling the knife across her stomach;

she is open to the world.

Insides crawling out, her body lumps in the cold yard.

Blood reaching out through the snow

like sprawling fingers.

Not stopping to pool, it spreads.

A heater for passersby,

she billows steam into the icy air.