Bloodletting (I’m sorry)


So it was a cold dark January in Michigan
as they often are and we
would pull together for warmth every
now and then and I would consider you
and I think you would consider me, also

While the cars screamed down the avenues
and gangs of howling young-adults roved
to and fro before your otherwise relatively
peaceful abode I tried to steel myself
from the knives you would find

The lacerations always sting a bit but
they usually heal quickly enough with
a lot of pressure and
a little bit of time but they cut
somewhat deeper than they look sometimes,
those knives of yours

Sometimes while nursing a particularly
gruesome slice I would be speechless,
though I never mean to keep you waiting
and I want you to know that I won’t bleed out
and I need you to know that I’m sorry

Sometimes during these long cold Januarys
I know you have your own wounds to clean
because it’s still cold and dark here in Michigan
and I find plenty of my own knives, too.

when i ran away, rachel robinson


if i could live
16 again
i would meet you
in the open field
with your boys
at 2 or 3 am
and knowing then
what i know now
i would close my
laptop lid
and walk miles
in the cold country
darkness and
fight you with
everything i had

even if your boys
came in, as i
had feared
and stomped me
to pulp
i would lie my
bloodied face
on the thick,
dew covered grass
of my hometown
and laugh a crazy laugh
and spit the blood
out and laugh

and if you didn’t
kill me,
i would be better
for that

maybe better, some
than i am today

maybe i wouldn’t shake
or worry so much
maybe i’d be a better

afternoon lull


strings of thoughts and things
i stand and grab by bag by an arm
strap as it lacks a handle and i have
to bundle it in my hand to keep it
from scraping the ground as we walk
because i’m too tired to go on sitting and
we talk about philosophy, theology,
life, and trees and the things you used
to make people do because you thought
it best but have since learned that while
sometimes it was really quite beneficial
it turns out most of the time you were
beating your head against the wall
uselessly discovering the texture therein
through repeated brief bouts of contact
with your now bloody forehead

i’m glad we’re standing now
i was so tired just one moment ago

i hear new jobs can be scary. but i suppose it depends on the field


trifle lucky not quite ready
pardon every man stand steady
trigger pulling till its coming
pointing fingers prodding throwing
pick him up without a gab
place him face down in the cab
never any quite prepared
till they’re thrown in downright scared

baked and prodded
floating, lauded

time for someone else who dared

(in the end it was a matter of blood)

one time RC was in russia and took a picture of “Wine in ass.” – this inspired me.


animal fat congealing
forming solid mass on the surface of the
pepper red soup fondue
like feet on a swiss ball
you’d never indulge yourself to eat
and curdled blood served as a delicacy
sometimes you just need
liver diced into meat flowers
a little chicken foot
pig snout
or dog meat in your soup
to brighten your day
or keep you warm in the winter
like feet on a swiss ball
you’d never indulge yourself to eat

until you do
and find what smells like gym socks
tastes like candy