To nature you are a parasite; hirs bitch, hirs suicide, hirs shit, priority number: less than grit. Ze leaves you to waste in a sepulcher, where your mind hardens to rock, rocks soften to brain, you may leave, you may stay, either way, you will go insane.

You resort to feeding on a specific kind of carrion so that you can carry on. Consuming your big toes, then like a bird for its young, regurgitate, and eat them again and again and many times again.

Thru gaps in the rock, nature taunts you with hirs reproductive organs. Ze is intersex. The sun, XX and the moon, XY. Day and night you watch the sky climax and nadir.

Pulpy half-moon crescents levitate below your blood-shot eyes. The red, splatters of a flightless bird. Its guts mushed and toes curled like bowing rosettes. Rhizomes of brain matter creep between your teeth and in the ground of your gums.

Grey matter, white matter, what kind of matter doesn’t matter, its matter is all that matters. Dried fecal residue festers in the ruts of your palms. Little gardens reeking of vegetables rotting, not yet entirely rotten.

You step from natures mouth, the cave. Hirs hot breathe consumes the tips of your hair, and you stand beneath the masculine sky. Ze lets acidic rain drip onto your pale skin, your pores, kindalike small pails hoarding water laden with unhatched mosquito eggs.

Looking down from the cliff, you stare into hirs pupil, also a pond. Timidly, you bite your lip as though it were a cactus encrusted with ants. The cliff wilts beneath your weight, kindalike a bulimic flower purging sun and rain.

You are food poisoning so you are heaved. As you sprawl head first, your brain falls from its nest and flies for the first time. Your its mother bird so you entice it back to its perch with a toenail as a treat.

The fall is as long as eyelashes; extended, and curled, until every atom belonging to you falls into hirs pupil. You are engulfed, blinded in hirs dark stare. Thru the blue iris you see that you are not alone: Termites gnaw on termites gnaw on tree trunks gnaw on ground, chitters of birds echo in deep bands like the small voice deep in your mind, snakes, long like black nose hairs, stalk you on the bank with broad follicles as tongues, and dorsal finned germs nibble on your rheum based patina.

You rub the iris until the sky presents a glutting, entoptic phenomenon. You float as white discharge, kindalike a dead fish wearing leeches as a muzzle, an eye-patch, as nose plugs, letting your senses be leeched senseless.

You lick yourself with your pumiced tongue to the rhythm of a birds song sung. Ze blinks and the rapids rapidly rapid. You transcend; thru pupil and lens, thru vitreous body and optic nerve, coming to in hirs brain.

You grow. You leech. You kill and breach. Your a parasite; ze is your bitch, your suicide, your shit, priority number: more than just grit.


P a r a s i t e (version 1)

1’m 1ts supper: 1ts shit
an embryonic larvae inseminates
the womb of mah epidermis
as 1t hatches, 1 writhe
kindalike a flower budding
from mah anus

1t hauls mah aquaporins thru mah veins
dumping them from mah tear ducts
kindalike two clouds full of rain

1 feel them slide down the ruts of mah upper lip
kindalike droplets falling from leaves

silhouettes of marching feet prick mah muscles raw
small little flashlights glow benith pale skin
kindalike lightning bugs outside mah polluted window

1t purees mah rusted intestines in 1ts mouth blender
and obstructs mah arteries with 1ts antennae
and feeds meh mah own appendages, fingers, toes
kindalike a hen regurgitating meals for its chicks

a specific kind of carrion so 1 can carry on
hosting this parasite on the cusp of starvation
mah body has never been as open as this

Short Story, Assignment #2, Hunts Class

She runs. On lanes of tire ruts of the waterlogged path, guided by the burrowing river below. Each step compels the mud to salivate. Its saliva leaks thru the mesh of her shoes and soaks the fabric of her socks. Pus filled blisters will line the sides of her feet later. She ignores this for now. Instead, she focuses on slowing her breathing to sustain this cadence an extra mile.

Losing herself, she does two instead of one.

Halfway back to the trail head she withdraws from the path and journeys down the chapped lips of the bank to a spot she feels a special bond towards. To get there she must navigate boulders clothed in green moss and spinous chaparral. The effort is worth watching the ripples gallivant downstream meteorically. She walks along the bank, thru a thin line of well-endowed trees, to a subdivision of stagnant water. Its millpond-like surface waits patiently for someone or something to abuse its calm.

She had found this place due in part to her irrefutable curiosity. The winds had been blowing against her and every muscle in her body was loose and wanted to keep running, but something lured her like a fish to vividly colored and ornamented bait. A pair of vultures had been circling the sky above and the stink of carrion was abrasive in her nose. In the spirit of being adventurous she let herself be guided by strong ankles and balance down to the river bank, thru the trees, and into this isolated area of … at first the word that came to her lips was paradise, but then a deceased dog deposited on the sandy edge changed it to purgatory. He was on its back, tongue hanging out, eyes still open, his belly mangled vulnerable and robbed by predators, picked at by omnivores. The empty carcass still modeled his collar as he rotted into the shore becoming fertilizer for plants and food for animals and insects who prefer the flesh of their food putrescent. This dog belonged to someone no longer, but to the hinterland of a small, isolated enclave.

Years later she will return. Clutching the remains of her own dog in a wooden box embossed in gold pyrite with her name, Levity. Meaning humor or frivolity. Two characteristics this enclave does not possess. She will change its fate. Where she had found the dead dog she will lay a handful of Levity’s remains. She will join him and become the fertilizer for the green weeds and shrubbery that will grow there. Where the water begins to part and join the larger river she will spill a heaping cup of Levity’s ashes to mix with the saliva of the clay and enter the gills of fat lipped trout. The rest will be scattered into the air to land on the trunks of trees, to spread like seeds. It will be a windy day.

Carcass, ash, and everything in between continue on beyond death as part of the earth.

They become life from death. They are the saliva of mud she runs thru, the vultures circling above her head, the moss on boulders she scales.

Woods Wood

Dry weeds cleave
to black tangles
of dead tree roots

Wet worms squirm
on green mounds
of ossified plucked plumes

Dense fog strains
through pink porous lungs
of ebbing short-tailed shrews


The public library is quiet today and s  l  o  w. Same with my heart. Still beating? Think so. Never know here. Clocks don’t work. Sitting in a butterfly chair in the comics section. Books are too far to reach and I’m too comfortable to get up. The mountains look the same as they do on the other side where the old people hog newspapers and cyclist magazines and sit in the cushy armchairs. I fight the same guy on the daily for the Journal. Its like traveling back to 1960 over there. I try to stay here in the future, but no one visits. I guess that’s why I like it. Scratch that. Someone is here. He is too short to reach a book on the top shelf. There’s a stepping stool practically right next to him but I help him anyway. That’s how young he is, helpless and . . . His black hair looks to have never seen the sun and his eyes are dark too. Two beady eyes looking at me. He’s wearing a sweatshirt with a Navy logo on it. School isn’t out yet even though the clocks don’t work. Not sure how he will do with problem solving and following the rules if he goes into the military or if they will even tolerate him for reading comics from the top shelf. Everyone knows the good stuff is right where you can reach it.


A faint buzzing from behind pale shades. Skin drains to match its lack of color. Yellow and pink drips down pant legs, pools at feet. Sound becomes memory of stings on millpond-like skin. Looking . . . Between glass and mesh – a wasp./! Trapped in the window. Feeling of fear, dread. Seeing mussed eyes slick like dewy crops and red. Then remembers glass. Feeling of relief, exhales deeply. Seeing blue. Hot breath fogs cold window. Wasp hides behind fog. Finger draws door.


Bison feed in the open pasture
Waiting for the light to go away faster

Salivating while dewlaps shiver
As green, aqua, and blue waves quiver