the hand enjoys it’s work


the ease
of the threading
of the worm
of the bait on the hook

the peace
of the waiting
of the hope
of the day’s catch

the thrill
of the tug and pull
of the struggle
of it’s life or death

the confidence
of the knife
of the stab
of the slice and crunch

the slight pause
at the ooze
at the blood
at the sacs and sinews

the familiarity
of the red
of the grey and white
of the yellow and blue

the slow hand
but who am I
but hunger
but the cold hunter

the hand enjoys it’s work



His hair, orange, red.
His specialty, regret.
His specialty, self-flagellation.
His specialty, not yours
to consider. What he
refuses to say, “never,
I say never, nor, again.”
The incident, the reveal,
the revelation of what is.
The decay, the falling,
the fall, the inevitable.
His hair, the down on
the lobe of his ear.
The fecund ground,
mud, black leaves,
married to the water.
The dreaming leaves,
of tomorrow, of things
I need not tell you.
His hair, his longing,
to keep the secret.
His secret, your secret,
our secret. There are no
secrets. There should be
no secrets. There are
no secrets. There are
no reasons. What reason do you need to die?
He can give no reason,
‘cause there are no reasons
no more reasons.
They put a knife
to his throat, he
should have been home.
He should have been told.
Of the cold, of the cold
bones in the ground.
His bony arm, raised
in defense, flailing.
The birds have all gone
away. His brother watched
from afar. Helpless, frozen,
snow on the ground.
Crusted. Crunching. Boots.
Trapped, running.
Shouts. Cries. Crying.
Don’t try to make sense of it.
The act repeats itself
again and again in
the woods are not safe.
The genuflecting trees.
They are taping the woods off:
“Crime Scene.”
We prefer not to think
about it. About the time.
The snow on the ground.
The trees, the stones, the mud.
His body, his blood, his tears.
His specialty, containment
All part of the plan.
His body, his blood, his years.
His remembering, his refusal
to speak, to say.
Our specialty,
avoiding it.

After “Autumn,” by Laura Mullen.

Invocation to Baubo and the Number 16


There’s a tradition somewhere that says, “if you want to break down the barrier between yourself and somebody else you’ve got to tell them a secret about yourself.” At least I think there is… and if there isn’t, there ought to be.


My name is Orange You Glad.
I’m a recovering asshole.
I’ve come to tell you a secret.
But first, a little background…

In the womb
as the body begins to form
there is only a single sex.
Male and female are the same.
But then something happens and
the genitalia evolves into one kind or another.
In the one, the hood grows a little larger and the nub a little smaller
in the other the hood grows a little smaller and the nub a little larger.
The hood is primarily associated with the female and the nub with the male.
After birth, they apepar soemwhat different but
each contains the essense of the other.
Suprisingly, some cultures choose
to cut off the nub of the female
removing her masculinity, or
to cut off the hood of the male,
eradicating his femininity.
Both customs seem to me like a denial of
something important.


Sweet 16.
How sweet the sound.
“Once upon a looking for Donna time she was a sixteen year old virgin.”

1+6 = the sacred number 7.
The sum of the four first odd numbers: 1+3+5+7 = 16

“16 candles make a lovely light, but not as bright as your eyes tonight.”

Blow out the candles, make your wish come true.

The 16th hexagram of the I-Ching is Yu, Enthusiasm
the arousing thunder above
the receptive earth below
there is harmony in the opposition of
the rolling thunder and the immovable earth

“You come on like a dream,
peaches and cream,
lips like strawberry wine.
You’re sixteen,
you’re beautiful
and you’re mine.”

The 16th major arcana in the tarot is The Tower
whose element is fire, symbolic of
the destruction of existing conditions
the removal of all that is stagnant
wthin our lives and thus holding us back

You know what I love about the internet? The porn. I like the sites where women show themselves off, wet t-shirt contests, Girls Gone Wild. I especially like watching women beating the bush. You know what I mean…

Opening the Honey Pot
Banging the Beezer
Flipping the Bean
Petting the Pussy
Cleaning the Clam
Waking the Butterfly
Romancing the Rose
Praising the Orchid
Parting the Petals
Tip Toeing Through The Two Lips
Making the Oyster Smile
Stroking the Snail
Caressing the Kitty
Invoking Venus
Buttering the Potato
Dating My Palm
Fanning the Furnace
Finger Fun
Flipping the Flaps
One Hand Clapping
Pearl Diving
Playing Piano
Polish the Pussy
Polishing the Pearl
Primin’ the Hymen
Rowing the Little Man in the Boat
Scuffing the Muff
Sorting the Oysters
Tickle the Taco
Tossing the Pink Salad
Touch Typing
Winking the Hood

But my favorite porn to look at are wide open beavers.
It’s almost as of they want you to crawl up inside.
I used to be scared of vaginas.
They made me think about death.
I used to be afraid of falling inside and disappearing.
It’s because they’re like portals, I guess.
You have to go through them to
come into this world and so it’s natural
to think they can take you out of it as well.
Sex is like death.
Well, not just sex, but orgasms.
The french call them “le petite morte,” the little death.
I like orgasms.
Every time they happen I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.

“Jack be nimble, Jack be quick, Jack jump over the fire stick!”

John Newton, the author of Amazing Grace, was a slave trader. The story goes that he had a sudden moral realization, freed his slaves and then composed the song. In reality, it was after he had been made a slave himself and lived in bondage for eight years that he had his transformation.

The numerological value of 16 is awakening.
By destroying all that we cling to, our transformation may begin.

Twice round through the chakras took us to 14. 15 brought us back to the root and now, at 16, we’re in the second again, the sacral, the gonad chakra whose element is water.

As fire burns us, water doth soothe us,
washes away the ashes of our deceipt and
nourishes a new born self

“You load sixteen tons, what do you get?
Another day older and deeper in debt
Saint Peter don’t you call me ’cause I can’t go…”

In ancient Greece when
Demeter, the corn goddess,
lost her daughter, Persephone who
was abducted and raped by Hades
she became so consumed with grief that
she stopped the corn from growing.
The world became barren and drab.

Enter Baubo, the Belly Goddess.
Meeting Demeter at an annual gathering,
known as the Festival of Eleusis,
Baubo dances for Demeter and
tells her bawdy jokes.
She ends her dance by
baring her belly and
flashing her vulva.
Demeter laughs.

Mirth conquers despair.
Demeter sees Baudo’s femininity and,
remembering who she is,
resolves to reclaim her daughter.
When she does so, abundance returns to earth.

Meanwhile, in
Ancient Ireland and England,
from whence I come,
artisans carved figures of
squatting women into the arches and
doorways of churches.
Known as Sheila-Na-Gig
these figures hold their vaginas wide open
as if inviting all to look within.

The word gig has roots that speak of women who were attuned to the divine force of life.

In ancient Sumeria, femal priestesses were known as Nu-Gig or “the pure.”

Today a gig is an event, activity or engagement.

Since those ancient times
something has been forgotten.
The carvings chiseled away,
the belly goddess dessicated and
the true meaning of words buried as if
made into secrets best left unsaid.

Since those ancient times
the world seems barren and drab
to those who would grieve
for that which has been lost
to those who’ve been forgotten.

My name is Orange You Glad and
I’ve come to tell you my secret…

I was 16 years old when my awakening began.
That was the year I put my fingers through a dog’s skin and
touched it’s heart.
I walked through a portal of genuflecting trees.
I became frightened when I saw the faces
behind the masks of strangers.
The devil came to take my soul but
when I told her I wasn’t ready
she turned into an angel and said,
“don’t you worry about a thing ‘cause every little thing is gonna be all right.”

16 was the year that I began
receiving transmissions in the form of
coded messages delivered by way of movies,
mass advertisements and
the occasional pizza delivery man.
You remmber him, don’t you?
Arnold Avoid the Noid?
Well, that was me too.

I’ve heard alien voices calling
from the dark side of a blue moon
that filled up half the sky.

I’ve set myself on fire and
learned that you don’t have to be perfect
to be invited to a boogie

I’ve hung myself by rope
around the neck and
shit myself and learned
that the reason we’re here is
simply because we want to be.

My awakening became complete
that time my brother sent me a love letter
in the form of a suicide note
that said one word:

Those were the times I almost died.

Now I’ll tell you about
the time I actually died,
and this
my secret…

I was seven when
I met the Prince of Darkness.
I took his held-out hand and
he threw me face first
into a snow bank.
With his boot on the back of my head
leaving an impression of the face of fear in the snow.
Then he picked me up and said
he wanted to be my friend.
So I went with him
to an abandoned farmhouse
where my initiation

My innocence was ripped from my chest,
shoved down my throat and
buried deep within my bowels.
With it my identity was lost,
my self dis-membered from it’s own life.

But a secret once told
becomes a secret no more.
Something buried takes root,
transforms, from seed to sprout,
claws its way up from the dark earth
in search of light.

Something lost
will always
be found.
Something forgotten
will always
be remembered.

Everything that dies will be born anew.
When did you die and are you ready to die again?

“Amazing grace! How sweet the sound
that saved a wretch like me.
I once was lost, but now am found,
Was blind, but now I see.”

“O, Death, O, Death Won’t you spare me over
til another year passes by
Well what is this, that I can’t see
ice cold hands, takin’ hold of me”

“I’m death I come, to take the soul
Leave the body and leave it cold
To draw up the flesh, off of the frame
Dirt and worm, both have a claim”

“When we’ve been there ten thousand years
Bright shining as the sun,
We’ve no less days to sing our praise
Than when we’ve first begun.”

And now,
let us prey.

That Time


You were six years old when
first tossed the ritual knife
implicitly told to
save yourself by
whatever means necessary.

That first time was messy
with bawling but afterwards
you would lie silently
to plunge the blade
back into the flaming wound.

Mother would stand you up
and use a sterile bandage
to cover your gut
say good dreams are
reserved for a well behaved boy.

The bloodied gauze marked you
a fallen child warrior
a keeper of the secret
easy pickings for packs
of heart-sick cannibals.

untitled (the thing is)


Laying on the couch listening to… in the dark… afraid… The kitchen is going to explode. Ending the music, a crescendo of fire, a consuming wave, seeing it come like a balloon. Asleep forever. I can sleeping… sultry tears of ambien(se) dreaming in thirds. Stringing chords in song, singing words, sadly tears, sweet words of truth softly tub thumping revelation.

The thing is… the thing is… the thing… the thing i… the thing is… sleep the singing, dream the sleeping sadly… strings singing.



each night
at 11:59 pm
I pick up
the cutting board
two-handed and
whack it
against the bruise
of my forehead
and I mean hard
mother fucker!

I sit down
tuck my sacrum
into a shot
of bourbon
dripping into my eyes
the burning sting

stuff wads of
“papier du toilette”
in each nostril
and, and, and
knot my brow
because I’m done
well, done
a mere minute
from the dark

toothpicks make
lousy Q Tips™

The Returning


As I walked the dusty country
road I saw a herd of puffy
sheep with their noses to the
ground. I saw grapes shriveling
on the vine behind a broken
timber fence. I saw yellow
fields of mustard with a few
scattered boulders bleached
by the sun. The day had been
hot, so hot, and the walk so long
that sweat was dripping from
the brim of my hat. Shame is another
kind of heat she taught me well.
And when she smiled at her mother’s
funeral I knew the earth didn’t care
who was buried in it’s breast.
I saw a couple of mockingbirds
harassing a crow whose casual
escape only seemed to enrage
them more. A lone obese cow with
skinny legs stared at me with
still, empty eyes. The air
was stirred and cooled with
the approach of an ominous
thunderhead whose shadow trailed
along beside me as I strode.
I came to the crossroad and stopped
to study the signs which looked
exactly as I remembered them,
white letters on blue. I thought
of blood dripping on white tile
and a cold, wet shivering child,
and I stopped breathing. Are clouds
silent witnesses to our stories?
Do they taste our hearts with
their tears? Far off I see the strand
of slender, towering cypress in
whose midst I once found peace.
Beyond it, barely visible past
the darkened sky, is the town
where we both were born, where now
her body waits. I wonder what I’ll feel
and if it will be my turn to smile.

untitled (afraid)


I am afraid to be alone with myself

I am afraid to be with myself

I am afraid to be myself

I am afraid to be alone

I am afraid myself

I am afraid alone

I am afraid me

I am afraid

I am


Nietzsche Sewing Pie


“Whoever Fights Monsters Should See to It That in the Process He Does Not Become a Monster.”

If you gaze long enough into the past, the past will gaze back into you.

And those who could not hear the music were seen to be insane by those who were dancing.

That which does not kill us does not kill us.

The most perfidious way of harming a child consists of declaiming it deliberately with faulty arguments.

Sometimes people want to hear the truth because they want their illusions destroyed.

There are no facts, only memories.

Throw a poem into the abyss and say: ‘here is my thanks to the monster who didn’t succeed in swallowing me alive.’

It is possible to suffer without making someone pay for it.

Familial abuse is messy, clinging, and of an annoying and repetitive pattern.

There are eternal facts, as there are absolute truths.

In heaven, all the interesting people are child molestors.

One must pay dearly for remembering; one has to die several times while still alive.

I assess the power of a child by how much resistance, pain, torture it endures and knows how to turn to its advantage.

Invisible threads are the weakest ties.

Pride says, ‘I did that.’ Memory replies, ‘I could not have done that.’ Eventually, memory yields.

Love, too, has to be taught.

It is hard enough to remember my feelings, without also remembering the reasons for them.

Become who you might have been.

What is the seal of shame? Not to be liberated in front of oneself.

In individuals, savagery is rare; but in families, nations and epochs, it is the rule.

Without remembering it is quite impossible to live at all.

Talking much about oneself can also be a means to reveal oneself.

Nietzsche was a bore.

Feelings are the shadows of our memories.

There are two different types of people in the world, those who want to know, and those who don’t want to know.

The dis-advantage of a bad memory is that one enjoys several times the same bad things for the first time.

There is more body in your philosophy than in your deepest wisdom.

There are no terrible surfaces without a beautiful depth.

Silence is worse; all children that are kept silent become poisonous.

The individual has always had to struggle to keep from being overwhelmed by the past. If you try it, you will be lonely often, and sometimes frightened. But no price is too high to pay for the privilege of knowing yourself.

Poets are exploited by their shames: they experience them.

We have the truth in order not to die of art.

Animal is the cruelest man.

untitled (my naked father)


my naked father
slipping back into his room
disheveled comics
in an old, worn cardboard box
slid out of the closet

the purpose of sleep


I wake up
in the dark
blood of lamb
in cast iron
not knowing
the proper technique
I scrape it
with a spoon
into the same nail jar
screwed hanging
from the ceiling
of the old barn
musta been
fifty years ago
long time
for holding a secret
finally washing it away
just one mo(u)rning
in the hot blood
of iamb
after the night’s
ritual burning
of memories

kundalini recall


the two boys
the garter snake
the sun dried wood
the long stretch
the measure

I remember
on my back, my skin
warmth above, below
fading into

the one boy
the opened jack knife
the silver blade
the cutting
the blood

the two boys
the one boy
the fading away
the memory
the warmth

the one boy
the suicide note
the lies, deceit
the denial
the very end

to be able to go back
to the gray wood
to the moment
to the heat
to get it back

the snake
the rising
the rising of the snake
the warmth
the all that was all

i summon the black & the white


Hypnos, God of Sleep
Morpheus, God of Dreams
Pasithea, Goddess of Rest & Relaxation
erase these words
slake my mind thoughts
subdue the snores of love
pour me that black liquid
dissolve the white tab
under my tongue
well, slow me down,
the intention is achievable
as awkward as it sounds
the simple Occam applies
his razor cuts
through the bullshit
the vanity of
trying to dream
the American Dream is
at the edge of the
which is the low
i seek
the blurry eye
the lazy eye
the altar state
all turd ate
at this
\at somepoint
if hust gas to stop
noy poetry
just worfs
nout of conetects
\ofuc k
oog nigh

Mothers Do


Mothers love their babies
it’s just what Mothers do
Mothers nurse their babies
it isn’t always true

Mothers rub their babies
hands of fire and ice
Mothers raise their babies
she musn’t need be nice

Mothers love
smother love
some other love
some mother not

Mothers hug
hold above
the little lugs
a boiling water pot

beat their helpless tots

resent the titty suckers
and sometimes feed them not

Mothers shame their babies
and send them off to school
Mothers fuck their babies
it’s just what Mothers do