a lengthy buzz ricotches
between my eyes-
I hurtle from the bed
before the second splits,
lights on, shoe
in hand, manic
with mosquito possibility.
black comforter
is shrunk into a crack,
pillows launched into closet,
hands lusting to smash frantic,
too late. The itch,
the unbearable itch
pistoned into dwarf bumps
begins. Left arm, three bites.
Right arm, five. Forefinger
marred, my back
one big bug bite, pulsating
scratch down my veins.
I blanche and blotch pink,
speckled skin crawling
so fast it vibrates.
I can feel them on me,
one million tiny feet
caressing, digging
thirsty, penetration,
a well is spring
I lose myself, straws
sticking out into lips
red like I’ve never
seen before.

The windows are sealed.

I check under the bed.
Gestated swarm
fills my mouth,
I cough out MOSQUITO,
legs caught in my teeth
whole body surging
bug wave washes over me, clinging
to every vein. Three
fly up my ear
and my brain goes MOSQUITO
bones buzzing I claw wings
from my back, fly
through the crack in the door.

What is that light and why
is it so beautiful?
Where did all these legs
come from?
The itch
is gone.
But the thirst,
the incredible thirst.
I drink,
and I drink,
and I give nothing back.


the spoo(ooo)ky poem

Hey guys, so I would really love some feedback on this. I’m reading poetry in the lobby of a haunted house, and I’ve been trying to play with something sort of scary/goofy or whatever. Let me know what you think! I’m working more here with imagery- let me know what you get from it!


backstage at the haunted house
there is a spider.

inside the spider, there is a room.

inside the room, there is a cot.
it is mildewed.

it smells like dead moth.

the mattress
is a rusty hinge.
the pillow
is John Wayne Gacey as Bozo the Clown’s face.
the sleep tastes
like arsenic.

someone nearby is playing The Monster Mash
on repeat.
every fifth time, he plays the intro
to Jeepers Creepers,
but then he plays The Monster Mash.

I’m actually starting to like it.

I unlace my boots one stitch at a time.
I bite into the blister on my left heel
and drain it into my left boot.
I have walked so many miles to get here.
all the trains that come close
break down. all the buses burst
into flame.

my shoelaces are two black serpents
that have not stopped biting my ankles
until now.

from the knees down, I am all blood.
I drain my legs into my right boots.

I unbutton my shirt.

I am doing this all by moonlight.

The moon has sucker-punched the
spiderroom and invaded all of
its corners as if there were
anything to find but the mold.

through the moonhole, I watch
people in line for the haunted house.
they all have bad body odor
and look like my ex-girlfriend.

tonight, the moon is so bright
I can chew it.
I state this out loud and chuckle
until the moon quips back
“just who
do you suppose
is chewing who?”

but my Mother always told me
not to listen to the moon.
she’d say, “Son,”
there will be nights when the
constellations make monkey bars.
you will want to climb them,
but you should not. At the top,
there is just a haunted house. Behind it,
there is just a spider. In the spider,
there is just a room.

Whatever you do
do not
go in.”