Please Love My Ghost Fat

If you have the right
amount of fat
it shakes and moves
some sad half-seconds after you do,
and this is the
the worst echo.


I wish it would
wait, do all it’s moving
after I die.

I like to think of it,
my ghost fat,
meticulously miming
my day to day
after death.

my descendants would be ashamed
and fascinated. my son would watch a poor
motion capture of his own conception,
vomiting but struck.

my ghost fat would have problems
living in the future, but ghost fat got
bigger things to think about.

ghost fat thinks about you,
sits in office chairs, rubbing
one footfull of ghost fat against another
restless and nostalgic
composing words been composed
a lifetime ago.

if I die before you, please try and
catch my ghost fat– it will love you
mercilessly, even if you are
old old by then,
wrinkly and veined and can’t remember it’s name

it won’t mind. just call it
ghost fat, or

my darling ghost fat.

Days of Being Wild(ly productive!)

This blog has devolved into a sad archive of good intentions, and I mean to rectify it. From this point on I plan on updating on a DAILY BASIS (possibly excluding weekend). At this point I would like to do a poem a day, but I would be happy just to get something origional/interesting down every day.

Disgusting Hands

knuckles attach to knuckles attach to a
giant knuckle and it’s all bulbous, and from the
beauty of the guitar comes the peeling calluses on the tips,
haggard with half nails–oral fixation–and flecking
quick–same–and this is the
American melting pot of German
sausage fingers and misplaced Italian hair.
the knuckles shouldn’t bud out of the fat
that clearly, but I have
disgusting hands.