
Fall of the Giants, Jupiter in the clouds overhead striking the Giants with lightning, by Girolamo Fagiuoli
It’s not meant to hurt you, but…
it IS loud.
-Michael Gira
The interior of electricity:
held stable in its grip, made pure at long
last. This is where man should surrender,
inside arc flash. We outstrip this skin,
musculature torn away, deeper past
the marrow - we are finally smoldering.
JCM800 spirits, burning.
Our necks wrapped together with microphone
cable, like swans. When we have each other
in the clampdown of one another’s jaws,
we have everything. A dogpile of hands:
our chainlink spiderweb to snare ecstasy.
From this position, strobing darkly,
we are free to snap and twist and gnash away.
Under amplification’s great strength,
all splits will be unified. Cauterize
an unhappy childhood / all failed romances /
the rip of loneliness in this white-hot
room. These lacerations will become deep
wells of persistent chrome, and the sun will
never sear as brightly as this heat.
May 20, 2025

I once told a therapist my father was molesting me. It wasn’t true. I was twenty-five and exhausted, lying awake most nights trying to understand why I felt so sad when nothing in my life was obviously wrong.

Here I am, looking at this copy of a // two hundred-dollar book.

duty pulled a mountain along lesser used roads. // time was ill-spent preparing workers for the crossing.
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My dear trees, I no longer recognize you // The storm puts its mouth to the house