Chainsaw Echoes: An Ode to Mark Lanegan

Slate-hued rain

muffles chainsaw echoes

& outdated prophet eyes.

Serial killers midnight

ride, unable to select

victims. Dungeness crabs

hoard faded Wobbly

posters. All emotions clouded

by crud musk & swaddled

in beer-soaked flannel.

Thunder moans & anxious

ravens. The sludge shalt

avalanche after we strip

the earth.


Sabotaged Grace: For the Replacements

The regulars were a no show.

So here we are, hairy, ragged,

piss-stained racket-makers,

full of too much Old Milwaukee

& taciturn Minnesota winters.

Invite us into your ears, your heart.

You can’t evict us, we’ll just camp

on the roof outside your sister’s

window, playing unsteady ballads.

Have you looked in on her lately?

Pain nests in her bones, in her

dilated pupils. Hell, maybe it takes

fuck-ups to recognize another fuck-up,

to offer grace that would self-sabotage

if it knew how beautiful it was.

A Long Way to Heaven, A Short Way to Hell

For Uncle Tupelo


the sign says

quite plainly,

a ghost glow

in the blind night.

Your shitbox Oldsmobile,

not old enough

to be classic,

roots down


roads to nowhere

cuz there’s nowhere

to go. To be 21

in southern Illinois

requires cheap whiskey,

Black Flag guitar bristles,

& steel guitar balms.

You’ll discover LPs

of Appalachian

lonesome ballads

at the local library

& steal ’em.

You gotta steal

what you can

to get the fuck outta


“Detroit Ruin Porn Fart Quake”

Grant-A-Wish – Fart Porn – Video Clip,

Den of nefarious activities, investigative journalism, and detroit ruin quake.

When a person opens there ass and farts into another persons face.

Detriot’s Blight Removal, bad news for fans of ruin porn.

After the earthquake, Sean Penn brought holy icons, dazed dog for surgical fire.

My new favorite porn star in Ex’s Hot Car Murder Trial.

……, So when you smell your farts, do you go straight into you hand or do you…

I wouldn’t sit there and pretend to know everything about Detroit.

In short, ruin porn hides more than it shows.

The Earthworm’s Lament: An Ode to Flipper

Sludge they dub it, a slothy

shit-sea oozing past

benumbed witnesses, CCTV

eyes with hours of unwatched

footage. But it’s cyberstalker

malaria writ large, nodded out

nothingness surprised at its

plenitude, phantom genitals

hovering over arcane mechanics’

manuals, tattered colons tattooed

with scripts for radio-plays meant

to entertain war-tired civilians

except no one understands

the tongue.