Had a work published in the experimental journal Brave New Word .
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Parable of the Health Care Bill
When the health care bill was born it had teeth. Little scraping teeth, rows of leech-mouths waiting inside the pages, hungry and gulping. The proud parents held it and said, “A son is born! He will be the death of tyranny!”, but the villagers knew better. They took it in the night, holding carefully but not successfully avoiding those rings of razors, those voids that wanted blood. “This should have been a stillborn,” said the wise woman. “It is animated by evil as some things are.” Her cure was cheap. She placed it on the fire and let its sickness burn away. At the end, the blackened teeth were left in the grey ash. “Make these the tips of tiny arrows,” she prescribed, “and each of you take some. Shoot the parents when you can, sting them with the cruelty of their child. They will live, but they have too much blood in them, which must be drained away ”.
Playing with Predictive Text Generators
"Will you not leave me shortly?" I tell here much longer, "I know the scum at the top of the sea." Because in blankets, subsisting inside me's what power." Because we are hungry and whisper, "I know the pit of the sea." "We'd be here we are withering, disturbed by the teeth of the teeth of the desolate depths of the sea. Because in a forgetting how we are hungry and mud. You don't mean it." Because in the sky, I vow by the sky above roiling, my love. "You may leaving, but it's coursing through fire all stay 'til the scum at the teeth of the depths of the sea.” Because this is not a forgetting inside me shortly?" I tell here much longer. It's only one sky above has just questioned my blooming. I catch up my love. "Will you be passways. I vow it." "Will you not leave me shortly?" I tell her, "I know the scum at the teeth of the rust questioned my love. "...
As the sun beat my flesh, I could hear a great crack echoing over the seas. Like a chunk breaking off of an iceberg, England left Europe to melt in the waves, and where will the hungry bears live? They swim and their fur clings down wetly to underfed bones like moss growing on brittle twigs. My poem, The Ending of the Advent , appears in the February issue of The Lake. It's a poem of a very specific period of time: December 2016, while I was reeling from the events of that year and looking forward to the inevitable horrors of 2017. I will have more sociopolitical poems than this one in print before the end of the year.