A late night writing dump of Poetry. Still prepping for the rapidly approaching reading, and working on various projects. Life is taller than the Berlin wall, and twice as thick. I need a pick-ax that prevents sleep. 6/10/2012


This Website has now been armed. 5/15/2012



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Facebook: Farmer John Zanath


Bleach full moon
The beacon for saints
Genuises, and madmen
Minds sparking and crackling,
like some misplaced jumper
cables shooting
currents through air
I inhale harsh,
The swimmer greed
-drinking fog in
I doubt the truths
rattling in my skull
like soft-nose bullets
I doubt reality, because
assurances can crater
the facts that line our
sidewalks like hungry
shards of forty-ounce
But this moon is
more than a faberge egg,
or a monet, picasso,
pollock, or fucking hearse.
It's the disappeared
mural by raphael
and leonardo.
It's the lost texts of
euclid. It's a scroll
burned during a
sacking and scattered
upon salted earth -
indescribably precious
and untouchable.
I am a thug and
a detective and
a wounded dog,
all rolled in the same
blood. Nothing can
cripple a fearless
creature. And so I
reload my weapons,
and strap on my
bulletproof vest
again. I march along
cracked, uneven two
-lane gallows.
And I pray for nothing.
Nothing except for
that grinning moon to
never change.