you are the product of my heart

box of cigars
pan of fresh fish fried
fresh from new others
something tangible
and tangy

come for snacks
and I will serve you
bonafide kumkwat
sauce over your
main meal

people watching will require
dose of their own
for posterity
and relay rapture
at a moment's "no"


Gabcast! Saturday


lost in transit

on the blink
of deception
at the
speed of bike

shadows travel at the speed of bike


john response #1

john ‘tis lie
i said “piss”
then noting

of should have
said nothing
no piss john then

fuggit, faux-get

no joke i mined
problems less
obvious brain

john, heart

i wan not but
said nothing
“john” i wrote

i might be thee
asshole gallos
all mischief saying

“they” saying in
think-so write.
sing. a real wring

that is new real
john not john
i rote might

what than why
i want nothing a-
’ight? do it tome

mi roar writ.


is't not perfect conscience?

It is a critical

how more attuned to divinity
by mourning?


From Dancing With Myself : Whiskey (adam fieled)

I don’t think I know anything:
look how the sun sets in March,
a cool night, not dappled, not
glazed, a construction crew in
the street, grinding away at
pavement. These are my worlds,
alone, waiting to be born again
into her, or you, if you want to
read this: streets, walking, cool
like a flaneur around a city I
haven’t loved in five years. I
know we’ll come together again,
and if we don’t I won’t be to
blame. Tonight’s for whiskey.  

Here is When You Bit... at The Poetry Library at Southbank Centre, London. 


shut letters calling (fall)

the precis in your magistrate's hip
pocket outlines words to gear toward
nocturn and debunkish long-term
habitude and restless something

as a matter of indelible restraint
I want to advocate for meritoke
and ginblend where you roster
your weak head beside the loft

and brave the coffers shallow now
and haltingly made genuine
(a mere reversal) while the land
rehearses symmetry thus far

unnoticed as a requiem by those
at center stern officially missed
and dowagers who paint the afternoon
some dowdy motif matching how we were

spirit loaf

a drawling orchestra leans its pink scene meaningless spurts
of dream furnish roads of crisis deserts of fifteen lunatics
ring intrinsic bells of mystic maudlin laughter gushes and
impulses carry shrouds of revelational spiders a surgeon
one must falsely endure erotic floating linoleum curds
into spirit loaf the moon-faced perjury paradoxes rocked
and pop gaze refrain frigging up there in the portrait
supervision excitement with the shake of bowl is shaping
produce the spatter of bewildering pantomime nervous motions
a metaphysics of murmured lives that hold the taste of uproar
over the breath of focusing battlefields intermittent fucking
cringing behind portholes of smile on anniversary relentlessly