SOUR MILK FOR THE SOULLESS

SIGNED POETRY BOOKS FOR SALE

2011-11-22T10:17:00.002-05:00

A BELLYFUL OF ANARCHY (EPIC RITES PRESS 2009) $25 + $4 SHIPPING.

THERE'S A FIST DUNKED IN BLOOD BEATING IN MY CHEST (EPIC RITES 2010) $15.50 + $4 SHIPPING.

PLEASE EMAIL ME HERE: RSPLATH@SPEEDYMAIL.ORG IF YOU ARE INTERESTED IN PURCHASING SIGNED COPIES.

2011-09-02T12:30:00.002-04:00

2011-09-02T12:29:00.002-04:00

bent rusty can opener

2010-12-23T12:45:00.003-05:00

heat is thick
today
makes you want
to unzip your
flesh from
your frame

walk around
as a skeleton

litter box
stinks
even tho
scooped

line of mildew
on lip
of fridge door
is thicker, blacker

toilet tank
beads with sweat
like human brow

here, air is
unconditioned

here, air is
fucking ancient

the cats stretch
out on floor
on their sides
heat forcing them
from typical
circular, sage-like
curled-up position

box fan whirls
hot, sticky air
around

naked king lear
on the cliff
was right
when shakey made
him say that
unaccomodated man
is a fucking
two-legged animal

i feel like a
hot, angry
upright dog

but he also said
later on in play
that if you can say
that life is bad
then it isn't bad
afterall

i've come to conclusion
that i'm bitching now

millions of voiceless
have descended into
a black pit where they
cannot even utter a word

now where go with
this deflated poem?

its paper hooks won't
fish even one of the
mad mutes
from the dark well

i'm holding
an unpractical thing
in my hands now

like a bent
rusty can opener

like a pissed off
spackler in a bar
told me once

poetry is such
bullshit a lot of
the time

put your goddamn glasses on, man

2010-12-22T23:07:00.001-05:00

at the end
of every
rainbow
there's
a pot
belly,
a bald
spot,
an ulcer,
a fever
sore,
an unwanted
lump,
gray hairs,
saggy knee
skin,
a diaper,
toothless
gums,
a hunch
back,
blood
on the
pillow,
the motherfucking
death-hole

3 a.m.

2010-12-22T23:05:00.001-05:00

two goldfish
in the bowl
gills working away
like tiny, underwater
bellows

the snail inching
across the glass
like a restless
spiral Buddha

my cigar glowing
like a ripe cherry
in the dim light
smoke climbing
the walls
like a mesh
of gray vines

the ashes, the ashes
we all dont dream

sunny day narcotic pessimism

2010-12-22T23:01:00.001-05:00

some people get heartburn whenever they ingest
spicy food but i get it every time i think of
being born...

when i saw little kids playing jump-rope
in the park i was immediately at ease
with the sight of them innocently amusing
themselves with an unknotted noose...

after a night of smoking too many
cigarettes when i look in the ashtray
it feels as if i received an unsealed urn...

some people find out they were
adopted & wonder about
their biological parents...
i, on the other hand, have biological
parents & daydream about
my unbiological origins..the prenatal abyss...

drifting & misplaced

2010-12-22T22:55:00.001-05:00

i put on the wrong
nat king cole record
in the dim light
of the tiny living room
it's a x-mas album

'have yourself a merry
little christmas'
scratches through the speakers
in mid may

that's how i feel 95% of the time

misplaced
like a christmas song
in spring

i think of my boyhood winters
happy to come back indoors
after playing in the snow
for hours

& then not many years after
feeling like i can never warm up
anywhere
giant icicles in my soul
immune to the sun

frost bitten fingers
twisting cold locked door knobs
w/o any luck

nobody home
troubles never fucking miles away
but rather piling within

unmelting inescapable
smothering internal drifts

anti-marathon

2008-04-03T15:34:00.000-04:00

i remember one time
i was drunk
in my tiny apartment
riding my bicycle
around the livingroom
in circles
friends stopped over
they saw me
w/cigarette in mouth
run into my stereo
& knock it off
the stand
onto the floor
you shouldn't treat
yr stuff like that
they told me
but they couldn't
help but laugh
& look envious
i then took
a handful of wooden
matches & tossed them
into the air
they hit
the ceiling
& rained down on me
i kept riding
w/match sticks
in my unwashed hair
a cloud of smoke
around my head
the spokes spinning
& spinning
the handlebars turning
& turning
but my shape going
nowhere
yet i was laughing
laughing harder than
i ever did before

thick raised lines

2008-04-03T15:26:00.000-04:00

i don't
believe
in
sutures

i
believe
in
open
wounds
until
they
grow
scabs

i
believe
in
scars

thick
raised
lines

i don't
believe
in
smooth
shaved
surfaces

forgetful
flesh

skin
w/amnesia

i believe
in
bodies
that
can
be
brailled

like
poems
for
the
blindman

the paralyzed poem

2008-04-03T15:21:00.000-04:00

this poem is
so self-conscious
it is seriously
contemplating
suicide

it daydreams about
diving off the
goddamn page

becoming an unpoem
a jumble of sentences
a pile of mere letters

i'm trying to
get it to be
like other
well-adjusted
poems

unself-conscious

a poem that
humps the NOW

but this poem
has hamlet-itis

it doesn't give shit
about
its readers
or the writer

i keep pressing it
to experience more

but all it does it is
ponder the curves
& 90 degree angles
of its letters

it thinks subject matter
is meaningless

it says god is
inertia

it prefers writer's
block

this poem is
paralyzed

what this poem needs
is a bottle
of whiskey
& some smokes

but it's being
a stubborn sober
pussy

the ratio

2008-04-03T15:19:00.000-04:00

3 billion cells
die
inside of you
every 30 seconds

it takes 15 minutes
or so for me
to knock out a poem

90 billion cells
die
per poem

i slowly counter
the ceasing of cells
by composing

but the ratio
is absurd

so half the time
i say
fuck it
& join the
mutiny
inside my
body
by uncorking
the wine

the alphabet
doesn't taste
nearly
as
good

the dead breed more than goddamn rabbits

2008-04-03T14:06:00.000-04:00

the dead fuck the dead

incestuous zombies strolling
everywhere

in beds of the dead
putrid meat pounds putrid meat

the dead fuck the dead
& they keep multiplying

inbred dead children
running everywhere

no escape whatsoever
from these roaming cemeteries

disembodied motherfucker

2008-04-03T14:02:00.001-04:00

stomach cramps
migraines
back pains
cigarette burns
lesions

all of these
are at least
durable
b/c you know
where
they are

you can
touch
them

rub a salve
on them

but
ah, emptiness

emptiness
is the real
bitch

emptiness
is
non-corporeal

coming
from
all directions

a disembodied
motherfucker

sorta like god

but it
actually
exists

everywhere but here

2008-04-03T13:55:00.000-04:00

i'm either too far out
of this world
or too far in it

i'm either
a mad astronaut
paralyzed by
cold dead moons
& armies of stars

or

a sick surgeon
paralyzed by
gushy organs
& armies of cells

spaced out by outer space
spaced out by inner space

i am everywhere but here

fuck the red wheelbarrow i ran it over w/my 20 year old compact car

2008-04-03T13:50:00.000-04:00

it all depends upon
what rooms
you have
been
in

& maybe even
how often

like the barroom
or the barred room
the shock room
or the death room
the padded room
or the factory room
the love room
or the killing room
or the uninvited guest room

if all you’ve
ever mostly
been in
are:
the t.v. room
& the classroom

unless it was
the television
in the rec room
of the mental ward
or the classroom
where they teach
drunk driving courses

then you might be
so unreal
that i can pass
a hand through
yr shape easier than i can
the cloud of smoke
that hangs in this tiny room
of pain

don't dream

2008-04-03T10:59:00.001-04:00

the stars are nothing
but untwinkling
faceless gravestones
dotting the black lawn
of space

& the planet is
a mass coffin
below

quit being such
a concocting ape

& lift a drink
to the beautiful meat
of dreamlessness

quit being a stupid motherfucker

2008-04-03T10:57:00.001-04:00

praying &
fighting
are no
different

whether
interlacing
yr fingers
& wringing yr
hands for mercy

or curling yr digits
into yr palm
& raising yr
dukes

either way
you are basically
baring yr
knuckles

closing up

exposing the
bones

both are
acts of
desperation
& self-preservation

& both rise
out of the
blood
that circles our
fist-shaped
hearts

at war since i was a single cell

2008-04-03T10:55:00.000-04:00

last night
in a drunken rage
i murdered my Birth
again

& slept my
hangover off
while peacefully
passed out
ontop of its mangled
corpse

inmate of life

2008-04-03T10:20:00.000-04:00

Birth
is a
fucking pig
who shackles you

hauls you in

gives you an ugly human mug
& ten fingers
etc...

then ships
yr numbered
ass
into the most
notorious
prison--

the world

hammering the laptop on the cemetery planet

2008-04-03T10:11:00.001-04:00

cemeteries
are fool proof
lie detectors

you cannot walk
through the rows
of stones
& continue to
carry illusions
in your pockets

but you need not
carry the laptop
into a graveyard

the whole planet
is a cemetery, bud

remember this always
as you hammer the keys

how to momentarily escape a trash compacter in the void

2008-04-03T09:50:00.000-04:00

sitting there in my tiny apartment
the room feeling like a trash compacter
i stared down at a ring on the coffee table
the faded zero
& imagined what it was like
before i was born
that space
that incredible vastness
& i could breath once again

cut the ropes

2008-04-03T09:01:00.000-04:00

the umbilical cord
is snipped
but never really leaves us

as we grow older
another rope ties our hands
to money
to bosses
to the calendar
to the hands of the clock
etc...

& it gets tighter & tigher
& it grows thicker & thicker
until it's a python squeezing out
what little soul juice
that we have left

then one day it finally becomes a noose
& we dangle by it

& then we are cut down & dropped
in the ground

& then more little rope-like things arrive
wiggling & alive
w/teeth

to chew us up

carve 'fuck you' into my coffin w/a pitchfork

2008-04-01T21:02:00.000-04:00

give me
a smoke
over
an apple

give me
a jug
over
a stroll
in the
park

give me
punk rock
over
twittering
birds

give me
a dive bar
over
a garden

give me
brass knuckles
over
a crucifix

give me
"to hell w/it"
over
"let there be..."

give me
the thick
gravy of NOW
over
immortality