f. 1979, bor i Atlanta, GA, USA. Har gitt ut tre diktsamlinger.

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indexMother Some child, we wished, would sploot hot from this center hole of the indexMother in the curd, hot netted in our biscuitwrapper trellis and the rims of cans of yellow beans, these foodstanks pooling on the gush of booboo where we spread her up and chewed her purer, toward gog, under the glistening pudenda godlight of this crushed city with the backwards skullcap pulled across its sacrificial mayor’s face, his body stretched and replicated into tents we slept in when we could not strong our fuckbone upwards without more Holy Dinner, without more laughter from our wives, gathered white hot and randy with their lesions watching where on the indexMother we took turns, devouring the silence soft inside her where any child of ours could hold on, could become, our wives with their clitoral dust blankets rising skyward in salute of what our dicks did, the aural crustaceans of our father lungs making babies in their earpits and then dying, dying, out before they learned to eat, as there was nothing left to scrounge here of Holy Dinner, no nutritions to append to bodies as new cells to build the dicks and clitorises for further making so as our kind in kind would never end, our heaving hulk of nothing the last purported broodmeat of our breed, a fearing we imagined everlasting until in throes we came upon this indexMother’s perfect sac, so named indexMother by our mouths in highchord whooping as if there were anyone aboveground who here could become progenitor again it must be through a hole attached to these undeathfearing sexy tits, attached to this image of the woman of all women voiced in cleangodgorgeous Holy Voice, which rose out of her teethholes and her nostrils at cold evening while other words burped in cellnoise from her eyes, He has not left us, He has not left us, the rasping chordspeak yummy like we might always have imagined someone brighter uttering unto our fuckyards in call that we might rise to some new truly Holy hold, a fresh manifestation of our god’s urge to make us clean and walk and laugh or append answers to the books we’d read which all by their own pages offered none, and thereon to knock the artificial silence from our silence and let us eat at last in peace in the image of new Child, and yet as went on giving indexMother hot Bean City all day with our units in the tents, we began to find that all she’d do inside the gorging was wimper, cream, and coo, while around her face holes and her purpose white drool caked and what words came out all sounded wrong, lost like ours and electronic, glitchy, until soon inside the speaking and the gnatmeat in her face we could see no trace or hope for god at all, and where from her brownmade indexHole no matter what we fed it she only gave more red and gushed her aping grease again, no even nub or eye or idea mottled in the gooing, no cells but farting grime and curdlumps rising in her nape, no one above us in her despite the tits and exitVoice and sweetgrip each in each hour spreading even more wide open, unto somewhere, as in remembrance-motion still we pray.

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