Thursday, January 17, 2013

The Ninth Inning of Hell

  It's here! Follow Claude into the underworld in this delightfully disturbing sequel to Leap Year. Play ball!

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Thursday, January 10, 2013

Slow-motion Huskies

The helicopter blades spin very slowly
but make no sound. The chopper is drawn 
silently upwards
as if raised on strings, up over the polar caps,
over the glacial blankets,
over the wad of photographers,
over the matchstick ski lift, over the lodge,
as far below, clouds of powder billow
from where a rogue sled team,
gnawed free of their harnesses,
leap and wade through the deep snow
so slowly it hardly looks like they're moving.
The barrels strapped to their necks
are filled not with liquor or hot broth
but with plastic explosives.
Their eyes are icy blue,
their pupils frozen gnats as they search
for that hot needle dropped straight down
from heaven into the drifts.
The last dog in line will step on it,
but not notice, even though its paw prints
will become freckled with red.

Friday, January 4, 2013


Claude hauled his pelt from his filthy burrow
His scalp was dusted with spiders, his tongue was sheathed in grit
His eyes were gummed shut, his nostrils clogged
with a winter's worth of coagulated mucus 
He hadn't spoken in months, his utterances
slipped out brittle and gassy
His thoughts were bursts of flatulence that lingered in the air
Famished, Claude rooted around in the surrounding muck
until he came across a nest of fat grubs. 
Disgusting, but he hadn't supped in months.
He clamped his teeth around one and cracked down, 
slicing his tongue on the shards. Not larvae after all
but a sack of buried marbles. His gums bristled 
with glass slivers. Slick threads of blood 
slopped from the wicks of his mouth.
His guts were tough but his mouth was still too soft.
Thrusting a finger down his sticky throat,
he felt the feather tickle, felt the earthquake rumble,
as a burst of bile gushed up to boil his uvula.
He felt his own brain cells slosh with the eruption,
felt his sinuses burn with acrid fumes.
He squeezed shut his eyes
and threw up his own stomach, octopus-like,
watched the splash of acid sizzle through
the tablecloth, saw his transparent prey
disappear one by one into the meaty mitt
of his exposed esophagus,
to click together heavily in the pit.
He swallowed the sinkers, leaving the shooter
for last, aiming carefully
to send the other glass orbs scattering
 into the corners of his guts,
indigestible but giving his words
some much-needed weight.