fuck you, corporate politicians...

did you know that without insurance, an MRI will run a person around $1200? I read that in a report about such things.

then a person will know what, if anything, is wrong. the price of the test is also an indicator of how it will be too fucking expensive to fix the problem, if there is one.

universal single payer. medicare for all. I mean, it wasn't ever even "on the table." you motherfuckers with your cop-out legislation can cram it up your fat soft well-taken-care-of asses.

but in the meantime, lots of americans will die needlessly.

way to go, america.

the new sound...

here at the Spider House we spent Halloween dancing in the rain and studying under the tutelage of Pure Freaked Out Madness. as a result of the Cosmic Cleansing, I have a new program, and I've got my Door of Kukundu now. here's a mere taste...

driving at sunset with an empty tank

at four thousand feet
clouds crawl
over the mountain
peaks
and reach out to
touch the autumn sun’s
slowly draining glow.

their wispy fingers
melt upon contact
and are curled back
into faint mist and
a memory
of
motion.

near barren trees
collect
what remains
and
stand
firm,
casting long shadows
against the
coming
of
the
night

and the
inevitability

of
another
winter.


four seconds to keep living

as storm clouds
dissolve
and
purple blue sky
prickles with hot yellow
sunbursts,

tall grass
beads
with
trembling glass.

high above,
a rainbow forms.

and
then,

for impossible seconds
before vanishing,

another.



curve

he steers hard
into the tight
curve
and can hear
the tires
chirp
as
they slip across
the center stripes
into the other
lane,
but
only for a
moment.

there are
no other cars
on the road.

he
presses
down on the gas.

up ahead
is darkness.

he smiles.


cunningham
09

autumn in heaven...

come up and see us...

well, not you.

read this...

interview with Luis C. Berriozabal, one of the small press' finest.

death's press release...

read the press release for Death Is My Subject H E R E.

tell your friends. there are only a few Deluxe Editions left, kids...

death is my subject...

my latest chapbook Death Is My Subject, published by the fantastic inmates/lunatics at Propaganda Press, is now available.


it is one of the Pocket Protector books, #12 in the series, and can be had in two different forms; you can pick up the standard PP version H E R E for three bucks plus postage, or you can get the really fucking incredible "Deluxe Edition," which comes with the PP chap plus an additional chapbook of poems not in the PP book as well as a laminated, signed bookmark and a signed, full-color cardstock broadside all wrapped in a black crepe paper package. the Deluxe is a limited edition and will run you six bucks plus postage; you can pick it up H E R E.

the Deluxe Edition:


I hope you take a chance on this chapbook, it represents the retirement of all published and unpublished work up to 2009, and the beginning of writing all new stuff for as long as I can drag my old ass over to the goddamn typewriter.

I can't say enough about the awesome job Leah Angstman did putting this package together. thanks so much to her for the incredible design job. remember, buying it (or any of the other great Prop Press releases) supports a kickass indy press, and that can't be bad, right? right. go do it now. do it. go. now.

oh, plus: it's scary, because it's all black. and black is scary.

oh, and plus and also: for Halloween.

read this...

interview with the publisher of my book Flowers In The Shadow Of The Storm, David MacNamara, the head freak over at sunnyoutside.

click H E R E.

want this?

I have three two one none signed author copies left of the color broadside being included with the "Deluxe" edition of my Pocket Protector book Death Is My Subject from Propaganda Press; I hope everyone purchases one of the limited "Deluxe" copies for a measly six bucks when it's available sometime next week or so (I'll post a link), but in the meantime, if anyone wants one of those three, email me and I'll put it in the mail.

the poem is "like some mutual disease" and it's one of my personal favorites; the kind of poem I'd like inscribed on my tombstone, if I planned on having one of those things. which I don't.

I'm going to be ground into fine powder, mixed with ink and then be scrawled across a thick piece of paper. I'll say, "fuck you, assholes! I had more fun than you!" then I'll have the paper photocopied, scanned and spam-emailed around the world. then the original will be crumpled up into a tight ball, tossed to the dogs for a good chewing, set on fire, then thrown into the creek behind our house.

it'll be nice.