‘Square Peg Ranch’ by G.P. DeSalvo

Tunnel of Rove
‘Tunnel of Rove’ by G.P. DeSalvo

The wind has the word today as we walked past holes made from digging up old souls.  We were afraid of our future footprints winding through the prairie brush.  Mid-August cicadas in a jumble with rattlers somewhere in the distance.  The verdant mountains lay before us like lush feminine bodies rolling softly, reclining restful.  The green smell of sage: the blooming lupines (pronounced loop-ins by those in the know).  The dust is listening.  Walking gingerly, taking time, attenuated to rattlers again.

I pee al fresco… so do the locals.  They pee a lot because they drink a lot, and they’re not going to stop.

Up ahead are signs of what they call charismatic megafauna.

We’re staying at The Square Peg Ranch.

Bad Rock, Columbia Falls, greenhouses.  Cowboys with huge belt buckles which are nothing more than tombstones for dead cocks.  Hungry Horse, Crooked Tree.  She said earnestly, “Some people feel that they have to live the myth of the west.”  We walked on through more sage brush.  The air smelled fake, it smelled so good.  “I do too, to some degree.  Only my myth of the west is different.”

We walk further into the scrub and clouds of gnats landing in my eyes.  Bears stand in warning.  A family of them.  Mother bear looks at us, saying so much with her eyes.  I can talk with my eyes too.

I watch the bear.  I watch her as she walks ahead of me, unafraid: the iron womb in the ore of woman.  Much like the person I’m with.  Exactly like the person I’m with.

Tempt, taste…..

sometimes it’s all I can do to handle my own body…

I feel a creeping bloat unhinge my soft center which threatens to become my totality.

At times there is invisibility falling across me,

wiping me out of

my fumigated surroundings.

Later, when the danger passes, but the blood still flowing, I give water to her dog and stay quiet.  I need her smallness within my smallness within the smallness of this cabinworld, her milky voice like opaque bubbles in liquid space.  Her lips ejaculate molasses sound into my ears and infuse my mind with dew.  I rarely think straight anyway.

Inside this humid swampskin, deep under the thickened atmosphere and rubbery flesh, is a crystal mausoleum flooded with the clear stickiness and pungency of melted candy.

I can be your camel in a dry bright room.  You will love me as a pet.

I would be your drinking fountain- sweet lemonade for you and your other friends.

We can share an apple and a beer… one in each end of you… and I’d kiss your cloven hoof then you’d make me a sandwich.

I’d wash your doggie and you’d show me your new toy.

The light would be shining on us: shining in the world we made.

In that clean, blazing room, I’d lick your wounds, introduce you to my scars, then we’d make a pact with whisky and blood and smoke some spiked cigars.

The prayers we’d say for each other would cure the rest of the world.

I’m kneeling, I’m bowing, I’m rising in the rays of the sun.

We’re having a banquet in this clean heaven.  A table, heavy with food, sits between us.  The warm feeling grows until it’s all we can be- the light shines.  A hand reaches for mine.  I am open.  You can see into me.

I’m a pearled bead on your tongue, the elixir of life, a smoky essence mingled.

Reach inside me.

Dip your fingers in this sugary bog;

I know you’ll be gone soon.


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‘On the Broken Backs of Others’ by G.P. DeSalvo

‘Energy Source’ by G.P. DeSalvo

Guns became a necessity of meat, a sacrament for the running gun profiler and his racist fog creeping.  Plaster Indians shout to us from the store fronts: eradicate!  All the statues come to life; our first and last lady of liberty beckons.

‘Come to my open wound, live like a parasite

In the warmth of my intestine.’


You’ve got a life to kill.

Let’s just hook you up.

Assembly is easy.

‘I am white, like the living god of the new parasites.

I am white, shining from scar to scar!

I am white living in congealed maggot colonies of idiot hypnotism.’

This cockroach of a man- this mucoid individual- Mr. Whitesonofabitch, smells new burning tobacco and gasoline with his big moustache nose and downloads in his pants.  Paid props in masks of fake outrage give running mouthjobs to placate anyone worried about his viral seed.

‘My property gurgles like a tracheotomy…’

It’s television-like and history’s into reruns as sure as the disease out of control.

Running red hanging, there has to be a trophy, a swinging tribute to distended guts, to boring and increasingly lonesome whiteness.   Bland disharmonics, drip, drip, drip…

Polished skin, dense like rubber, next to more skin on top of other skin piled in a container.  This man, this monarch of the maggot pile, has them dragged out one by one and nails them to experimental crosses.  His doctors peel back their pink, fatty layers to reveal the valuable light within the blight.

He gives out dignity like sympathy letters… but it’s not dignity.  It’s not anything you can recognize.

Polished skin.  Dense like rubber: gleaming enslaved animals: swatting swatted demented aggression, stupidly sadly squirted down the line.  Costly human catalogue. Living kill.  Love killing.  Kill living.  Kill loving.

The older gentleman sits in his small quarters, his greased wire hair is damp.  He remembers the shotguns poised at his pissing child and the rat king, Mr. Whitesonofabitch, smiling up and through dead eyes- like through a thousand leagues of polluted water- eyes connected to a brain that fits a strict social order over everything like an airtight lid.  The gentleman sighs, sitting on the dirt floor, his polished skin dense and dark and tough like black rubber.  He whittles a small femur into a bone-white effigy.  Mr. Whitesonofabitch lives in a world that appears much closer than it really is.

There is no more legitimate opportunity.  Only opportunity that exists is won by gun or woven out of aether.  Scruples, economy, politics.  Peasant living: Master’s hand in Peasant’s mouth- he won’t bite; he knows better.  He’d better operate under cover of blindness.

Guns became a necessity of life to protect the isolated, the margins, to protect the running sore trouble of greedy life processes.

Living regret.

Networks now fuel what was once well-begun in a bloody field, in a chamber of torment.  Let us remember.

Leaves and sunshine kiss the church steps.  An old hymn grips the ears; now, being drowned by a rebellion of murky angels.  Living trench-warfare open fire on the citizens while Mr. Whitesonofabitch gets his hot shit transplant; a procedure that aids functioning endorsed by reputable surgeons.

The ancient war rages on the street.

You see, Mr. Whitesonofabitch, before he had his plush new insides, bought my skin off the bargain rack where I was hanging next to the copper colored flesh of an unfortunate, insignificant other.  Our empty wallets unified us.  Breath to breath to breath; we’ll be avenged.

Houses on fire dot the plantation horizon… there are no helicopters.  No nothing… but the pure, meaty smoke swirling above Mr. Whitesonofabitch’s smoldering body.  No life for the living more than running labor sores suppurating malaria dreams.  The payoff used to be tobacco money for a plateful of dirty cornbread…. cheap life, consumer index under whips, walls, fences and disease.  He’s got a corner on the market.

At least he had it, before all of this happened.

Living regret.

Streaming live.


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‘They Continue to Hollow-Out Mother and One Day She’ll Have No Body Left to Hold Me’ by G.P. DeSalvo

Heart of a Nation
“Heart of a Nation” by G.P. DeSalvo

This is the age of electronic blackmail.  The blackmailers go… raping everyone they can get their technopediatric hands on.

Weeping chains rattled those newsmen, nosey for seeds, poking prodding through the truffle garden lost in the world. They brought the cameras to pin us to the ground.  To place us in the center of the trap.  To shut us inside.  To place us squarely underneath the foul and torn rumps of our forefathers whose efforts through eternity have been sterilized, rendered neuter.  As efforts continue to sanitize us all… to clean up our nastiness.  The efforts of the marketers will ultimately serve to melt through our emotions with branding irons of white-hot bone cleaved from the bodies of television dead idols.  They brought microphones to pick up the sound of our fat dissolving.  Sizzling loose cells inside silky skins to pick up romper rumors and lies undetectable in casual every day speech or body language. They forced the microphones upon us to tease us with our own sounds.  We are infants crawling in dangerous streets.  Convulsing from the smog.  They are treating us with vibrations so destructive they could wipe out the songs of all religions and races that are unlike the breed of stinking canine gorilla that beats his chest atop the empire strikes back building.

The canine gorilla gods will appear to us across magnetic billboards floating in the skies above your town.  They’ll have the snail people, the snake handlers, the dirty felchers and the Mad Advertisers under their influence.

And because of the cameras and microphones… your exact height and weight down to your cellular blueprint your every like and dislike your mother’s name your father’s name any assumed names, identities or lies would all be passed and reviewed in the microworld by the machines run by androids.

There you will dissolve, slowly, like Alka Seltzer dropped in a flute of polluted water.

They ascended into town, from their lair beneath the ground, breaking up spraying dust with their camouflaged copters, catching the light of the sun as they floated overhead momentarily before touching down atop the Bank of America skyscraper.  The men inside, insane in their drowned plastic night, spilled into the city looking for raw materials.

They looked tired and hungry as they battered down my door, but all I had was beer and brown rice in the refrigerator.  So they ate it all and continued to ask me so many unreasonable questions as though I had some richly worked scheme in back of me like an idiot mirror of all that is so disgustingly complex and warped in society.  They thought they could analytically break me down with their technology… using their primitive, modern techniques on my words twisting them until they broke, bending them until they buckled, refining here, diluting there. They branded those of us they neurojacked with cabled, white-hot bone irons and our language became unintelligible (to match theirs).  But I thought I was fighting back, and I gave them my words and cast my spells like pollution and their impatience grew strong, virulent.  And their mistakes increased in frequency and severity.

Yes, the information age was packaged from the loot and filthy rags they’d plundered from our parent’s graves.  Dirty diaper mania was on the news again last night… place by place under the mounds, green and glowing.


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‘Impoverished Summer’ by G.P. DeSalvo

‘Exhaust’ by G.P. DeSalvo

In the center of the standing people,

a bird sings in a silent heart.

(the air is sweeter here)

I am chasing the scent, as a bird hanging from a stick
(the flesh: taught, dried like thin jerky pulled over the bones)


quietly noisy beasts
roost in a brain bent by luminous mists.
Hydrobulged clouds

offer our rusted, leaking coffers
seemingly endless rainwater.

Homesteading along the mineshaft- the brilliant seed of golden sprouting

Fly buzzing a bottleneck.
Ice cubes melting on lips.

I feel the quiet green sheet pulled over my humid flesh
and a cool whisper.
Dread promise of
the kiss

of a mosquito’s

delicate mouth parts.

The gritty whirring of metal blades

slicing the skin

of the ground.

Breathing in sighs of summer late blooms,
breathing out gasoline vapor.

Wood handled pliers

(oiled from the hand

of the mechanic
used in hard times),

brooms bound like pictures,

In the distance, there’s the sound of a file raking a woodblock.


Rum pours
through tongues

clicking off

the sounds

of the

human mind.

Sweet promise of

a naked kiss,

rolling in the flora.

gauzy films separate

over the cigarfull ashtray

where the passing of friends

keeps us present and wanting more.


“Rust crawls inward,”
whisper the standing volker.


Despite the appearance of things,
the settlement’s decaying.


The secret word
has just fallen out of the metal box
the SOFT MEN are fond of speaking through.


As their words fall so do we.


From the cages
they’ve constructed for us
out and down


down and into
their wet and gilded


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