Not Doing This for Free Anymore

As if I had the power of a union

I’m realizing that pushing my poetry out for free

Is a sin and a crime against myself

My worth

I and my poetry are worth more than that

Your eyes

Might find my work

Somewhere behind a paywall


After I’m done writing it

After I figure out the cover art

When it’s on Amazon

Or in an indie shop

I’m not doing this for free anymore

You sluts

Recognize true art

And you secretly salivate at it

That it’s free

Oh the best things are free you say


Artists need money just like you sluts

So pay up

Fuckers sluts

Pay up


You remember me, the chair

You will not get anything in return

And I had better get used to that

If I am not already

Then this has surely been a painful journay

An observation (besides that some people are pricks):

I forgot


Release: The Passage is Still

[Alternate Route]’s editor, Michael Starr, has released his first full-length volume of poetry, The Passage is Still. It is postmodernist abstractions lost in his thoughts about various topics of observation in his life as a mentally ill person and as a normal person, sometimes one sometimes the other.

I won’t waste your time selling you on it. It’s $3 because he’s greedy and wants that profit. But it’s about 70 pages were it a real book, so you estimate if it’s worth it. He tells me amazon is still figuring out the x-ray, which he thinks is the preview feature but he could be stupid and wrong. Maybe he just doesn’t’ know how to do it.

Well in any case. There ya have it!

Enjoy! =)

Oh yeah, it’s on Kindle only. It should be available on the Barnes Nook soonish.

PS: Yeah I looked it up, the Preview feature should be available soonish. It’s automatic but takes a few business days. Business days because we’re in business, baby.

What Were You Looking For?

Into the revellion the ever astute demise of calamity the catastrophic meandering two-step I’ve-got-to-make-it-mean-more-than-this that your parents wouldn’t have wanted for your (but these are just borrowed words)

And these, in our coat pocket withdrawn at the cusp of an edge so lightly intercizing the skin rending in half

the forearm and the mains

I never know whether to mutiplex it or not but have at it in one go and remember your times

I will remember your times

There is no nasal spray but that we often get caught up in memories that are grotesque and try to clear them

So to make sense of it

But in speaking: There isn’t any

What were you looking for?


This won’t come off too kindly but, to fuck you, to fuck your race out of you, to make you go faster than your ejaculation to make you cum like a nigger on the street with blood splattering spewing in an instant out of his brains onto the concrete pavement like a work of art

To tell you I love you like his red hair now that it is stained with the matter of his prior thoughts to know that I loved you like I still do that this announcement

On the loud speaker in the bedroom of the police officer’s chambers came down on me like a hammer

And in his hammer I was still in pain though still knowing, still going, still growing…


Some stems stay near the base

Father, buys things

The mother and the brother yell at him

For buying things

The tree is sturdy but has mold

I lay near the bottom

Leave splatter the floor in slow motion

Where wind stings hurried face

He is always in a rush, father

He is always stressed

No one acknowledges it

Mother & brother say so many things

To try to make it better

For him

We all do our best

It’s hard to tell which of us is/are the black sheep

We all do our best

For him

To try to make it better

A Dream

The humble snail

And its twig romance

Hearts hovering in the air

It is love


Is it love


It is lovelace and ambrosia

Clawdent and fenders

Struant sibillee and chaos

Chaos chaos

Hold hands hold hands

Dance in my dreamwake

Courage for the standoff

Hold hands hold hands

Make up and down around

The tree holds me stiff

I am a crawdad in crumpets

Creme brulee steamed in milk

Scimitar for justice

Orange slice for sweets

Then Again


The cat-whisperer

Romanced my crickets

Set me ablaze

Ran amok in the corn fields

Stalkings high as the eye ball

Never two apart

Indifferent to the muses

But archaic and mosaic, notwithstanding

Capable of pristine feats

Whether brutality like a necromancer

Artful, lustful, tedious, and brave

He came to the forefront when the lights all went out across the Earth

I starve now

And the mosaic shatters into its pieces

Remnant of a Rembrandt

Stylized, heartfelt, broken

Too soon to apologize

For a whisper across the temple

Strike strike strike

Me out

Me go home now

Nowhere to get lost

Nowhere but abundance and panoply

Hume to the logical puzzles

Beast tamed, nuanced

Often cradled in your own hands

Licking the spoon till the end

Never up in the air

Never caught fire

Never neighborly to the neighboring tribes

Systems of apocalypse in chaos

Systems of hope for the weak

And a system to know the workings of the mind

Which has yet broken down working its carapace

Tender stirrings bespell my furrow

I, naval, cry out

You have the net

Go catchall and rummage forth

Ringing high noon till divide and conquer yields infinite sums

Bounded by one

Limitless loss–no no, not limitless


Stirred up and candied over

I whelm the hiccup of your daughter

Nail the brandy and say goodbye


Still, all across the Atlantic,

Manic, prosaically manic

Riddled with sibilant romance

Stinging, dying and digging out

To be abruptly stolen

Over over over

Name space please papers cash catchall

No diminutive fancy notions here

Just butter and brew

Just honey and suckle

Candy scotch

Hiccup stirrups

Long rides down the lane

And a straw man to hold

On to

On two

Never mind