Zachary Scott Hamilton

Zachary Scott Hamilton is garnished in barnacles, slathered in sea-foam, and covered in psychotropic silicones. As of late he lives beyond the greater domes of the western hemisphere, he resides in a basement along with fourteen wild Rats, two ghosts, and seventeen pet rats in Halloween, Oregon. Hallelujah!


Four Poems (January 20, 2013. Issue 39.)


We've seen armchairs yarned in factories
as they take away great grandmother
with cancer of the lungs, a string of long
fluid woven into her assembly

apt for a tapestry, a long room
that is woven of her memorized thread of choice.

A Volta television swamp floats until breath emerges
gentleman like, heated from its length of rope nerve.
Six looping pythons in one belt

4:44, a tilted mirror and
a bookshelf.

iii. Theat.rics doub.led (/when spoken to/) four.teen mirr.ors

The radio has got to quit following people
into my secrets - I have seen the evidence of other shadows doubling
with these voices on the radio.

A four head of micron,
swallowing outer arm crazy springs.
Our life hair challenges them,

Marquis Sylvania, an albatross equilibrium. Harsh bone
puzzle hands twinkle down, to plant
a Hammond organ growing from the soil

(hours) plastic touching our childhood.

He can play very well,
his fingers ripe, his hands
a harm of fire towers
giving birth.
The year is reconsidered
from a palace in the rosemary

our mice neighbors twinkle fingers up
proposed leaf ( / ) long shapes in hand-assembly.

The shouting, undressing old pin point swing sets singing a shallow end of the swamp

our pearl necklace –
ink warped leaf fabric

rude shelters, but argyle (deceased) +program.

Four headed television rug
arcs to the necklace pillow butter, luminous
hallows inside letters chiseled of ice weave,

foam reflection –
lamp shade on lamp shade,
tan pillow case, mirror maze.


A fragile, breakable exhale comes in
through a python repetition of half eyes.

The silk in my feeling
is spinning anchors –
one way spatial relations,

a low cloud stripes up sticks,
a life can be a lovely beginning.

A lewd, distracted light emerges,
I am resting the speaker to your velvet thigh
all rosemary arranged in radio, red language.


From air I have crept
in spheres
through caves

making an entrance
to the roots
Over time, I am hardened
in the cold Om thrill
up freezing oar,
toads forest
Ice thin
growing over a jewelry box
of mineral instincts
for the silica
as it enters me, a cool bath of fingers,
forming thousands of years out of me

Kill the fingers. Kill the clock.

I am early bird. Unraveled from a mechanics torso.
A piece of the puzzle is a piece of me, forming somewhere beneath my fingertips. I am dressed in a system of wires, packed in Amber, winterized nostrils, while ice enters my mattress. It is in glazed donuts (like hats) that I see the strangers and mixed lights exiting my forehead. An effortless, heavy air mixed with grease occurs. This is all very confusing for the witness already being inbred for the mechanic family values.
Twelve fingers kill the clock. Orange thumb, plastic pointer finger. Red gloves. They tear it to shreds, down to the very second it stops ticking. Brutal. No warning, the digits are maimed somewhere at the turn-of the eye. (between cups of coffee.) When the helium enters the room, the malfunction begins. Opened, the orange plastic thumb relinquishes it's grip. A ringing from somewhere inside its housing is heard and the bits of the clock fall onto a vintage door next to my head.
You left the portal on again. I mutter and roll over. I haven't even began to get into the mirror effect I used to manipulate the rest of the maimed digits in the clock or the piece of chewing gum I pulled apart and studied.
I am early bird! I am early bird! I shout, watching the eleven pointer fingers stretching apart and being understood from every angle the way the chewing gum had been.

I am party train! I am early bird! I shout, watching the nail of the thumb crack open and get stuffed into a can of shitty beer the way you would a cigarette butt. This is option one for the twelve fingers that killed that poor clock. This is doom, a judgment, a sentence, fate. Ruin and death. When I wake up at the wheel, the party train is already running throughout all of the hosts, devastating option number two which is (recognition, a recognizing or being recognized. Identification of a person or thing as having been known before.) I turn and see it. The crack where all of this is coming from, under the park bathrooms. This is where it is all happening from. These twelve fingers killing the clock. April, 8 2033 when it occurred.

I am early bird! I am vintage fucking early bird!"


Our aunts are showing up for the show tonight, tongues out, plastic dice on their frailty, the doors swing closed behind me in my dressing room, my own personal place to play the game of dice, where I drink and take off my clothes, where I look in at myself in the mirror, in at myself in your clothes, your clothes and your clothes. These fit nice, I think, smoking my cigar. My eyes are wrapped in two masks tonight. The plans hear me thinking them over, the process of bridging that gap the size of ideology, the size of the stage Impossible. You wear what you want, never ask when I'm naked (it embarrasses me.) I close the door again because it didn't close the first time; just a crack is showing, smoke billows out through, to the fragile embryo of our past. The lousy drug that kicks in all across the board to all of the members in the theater, to every dressing room door, this thing sneaks to the crack and takes a peak from the darkness; we are all naked and I try to close my door again. Again it won't close. What am I to do? Very certain, the door stays cracked just a little so that I may listen. I will wear the Rat suit tonight –
A fragment of time unleashed into the food supply, only on its finger tips, in motion, inside soup cans and bags of bread. Killers, lynching's, crazy people, followers to the bone. Slipper wearing maniac matinée fragment – Healing wounds in the cupboard drawers; healing to the wood and healing to the hinges, to the screws and to the paper. Helium expands in the theater all afternoon and we dress up for the show in about two hours from now. We huff; we stagnate dissociated from each other.

Washington (In the typing room)


Caution tape/ receptacles, edges of receptacles.
Circus of receipts,
Hollowed out gumdrops in rain/ windows as speakers
Film and chewing gum,
Pens and reference tape diverging
outer space lows hovering over in glass,
with reference lining,
(for insides.)

Ask bar-code what not head/ five face with tea? He told me that
the child lingers there, teething on
the blue circle and video installations, with the marble, in a reference tape to booze hound bonkers!

Society put on pink slippers for the forest looked kindly at them
and then left the base?
Through the wings in their spine two symmetrical
doors. We became a glass outfit in a vortex, the one we found that sings yellow and places things into your pocket.
They tell me this from in a saxophone:

"Your life is a contradictory statement that is, or seems false. We define your world."
They tell me this from inside a clarinet:

"Your life is a lump in tangled thread."
Tying together, small groups. Hard lumps in the fiber of a chess game where a branch has grown. Moldy banana brain: one nautical mile per hour.

Jar #[8.]

Foam coil molding / numerics fixture,
flushing gargantuan mucus in a ship.
Cream drool folds underneath the satellite.
Down the side hatch, labeled [1.2] (thirty.)
building robot arms.
Foam insulation shields
move under site,
Women from the bunker
hold neon floats
made of cyborg parts.
Systematically they implant 13 rows of
meshed tube in lymph nodes and attached fat cells.

Then albino's from the wood work tie silver/ red ribbons of fiber light sleeping at the members cell.
Thin cable blinks the logo in a simple 1.2 rhythm
following the neon blimps. Members cell.

The Legendary