Welcome to TraumaBurger by RE Katz

RE Katz is a genderqueer glitch performer. They work as a Teaching Artist with at-risk kids in the Buffalo school system. They have made three chapbooks: Any Berry You Like (iO Books, 2014), an Author Collection (Awst Press, 2015), and Pony at the Super (Horse Less Press, 2015). 

Monster Cipher

This driver is alone
never believed that previously regarded the nothing can move like that:
this eyewitness chose to be anonymous
for fear of being ridiculed.

A trucker spots an identical distance and another
a long arms very heavy thin waist no neck
ten miles and six weeks off the service road. A rock
hurls toward a flash of black series of rock art

“there are no records of bears
ever throwing rocks”
stretching back over centuries?

Here in hotspots
leading scientists field humans and ancient homophones
if they sound-like or exist
firsthand experience of what mayhavebeen 2007.

“One of us was urinating off the porch
when the first stone”
still shaking because
to fake the female anatomy
is harder.

Something unexplained
put aside the hoaxes
there is still a nugget
this video shot:

concentrate on a fundamental principle
if real it must fit into our understanding.

It must do what other animals do

until you consider an identical creature
seen promoting a local business
just one night before.

Once you eliminate the opportunities
to tamper
there is very little left.

Birds are not so surprised
MYGOD animals are at home in their environment.

We are often
just how long animals can live
without footage.

A man-sized hole
local people.

I believe very much in what local people say
but I am just
sightings HEY
I am just
lived and hunted
almost all the evidence we have.

Welcome to TraumaBurger, Home of the Meltdown

Next in line please use the counter for leverage
you neo-broke mouths for hot
eats and an ice-cold somethingtodrink.

We want—can you hand us the
guess what we need
please, we mean—

—guess your name?

Talk to us about anything
but our name.

whiteboy poundtown
whiteboy poundtown
whiteboy poundtown.

Okay just
please stop

We are light—the conch-pink
hulls of passing clouds.

Our eyeball
is blown
out from the last
time we were here.


We have made and wrapped
your electrostatic soundfield. We are
experimental foxes who have
no fear. We are phenom phonemes
and we are mange-free. We are
your mission: foie gras
from every western wall of
seething metal.

We must go.

Now get in
the brine please.

We must go now.

Get in the bridle brine
bricklets get in.

We are gone.

We found you through
rain science (you were born
for us) and we will
find you again.


I want to eat you alive. Alive
by the law of tongues
found in dark
by other tongues.

A wild guess how we will drown
in the small creases of healed scars.

If you must climax do it for
the tall grasses

in aging courtyards
outside the bay windows
of your best day on earth.

If you must finish
do it over the sink
or the sea—

money puddles where
blood stacks.

Please Check Boxes for Fresh Milk

Just the mention of the word snow
suggests it is
snowing. If you want to feel something take a hand
out of a glove. No, the underglove. Take a hand and place
it on the thing you want to feel. Finger to locate
the thing. My hands have always been
sighted. When I touch myself I see the me
that I am touching instead of the me
touching the thing that I am touching

Sometimes I rub my creditcard in
my pocket up against my driver’s license
and it is good to touch
Bank of America and the State of New York
at the same time. I want them to touch each
other while they are touching me.

This panoptical fiber topical option
tragic cop show: this crashcrop has
a rash of traction. The surveillance is
fucking tender okay.