•July 3, 2013 • Leave a Comment

The single twitch of a clock’s hand erupts the calm,

and we swim in passion−

moments away from bliss−

embracing our fragile love and fickle emotions,

only to drown in it’s thickly-scented gel.


Regrets (a thought)

•May 31, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Do you ever wonder?

Do you ever look through your text message drafts,

or down at the paragraph you wrote−−

just before you deleted it and closed your phone?

Do you ever go down that road,

and wonder what could’ve happened if you sent that message,

or said what you felt?

What if you spoke every raw emotion that seeped from your thumping heart,

(those emotions that flow only when you’re lowest,

and in the darkest trenches of the night,)

to the love of your life,

or to the friend across the table?

It might be hard at first,

but once your crusty lips break through the mucus of fear,

and speak what needs to be spoken,

it will all be better.


•May 19, 2013 • Leave a Comment

A long, tubular protrusion.

A sore rectum,

and a large utility box.

They converge and reproduce with several intergalactic dingbats,

while an elderly woman moans−

I proceed to comfort her with a toothbrush.


•May 19, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Not a poem, but hey

I stood there; the slow creaking of the door behind me sounding fainter than it usually did against the birch frame.  Looking forward, even in the dim light, I knew; I knew he sat there on my bed, among my belongings, among the warm covers of my mattress.  I imagined his gluttonous eyes glowing like an animals–a ravenous beast that could shred the very fabric of my life with its teeth.

The hysteria inside of me began to gurgle and foam and boil through my saliva, dripping and spitting into the air as I rambled inside of my mind but said nothing–just staring as the rage and nausea spilt into my lungs and heart.  And then I felt it: Death’s scythe plunging into my back with a burning heat.  I quickly turned around, but sadly, Death was not standing there to greet me; instead, my wife, simple and beautiful, laced in pink, cocked her head and said, “It will all be fine soon enough.”


•May 7, 2013 • 3 Comments

Is it so hard to find a girl?

One that’s morally upright,

yet not uptight?


A girl who’s not a robot,

or a snob,

or secretly a man named Bob?


Would it be too much to ask for a laid back woman,

who’s not Mormon,

and doesn’t nag every second?


Just a girl who is kind,

genuinely smart,

who’s looks don’t go straight to her head,

and who doesn’t think I just want to get her in the bed?


Is it so hard to find a girl like that?

A girl that lets me be me,

and doesn’t ask me to change a thing?


A girl who acts the same everywhere,

and finds happiness everywhere,

even in the dark corners of time,

where the poison of doubt lies?


Someone who tells the truth,

and doesn’t play games?

A girl who doesn’t question when I’m late,

insinuating guilt and creating shame?


I’m beginning to think that girl isn’t out there.

I’m beginning to just not care.




Space Sex

•April 11, 2013 • Leave a Comment

A lot of people ask me why I don’t have sex.

I just tell them to imagine space-sex,

the kind of space-sex where you lounge on the rings of Saturn−


watching the asteroids crash and burn into Earth,

while we massage each other in our indestructible lawn chairs.

And while we did it,

I’d wear a unicorn mask and eat a jellybean sandwich to make it all the more memorable.

And you’d be okay with that−because it’s our first time.


Then when Saturn’s orbit started to wrap towards the sun, climaxing—

the burning heat scorching our lovely bodies,

and the lilting hurricane harmonizing with our awkward yelps—

at the moment when we’re overdosing on that indescribable drug,

we’d look into each other’s eyes without fear,

Because we’re in space, honey,

a place where STDs and unwanted babies don’t exist,

and where we can eat all the cookies we want.

The Operation

•March 28, 2013 • Leave a Comment

A flamingo-like bulb blinks…

a large upper toe.

Meat-flavored pimples ooze,

a Chrome spoon.

I replace all my teeth with lobster meat,

and my toes with large sheets of grocery store ham.

“Oh, baby,” I scream−−


The operation is complete.


•March 24, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Cologne reminds me of too many things,

like each part of my life is set in a smell.

So when we went out,

and I expected the worse,

I put on cologne I would never wear,

just so I wouldn’t have to take in the scent of failure.

So I suppose if it worked out,

then I’d be stuck wearing a scent I didn’t like,

so I’d smell it anyway.

Lose lose.

A satire in prose

•March 23, 2013 • Leave a Comment

It’s a bad, first draft….Also, I put in a lot of references to bizarre religions; I felt it was pretty humorous.  By the way, though it may seem like it, I’m not making fun of God.  I’m trying to say that some modern sects of “Christianity” have strayed from the Bible’s actual teachings.  I think once you’ve seen people holding up signs that say, “God hates fags,” this becomes pretty apparent.  That’s not even the main point I’m trying to make anyways…


He sits there with his button-down shirt and his baby-smooth chin, a truly fantastic array of commodities oozing from his pores, all to make himself look good for the prodigious blubber of humans surrounding him.  Everyday he submerges himself in sewage and cavorts with the prepubescent sewer-babies; everyday he gawks through his telescope and worships planet Venus−the origin of all things scientific; and everyday he stuffs ufology-based dingbats/doohickeys up his bum while the epitome of modern evangelicals feed him fish to make him “more religious.”  Even his primrose dog, with her glorious coat of strikingly pale hair, is not for him, but for the minds of others, for their infinite benefit.  Though his body tells him otherwise, he remains stagnant, because if he starts to ponder, the fright of life’s tangible nature would kill him.  Thus, he stays blindfolded.  Tired and drained from when he gets home from his twelve o’clock appointment, he’ll jump in a galactic tube and boil his flesh just so he can be orange like all the other confederates.  A sort of revival from steeping in communal esteem, a marinating in the love that only a truly inanimate object can give.


Oh, wouldn’t mamma be proud of her boy now.  Wouldn’t she be enthralled with his social esteem and glamorous magazines sprawled throughout the kitchen.  Yes, he thought, her incredible zest for lobster statuettes and porno wallpaper would be almost too much to handle; he’d have to shove her in his suitcase with the other women, all the while their masochistic squeals exploding like dynamite, as he rubs himself with bananas and other exotic fruit.  Then, when he’s drained of enthusiasm and zeal, he’ll pop open season one of Oprah and take notes.  Because who needs the Bible when you have TV land on demand.  And who needs Jesus when you have Bob Dobbs and X.  But soon, when he’s fifty or so, his rotting flesh will prompt him to look a little deeper.  Though he needn’t worry right now, because the doctor said, “odds are you’ll live until you’re seventy.”  So he’ll smoke and drink until he’s sober enough to have a baby−after all, in 2020 we won’t want to discriminate, so we’ll allow men to have babies too.  Oh, wouldn’t Barrack be proud when that day comes!  Just like Ma used to say.


So for now, he’ll live for the moment and he’ll live for the crowd: whatever ‘floats his boat’ and ‘makes him feel good.’  Soon he’ll be dead though, in a stupefied state like he didn’t know what was coming.  Soon the funeral home will shut the coffin like a bank vault; they’ll make his body look deceptively clean and well, while people he never cared to know bow and give sentiments.  But he won’t hear them; he won’t care, and in a few weeks, no one will remember him, and no one will care.  All the greasy praise, all the greasy money, and all the greasy food will vanish into thin air, creating a cloudy miasma.  And some authoritative man draped in black will tell them he went to heaven regardless.


Updated draft

•March 21, 2013 • Leave a Comment

Maybe one last orgasm,
or one last drag.
Maybe one last spicy Frito,
dipped in a luxurious fountain of chocolate−
or one more pill−until the bottle and bag are empty.
Then with the flick of my tongue,

with the quick swallow of guaranteed happiness,

I’ll ward off death again.
And soon, as promised by the nutrition label, I’ll rest.

But first let met take in the sweet inhalation of a second joint,
and feel the sweet, limp eyes, and
the kaleidoscopic chemicals working their way slowly into my brain until I become a dog and bark at passing strangers that look like rainbow-colored farts.
Maybe then I’ll rest.
But first, just one more temporary high;
Just one more prick of one more dirty needle,
so I can watch the blood trickle down,
and become a slick stream of scarlet on my arm,
coagulating around the other scarred memories,
while my heart struggles to pump the thick, red grease through its feeble conduits.
And when the hours gone and the high subsides,
I’ll flick open my glistening, rectangular god,
making the room burn with colorful, feverish dreams.
And with a few soothing strokes and probes later,
I’ll be fine:
asleep waiting for death−
or the next hazy day:
whichever comes first.
But first I’ll take a virtual whiff of some virtual girl showing me her virtual breasts,
the jiggling plasticity microwaving my pupils,
while I read what the TV guide has to say about love and other contingencies school had never planned for.
And when I finally realize my need to be a real man-
with real thoughts and real emotions-
so I can please another expiring lump of flesh-with bulging, brown eyes and bulging, brown feet,
dirty from experience-
I’ll flip open to the movie section,
with its fading, tear-smeared words,
and watch a George Clooney movie.