Here is some poetry I wrote.  This is from college.


You spend your days
by the reflection
in your funhouse glass eye.
You have a problem.


a slipshod sculpture of poorly-welded and rusty metal
in a case by the door
not on display
but ogled nonetheless
by bespectacled connoisseurs of nothing but their own opinions
who cluck their tongues
and tell you
what is and
what isn’t
while they whittle away their turpentine-saturated existences

Pieces from an Untitled Poem

Scrawl it down on a blue post-
card–“Wish I were here, XO”–
and send it to someone I
don’t know.

I’m a ghostwriter with an
inkless ballpoint pen, trying
to scratch out my name again.


staining the floor with my
shadow while everyone else
speeds through their

still here


Last night I built a
puzzle with my grand-
ma. We talked about
how usually
she couldn’t remem-
ber her favorite soup,
let alone my name.
But last night was diff-

Last night I built a
puzzle with my grand-
ma. A repeating
pattern of Disney
characters. And we
talked about how grand-
pa just hasn’t been
the same. About how
he slumps a lot more
now. And she’s right.


I saw you shining,
black and cold like an
oil slick, and I
couldn’t help but want to
rip you to pieces.

So I did.  I found
your insides more
colorful than your
facade, but somehow
coated/covered in more smut/soot.

I know it was wrong,
but at least you made
it seem worthwhile.
You wore off on me,
and I wore off on you.


Bender Ben killed Pissdrunk Pam
And then he killed her yet again
The shallow wound now oozing, cut
By a sword no mightier than a pen
In a little bit Ben had a fit
And tied a striped noose round his neck
They stuck him in a wooden box
And dressed him in his Sunday best
And all his friends, they came to mourn
The dear, departed dude deceased
And one sage lush forlornly sighed
“T’was truly duty killed the beast”


the dam bursts first when he least expects it
not when he hits it with a sixteen-pound sledge
but he swings that sledge
and shatters the handle more times than he cares to count
his hands are splintered
he spends more and more on sledge after sledge
but still he swings that sledge
until eventually his hands are broken
and eventually his hands are infected
and eventually his hands are removed
and so he stops hammering that dam
and eventually he stops watching it
and eventually the dam bursts
and we’re soaked in that shit

Robot Hand

All wit and wisdom whitewashed by a sea of chattering yellow teeth washing against a wall of gray faces and grayer demeanors
Gazing slack-jawed eyes gaping at a gleaming silver gauntlet seated at the table with a cup of coffee and tomorrow’s Wall Street Journal
The suits sat shocked then walked away while it played a round of rollicking ragtime
Each empty chair begins to opine and each empty head listens and nods at just the right moment
“Right?”  “Right.”  Neither Q nor A is actually paying attention to A or Q
Swallowed by expectations and engulfed in the process of elating itself satisfying itself and killing itself but not necessarily in that order
Nobody knows the trouble they’ve caused because nobody bothered to read their book backward from Z to A


he burned like a roman candle,
superhot behind a trash bin.  then,
like some horrible dream come true
he produced a box cutter
from inside his sock and
stalked forward, irate and rambling,
his spittle staining the back of your neck as he
that smirk on your face
faded like twilight in November.


the movies are wrong about stabbings.
you don’t remember pain,
but you remember cold
and later, wet.
the real pain comes with infection,
and even after infection subsides
the pain is going nowhere


Everytime I hear a bell I think of you

Everytime they call my number in the take-out line
Ding ding ding, number fifty-nine, General Tso’s?
Yes I’ll smile
Yes I’ll thank you
Yes I’ll take my casket of fried flesh
But no I won’t put my change in your jar

Everytime the door slides open on the D
And restless souls press me against the bars
Some filthy with the stink of the sky
And others gray with the stink of the first
At 50 and 55
And 62 and 71
And 79 when I decide to run the rest of the way

Everytime the chapel peals like an overripe banana
Ringing out a toneless requiem
While four pale men haul dark wood through wrought-iron doors
Aloof and sickeningly out-of-step
In need of a drill sergeant or maybe just a drill

Everytime my alarm goes off in the morning
And then ten minutes later
And then ten minutes later
And then ten minutes later


The worst part will be over soon
Staggering by the bay
With my best friend in my hand
Sick Mister wants to wade
Through a sea of needles and cans
I just walk away
With my arm around the moon


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