Original Poetry and Essays. One time I watched Paul Rudd eat a Salad.

  1. There was a flash, and a flash, and a flash

    "I have lived so many lives. I have died so many times. I have been born over, and over and over again. I don’t know when the circle becomes a spiral. I don’t know if the spiral ends. At some point, there is a light, and after that there is another. And in between there is everything. 

    And afterwards, there is everything.”

  2. Fashion and Filth


    I wear yesterday’s clothes, radiating the scent of the beer I drank the night before and stale cigarette smoke, sweat now in between the fibers of my plain black t-shirt, bandanna around my neck with grease stains. I wear yesterday’s clothes and head to the convenience store looking for food,…

    Just over a year ago this piece was published in Black and Grey magazine. It continues to be a piece that is well received by readers. I don’t necessarily think this is exemplary of my work on the whole, but I’m reblogging it to commemorate one of my first published works. Here’s to continued success in the future, several submission periods are about to open up, we’ll see how it goes!

  3. Momma in the Diener

    She is the waitress of the fun house, mirrored walls reflecting millions of her, tray in tray in tray in hand. Percocet’s in her pocket rattle like the loose teeth of her children that she once quietly pulled from beneath flat pillows after weeks of anticipation. She sets down hashbrowns, swimming in the excess grease from the griddle, and her matronly how-are-yous bounce of the windows, off the halogen lights, and into our ears, our ear, our ears. Her apron, like the off whites of her eyes, falling gently over the pale blue dress that they all wear, is stained with ketchup. A dull red spot by her left hip. Her soft but firm voice, the kind all mothers have, slips out from between chapped lips as she places our order on the table. Brian, sitting behind a pair of black designer glasses leaning his scruffy chin over a cup of black coffee, starring out at the world with black pupils standing in stark contrast to his pale white tattooed skin, asks her honestly how she is doing. And again the voice of all our mothers in some alternate reality slips past yellowing teeth and into the open air, mingling with the scent of fried potatoes and bacon grease. Her roommates caught her nickin’ pills again, and they’ll have her on the street in two weeks time. Her children have long since severed ties, this is what she says as she tops off the coffee. Brian listens until she runs back, behind the brown swinging door with window caked in years of shitty fried food and countless skin cells from who knows how many waitresses. He says that there are certain French philosophers that believe the reasons why you are doing something are more important than the thing you’re actually doing. We tip the waitress extra for her time and honesty, all the while knowing that it will end up caked inside her nose, dripping gently down the back of her throat.

  4. And the sun light coagulated amidst the clouds, diffusing into a bruise radiating grapefruit-light onto a perfectly dark blue sky.


    And the air conditioning hum-hum-hummmmms

    in the cabin, and the baby cry-cry-cries and someday                      he

    will be like his father. And the       l a s t    r a y s        will shoot through

    his eyes, piercing mucus member                and                       cornia.


    Shattered light, void within sockets and a blankness turning madness.

    But its just a plane, and I’m only cold and restless watching the sunset high above fly-over-country.

  5. Anonymous asked: fuck you're sexy


    c’mere, i wanna wink at ya

    A poet friend deftly handles a well articulated anonymous query

  6. Oak Street

    I skipped class to go to the courthouse, and in the wake

    of my arraignment

    Nicholas handed me a beer,

    cold and                               sweating                              in the spring sun,

    the walls of his house were

    s   p   a   r   s   e

    only decorated by the occasional splash of

    tomato sauce, flung from a fork in a moment of drunken revelry

                    and the bottles stacked above the television set.

    Open windows face the street where the cyclists spin by

                    and in the winter, friends will make snow angels before they turn to grey matter

                                    melting off towards the storm drains.

    Staring towards the familiar street I sipped the beer

    watching sparrows picking at the bones of a dead squirrel, dropping feathers

    on hot pavement.

  7. A Love Song for the Stray Dog

    You took me in when I was at my worst

    shaking mad, vomiting between drags of cigarettes

    You chopped green onions on a filthy counter and fed me

    beans while the cat licked at my boots. Your eyes were

    hot like the tip of your cigarette, shining out from behind

    a beard and black curls tucked under an old dirty cap.

    You fed me

    on Fridays after work, and gave me a beer

    and put your arm around my shoulder when

    everything went cold. 

  8. For an old friend

    I’ll expect payment in the mail

    and by that i mean i’ll sleep on your couch this winter if you’ll let me

    and ask for a free sandwich while your cleaning the counters of the coffee shop downtown

    and ask that you not ask too many questions or get too mad when a lover that we shared

    walks through the door  and talks to me while I’m making poor decisions

    You’ll tolerate me like you always do and laugh with me when I realize I’m drinking too much

    like you always do

     and you’ll suggest that I switch to decaf while steam from the coffee swirls towards my nose

    And I’ll try not to abuse your understanding

  9. emilkybaby: I can not write things you like. I can not write things that will make...


    I can not write things you like. I can not write things that will make you respond with even a half-hearted “this is great”. Nothing I write will have any value or relevance to you. It will not trigger an emotional response except perhaps disgust or disappointment. I sometimes worry that if I dont…

    (Source: emilkybonez)

  10. The midnight is passing slowly over and

    There is a very large man standing outside of my window

    His face is round and he wears thin white beard

    he cannot stop sneezing and there is a car passing down the street

    It begins to rain

    He is still standing there

    outside my window and he cannot stop sneezing

    looking in at my lamp in between head jerks and inhales