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Oct 2019 · 337
Sunday morning coupon clippings
like breathing for gasps of the air
while out there
the beads of rain
necklace the silky spiderweb
and all they want to do is decapitate,
amputate and castrate
a piece of you.
to hack off what’s been given
like a bull in Cambodia,
to surgically remove what’s been earned
with an incision of accuracy.
ah yes, the prairie state- land of crucifixion:
everyone on the cross with black blood streaming down their cheeks
it’s like roaming through the jungle
of machine guns blazing
from behind the trees
and slugs whizzing by your ears
with feet failing to trudge
through the battlefields
of dead bodies at dusk
and arms raised waving the white flags
we all enter en masse
receiving less than half
putting up with twice as much
like products of the tombs
working twice as hard
plus some illegal activity
on the side just to drown
in their inflationary sludge
we can’t even afford to walk
across the room anymore
so often times you’ll find me
lying down
twisted in the sheets
feeling as comfortable
as a Picasso painting
with nowhere else to go
nowhere else to turn to
except dreaming of death
in the minarets of my past
and gently plucking lilacs
from the garden of my love.
Sep 2019 · 329
in the chronicles of our days,
the agonizing ones
are the most

flipping through pages
of history books
it’s always
war war war

expired lives
settling differences
with violence and force

and now the living must
barter time and
for absolution
in order to honor
the dead with tradition

but yesterday was yesterday
and yet we carried around
like dead weight
on our backs
without thought
of letting go

and somehow, someway
the problems we’ve already
countered seem to attack
us the most

as I stroke my beard
and watch them spin
down the endless well
of dread, sorrow
and regret.
Sep 2019 · 246
at this moment, right now,
as you read this
is a new beginning
in a series of new beginnings
that is constantly repeated
in a continuous cycle
and every moment beforehand
becomes a dream sequence
of non-existence and
wasted time
nothing comes back to haunt us
except the history of ourselves
we slaves to our decisions
prisoners to our internal form
anchored by trivialities
centered by nothing
broken records of regiment
to what we repeatedly do
everyday and continually
search for happiness
even if unhappiness
secures our bliss.
we are the everlasting breeders
to a succession of living corpses.
Sep 2019 · 342
smoking a joint full of crystal cookies
I think of the poets tonight
everyone of them
climbing on each other
reaching for the top of the bucket
trying to escape
and everyone pulling
each other down
with no chance of reaching the top.
I look down into the pail
full of doleful glum
and it dampens my spirits
I want to pick it up
and dump it out
onto the sand.
I want to pull the thorn from their side
I want to release them from their anguish
but no one ever helped a fish
by pulling it out of the river
to save it from drowning
and I fear for their psychoanalysis
being swept away by the tides
of forgetfulness
I fear for without their sorrow
their creativity will be carried
off into a soulless sea,
lost and gone forever.
Sep 2019 · 189
I’m a writer who can not write
a musician who can not play
a drunk who can not drink
I’m emotionless when I
express emotions
onto paper
I’m toneless when
I lie flat on the
keys & strings
I’m impotent when I paint
lustrous images of
graphic lewdness
I balk when I’m willful
I take action apathetically
my purpose subsists
of insignificance
my technique- nightmarish
my craftsmanship- negated
influenced by nothing
guerilla to everything
and dancing in the sunlight
during the nighttime
I have no plans for these hands
no rules, no laws, no bedtimes
just propagate uncontrollably
I’m a deterrent to myself
and the thoughts I project
are like disfigured children
terrorizing the corridors
of blood in my brain.
I don’t know how to create art
and that is the best art
to know how to make.
Sep 2019 · 207
stupidity reigns in my brain
and I can’t get out the words
that I’m trying to say
sometimes I rhyme and I don’t
know why but I don’t like it
this way
when I speak it all comes out
in lame jokes and awkward
so I keep myself cornered
and silent to avoid any sort
of confrontations
if only I could talk like how
I write
I might just be able to live life
the way I like
a better car, a fully-stocked bar,
a nicer house, a less-stressed spouse,
god forbid I have ambitious kids or
give me a higher quality of wine
and I’ll be doing just fine
but the voices dampened my insensibility
to make it hard enough to get out the
sentence structure of my impossibilities
I stutter and twist and my mouth
fills up with spit
I choke and croak out the sounds
I make in my own throat
it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard
allowing something you know is wrong
to be right
because you can’t speak up and you keep
your lips sealed tight
maybe it’s better this way, to live day by day
when silence outweighs the things your trying to say
I’ll just keep to myself with prose and poems
and lyrics and tomes
and let the loquacious bobble their heads
with halfway essays on ******* they did today.
Sep 2019 · 422
I turned 36 today but I feel like I’m 86
and all I want for my birthday is to die.

pain is everywhere/ hell is everywhere
and happiness doesn’t exist.

no amount of love or change
in my life can cure me from the
aching loneliness that lies within

no amount of records could
complete my collection

no amount of words could
finish my poems

I don’t want to **** myself
I’m not a suicide case
you won’t find me at the bridge tonight
and this isn’t a suicide note or
a cry for help or attention seeking

I’m just really ready to go,
ready for decomposition
ready to escape from myself
ready to be put out of my misery
and to be released from total
anguish that life has shown me

there’s nothing more this blue grey
world could offer me
when the sun shines
I want the rain to fall
my feelings are numb
my brain is dumb
my emotions have solidified
depression makes you feel like
a useless blob on the floor and
I know now that happiness
is a mound of decaying flesh
with an empty slit as pretty
as a melancholic smile.

do you think my poetry brings laughter?

am I an ancient jester of poetic injustice?

I sure hope so.

I wouldn’t want anyone to feel
like the way I’m feeling now.
Sep 2019 · 140
here we are
closer and closer
towards the deadlines
of our wasted lives
and we have nothing
to show for it except
soul extortion
and we pray that
we may evermore
dwell in expostulated

I’m surprised
I’m alive
the luck of my past
that hadn’t killed me.

the cause that effected me
to trade in my crazy antics
(I’ve mistaken for bravery
or invincibility)
for mental acquisitiveness
(I mistakenly thought was
for personal gain)

and now
there’s nothing more
to complain about
there’s nothing more
to look back on
there’s nothing more
to hold onto
and the most sensible
thing for me to do
is end it alone
with the walls taunting
the final destinations
like a fly to the cat
and somewhere outside
the mares eat oats,
the goldfinch pecks the
dandelion heads and the
motorcyclist revs up the
engine with nowhere to go
and dreams of riding through
the Badlands at night,
troublingly, when they’re talking,
it’s usually not in my direction
and I rather like that a lot
but when it is directed at me
it’s usually nothing profound.

unaccountably, I have a lack
of response towards soulless
creatures who have zombified
their vitality

they’ve exhausted their inventiveness
opted out to conformity
over-welcomed their stay
and burnt out their last match

the apex of their days is the
sandwich they’ll have for lunch,
the power mower they ride on
in the Saturday afternoon heat,
the motor oil they use for their car,
the purchases they’ve made online
with free shipping and handling

and it’s no wonder I’ve undergone
a number of ways to elude their

making no eye contact
keeping my head down
walking really fast and
pretending to be busy

but the more you avoid them,
the more attracted they are to you

their castrated lives their wives envisioned
are so flavorless like taking a bite out of
an aspirin and they think their persistence
is stunning when it’s nothing more than
relentless and wearisome

I look out the window
feeling trapped
the day is out there
life is out there
not much life
but enough to
take a chance

and very few have the courage
to let go and break free

the little white spider crawling
up my windshield has more
courage, character, charisma
than I or the half-bred egrets
I encounter with on the daily

who knew these assortment
of words arranged in a
peculiar way would give
me the courage to go this far?

but how much further
am I willing to go?

when the world feels like a rope
you’re dangling from above
the swampland of futility
and the imbeciles circle
below like crocodiles
ready to lunge up
and snap at your

I hear their idiot laughter
and their footsteps
working towards
me now

as the door closes slowly
and the light narrows
paper thin-like into
the windowless dark.

I cringe and
wait for it
to end.
Sep 2019 · 193
you want a poem about identity?

people who identify themselves by

what they eat, what they believe in,

what political party they like, what

depressants or stimulants they partake

or don’t partake in are the people who

emanate this keen sense of a “holier

than thou” off-putting. so if you see

a drunken straight-edge, a vegan carnivore,

a Christian atheist, a democratic republican

trotting through the mud of your streets,

be sure to dismount them off that high horse

and continue on as you were meant to do so.
Sep 2019 · 437
the calendars get tossed out
and the funeral cards
stack high.
I sit and wonder
where it all went,
the connection that is,
deforming and reforming
with glimmering threshold
as the past becomes a dream,
love becomes a sudden tragedy
and the music continues to play
through and through.
we simply
are not
Aug 2019 · 234

you’re at the 8 hour job
they give no overtime,
no Christmas bonus,
no raise, no promotion
and yet you continue
to bend over backwards
for them only to receive
nothing but grief, guff
and paycheck so weak
you can’t even afford a
studio apartment for
yourself in return

without praise,
without thanks
or that you did
a good job

and after listening to the
the same repetitive music
and mind-numbing stories
from your co-workers
for hours and hours
days and days
weeks and weeks
months and months
years and years
decades and decades
eventually someone
is going to snap

and this is how shooters
are born,
this is how bomb threats
are made,
this is what encourages people
to commit random acts
of violence

these people are not monstrous
these people are broken
and they have been
driven into doing
monstrous things

but upper management’s
only concern is filling the
owner’s pockets with money,
not your mental stress—
they want you to deal
with that on your own
time, not theirs,
although they may be
the cause

and in the end when the blur
of mass murdering happens
from the rampage of the
disgruntled employee
they act shocked
and terrified with
cries of outrage
that such inhumane
things can be
right now.

we’re all responsible
for our own actions
but it takes a sadistic
type of someone to
propel another person
into going berserk,
to start seeing red in
transcending limitations

some reasonable men
are pushed into doing
unreasonable things

as the shadows have stopped
in the circle of dead children.
Jul 2019 · 268
8 registers open
only 1 cashier
6 other employees
milling around
the store
assisting the 3
remaining customers
while 16 other people
wait in line to check out

their system works
like most systems
I’ve seen before…
backwards and drivel.

I guess common sense
isn’t so common anymore.
Jul 2019 · 339
it happens like this—
when one person parks
their car crooked
the others will follow
in a domino effect
and that’s god’s reflex
towards an inept species
a lore of ancestry
bequeathed with the
wrath of idiocy like
passing a kidney stone
of subnormal bodies
fermented in the bright lights
of dull boredom and
unknown circumstances
like wasted Sundays
and that’s how it works
we all fall into each other
flesh grazing flesh
played entirely on the chimes
of a pocket watch in the
liquid sunshine
splitting the dividends
multiplying the categorized implements
subtracting accountability
and adding the defamation
in response and reaction
to ******* or bacon
sizzling in the frying pan
but the dishes are *****
and need to be cleaned
the dishes are clean
and need to be put away
the dishes are put away
and need to be used
to get ***** again
the power lines are down
in the 11th hour
the **** never knows
which woman to enter
stale love doesn’t know
why it’s chosen us
the unleashed dog
near the busy street
never knows why
it’s decaying on
the side of the road
so **** the desire,
increase the performance,
change the filter in the
furnace and the fridge
confront the imaginary
killer clown that
hides behind the
shower curtain
because when the carnival
comes to your town with
plastic, sugar and sensibility,
it will leave you behind with
consumption and subtle rain
I say all this as I park my car
****-eyed and like most,
I don’t take the time
to straighten myself out.
Jul 2019 · 182
electrifyingly and smilingly,
I walk through the red mornings
that bring the rainy afternoons

with the smell of onions, lime
and fresh cilantro on my
malodorous breath
that will tell you so:

there are three things
we do exceptionally well:

a) the ****** expressions
we make have become an
almost artificiality, a dour,
featureless, sun-drenched
look that has pockmarked
and disfigured upon our faces.

b) living has become such a dynasty
for boredom that we find television
and fake reality to be satiated
and thrillful.

c) death before burial has become
so fashionable that we wear it like
he latest trend in the upcoming
fall catalog.

but there is nothing there,
decades are annihilated by dreams
and sleep is the cheapest form of
entertainment we have.

knowledge and wisdom
perforated through a
trepanned skull
needn’t be obtained by
an educational system

but through self-taught
and self-introspection

success is merely luck…
being at the right place,
at the right time,
knowing the right people

and we strive to be there

but devastatingly,
the small space gets
by subtleties
of distractions
and irritations

that what we have
inside of us
in front of us
becomes insatiable

and the flimsiness of anxiety
begins to lionize and ascend
into higher sopranos

what’s good won’t last
what’s bad always felt so good
and what was said to be good
that was actually bad
was never forgivable

questions are unanswerable
books are unreadable
resources are unusable
happiness is unobtainable
love is irretrievable
and animosity comes so often
like a teenage boy’s *******

as the raindrops pelt the rooftops
like pachinko machines
as the grey hair sprouts like begonias
of spiraling hypnotism
as the pagodas burn in
sacred libations.

if this poem has reached you
it is because you are seeking
better writing than your own.
Jul 2019 · 188
more suicides occur
in common households
than on the beggarly streets.

could it be that the product
of the American Dream
that the banks created
for the undistinguished
commoner is the real killer?

is it the madness of a sweater vest
or the pressures of nagging wives or
the expectations of a vice president status?

is it never letting down your son named Waldo
for a game of catch or primping and crimping
a well-maintained lawn?

is it the prevention of a foreclosure letter
being dropped off in the mailbox?

four walls filled with depression, anxiety,
mental health, impulsiveness, psychosis
being squashed out like a cockroach
where guts and soul puddle out sideways

while the impoverish flirt with oxygen
and salivate over the simplicities
of a paper bag.
Jul 2019 · 199
the best way to start is in the pouring rain
with rotten love and forgotten luck and
the bats flying away from the bell tower.

the best way to start is unemployed
on the streets of Dubai without care
or concern for hollowed out bodies.

the best way to start is in a tiny room
with your heart shredded and mangled
like a torn up love note and solitude
dazzles like the gypsy’s jewelry.

the best way to start is late at night
with delirium pumping into your
arteries and amphibious derision
clawing through the musky air.

the best way to start is from town to town
and state to state from nowhere to nowhere
with smeared colors of loneliness freewheeling
through the dim light of your roach-infested

the best way to start is in the driveway of your
childhood home with the remembrance of a
dream you had of your mother dying as you
walk through the rows of tombstones.

the best way to start is when you’re not ready
with a lack of intelligence and unphilosophical
methods and to carry on doggedly w/out eminence.

the best way to start writing is with feeling—
whether your gypped or short-changed
in the aura of probability or fluttering
like butterfly throughout forever.

I have found poetry on the
battlegrounds of bloodshed,
in between couch cushions,
in the drab of your artwork,
in broken factory windows

discovery can be a savior
like Matt Freeman bass lines
and it has kept me safe
from myself,
from time,
from trouble,
and tonight
it’s just the poem & I
while the hearts
are palpitating
in the nightmares
of tomorrow

I have found my release
with appeasing effects
and reducing discomfort
as the bull meets its matador
as the innocent sits on death row
as the orphanage burns to the ground
as the garage mechanic busts his knuckle
as the Jewish gravestones are spray painted
with signs of hatred
as decades of love are lost over a few moments
of dispute and abhorrence

just for one night
I’d like to end a poem
without trying to figure
out the best way to start it.
I drive down the dead avenues of
perfect lawns and early bedtimes
and turned the surf music
down low

I can’t help but to think about the
streets lined with pre-fabricated
houses like mausoleums of the
living dead

inside them resides
the Lacoste polos and
flowered sundresses with
immaculate credit scores,
mortgage payments and
college degree required jobs

they send their kids off to private
school or lacrosse practice
or piano recitals

and their relatives (who live
on streets just like theirs)
come over for celebrations
out on their patio sets

it’s all the same: a barbecue,
birthday parties, graduation
parties, block parties, picnics,
bar mitzvah’s, quinceañeras

a luxury motor vehicle in every garage
an inground pool in every backyard
complete with a row of beach chairs
the lawn is cut diagonally both ways
closets lined with dry-cleaned suits
their brooding emotions enfolded
with xanax and ******

not a suicide, ******, robbery in sight
the bums don’t stagger their sidewalks
the maniacs don’t trundle their streets
there’s not even a dog **** to pick up

they elect officials into office, have affairs
with each other’s wives out of boredom,
play frisbee golf, do yoga, drink light beer
and overpriced coffee,
they smoke expensive cigars
and tuck their shirts into their cargo shorts

they’ve given up, sold out
the body bag awaits
them all with
time as the only
contributing factor
but when the corpses
are disemboweled
death will be disappointed
because they’ll leave
nothing behind
no soul
no juice
no spine
to collect

living an ordinary life
costs an extraordinary

one can only endure so much
as I drove towards the end
of the cul-de-sac and turned
around fast and reached
the stop sign.

I put my blinker on

broke left

and got the hell
away from that
zombie graveyard

some folks call

“suburban living.”
Jul 2019 · 195
it’s ******* poetry!

it’s words on paper

what’s there is
what’s there

let that be
and move

it’s not suppose to be

it’s suppose to flow
effortlessly down
unclogged drain pipes
of your psyche

and make you feel
not just anything
but something:
heartfelt, funny,
sad, envious,

so why stop it up
with the wet hair
of analyzation?

our triggered emotions
are just drain water
rippling into a river of ****

and I see more mosquitoes
than messiahs

if this searingly honest
poem makes you sick
to your stomach

than I swear,
the readers reads
harder than the
writer writes.

*** backwards.
Jun 2019 · 290
when I think of you
I think of rainclouds hovering over my heart
when I think of you
I think of perpetual sadness leering in the sun
when I think of you
I think of the bulls of heaven charging at the
flashing red capes of your own escape
when I think of you
I think of orange sunsets descending behind the
clouds drifting like tidal waves and sailboats
when I think of you
I think of Sundays and dreading to be back at work
when I think of you
I think of the pain shooting in my shin, like someone
sawing into my bone
when I think of you
I think of fresh bed sheets and no one to lie on them with
when I think of you
I think of opening doors to find you with another lover
when I think of you
I think of them shoveling clean dirt on your face
when I think of you
I think of you living your blissful life
but not in my life
not in my life
in my life
my life
Jun 2019 · 259
4:30pm feels like a long ways away
on only 2 and a half hours of sleep,
6 hours of ***** fueling the fire,
a ****** song stuck in your head,
no coffee and forgotten lunch,
working 10 hours of nothing work
with a manager who tells and
laughs at the same story everyday,
a supervisor arguing logic w/illogic,
a knot of co-workers very loud
yet not so smart
and a whole world of sun-poisoned
people who care very little for your
problems and I thank them
just the same.

I can’t wait to crack the seal again.
Jan 2019 · 245
she was apprehensive
towards my behavior
and each night she
kindly asked me
to come to
bed early


and thinking
about it now
as I’m screaming
for an early
I understand
where she was
coming from

but in the grand
scheme of things,
exploding with
unsuitable stability,
brimful and glistening
with insomnia, insanity
intoxication, isolation
in that red light
of the new dawn
were just to beautifully
violent and untimely
to ever slow down.


Oct 2018 · 405
white tiger-striped
underbelly, 5-3 eyes spitting
hot chiding ectoplasm with
saber-tooth gaping pessimistic dross
in fear-thinking ear lobes mercilessly
and the inescapable 8 inch slit in
between 5 pound bags of translucent fat.
kneeling down in the soot of ruination
with hands tied in the gypsum torso
the heart carved out
like purple pumpkins,
the ****** hair cinched
by the fire of India and
the head twisted and
pulled off like a chicken
by a Mexican rancher,
scratching in the
unchanging dust
and running aimlessly
in all directions with
no ventilation amongst
these strong cement walls.
the druids of dry spirits
coaxing out the dejection
of the toothpaste epitome,
encapsulated and ******,
with emotional charged
derangement on inner tubes
down the burning rivers
of the gullet strait,
only to regurgitate
barges of empathy
upward through the
injured pharynx and
cutting waves of melancholic
to seep through porous skin
and roll off the bitten tongue
like a silver pinball of
pointless blubbering to
any pair of snapdragon ears
that were willing to listen
but as the burning tears roll
down the succulent cheeks like
broken thermometers of poetry,
spittle hung from lip and chin
onto the circling senseless pulpit
and the obsidian curtains of clarity
parted east and west
like Moses untangling
Roman corkscrew ******,
the candlefat burned brightly
in throbbing pink,
the unappetizing laundry room pizza
tasted like hot needles of preeminence
and the x-rayed skeletal lifeforce
fornicated in rustbrown apathy
while the stars shot across
the blue nights like birds of fire
in our desecrated minds.
Oct 2018 · 248
always filling

      and emptying

                and refilling

                     again and again

                                   like gas tanks
               to get to our destinations
                          like bank accounts
                 depleting from bills and
                    replenishing from moil
                                 like our bodies
         with stress on the weekdays
                 and relief or excitement
                             on the weekends
                                  like our hearts
          with love in tiny little spaces
   like bottles of cleaning products
                   under our ugly vanities
               like barrels of toxic waste
                      dumping into the sea
                             like porch swings
              on lazy spring afternoons
                like pews of worshippers
               at Sunday morning mass
                   like stuffing our bellies
              with 99 cent hamburgers
                  and draining our *****
                              down the toilets
                        of the unconcerned
                              like spit suckers
                        at the dentist office
                      like pills of seduction
                                   relieving pain
                  like centuries of people
                    and trees exchanging
             carbon dioxide for oxygen

     it’s hard enough just to breathe
                           but how lovely is it
             to prattle and wail through
    wasted time and non-existence
        and laugh at our faces hiding
                   behind troubled masks
                   because we don’t care
                        to know who we are
               or what we’re doing here
      just keep on filling and refilling
           our embodiment with a sun
       patch of numbing resentment

                     it’s just easier to wisp
                        through the willows
                 than to empirically plod
                       through the bogs of
Oct 2018 · 326
his name was Chino,
although I never met him,
I knew he had a job in HVAC
and he lived within walking
distance from where I worked
but I wasn’t interested in him though
I was interested in his girlfriend
and every morning as he would
leave to go bring heating and
cooling to all the townsfolk,
I would be getting off from
my overnight job to walk on
down to his house, sleep with
girlfriend, drink most of his beer
and eat his leftovers and I always
made sure to leave one bite left,
just to be an *******.

this went on sporadically for a few
months and according to his girl,
he was never suspicious of why
his beer and leftovers were gone
or why there wasn’t any love
for him when he got home but
eventually as time comes and goes
so did his girlfriend as she broke up
with him and moved out.

I was very contemptible
in those days,
not caring
what I had done to others,
not caring
what happened to me.
I was doomed and reckless,
carrying around my burdens,
paralyzed to the repercussions
and I thought if I unfurled my
pain and unhappiness onto
others like a welcome mat
it would make me feel better
or at least take away the
misery and grief
but it didn’t,
it just annexed more hatred
onto an already cruel world
and that was no one’s fault
but my own
but with a stronger, fitter,
healthier change of heart,
mind, soul, mood, personality
and attitude and a better
perspective on life
I became a higher quality
of being for myself
and onto others

and if I could take it all back
I would starting with getting
the opportunity to meet Chino
and drop him off some beer,
some food and hopes he found
someone who treats him better

because the girl
he was with
who didn’t,
I heard she found
someone else
who doesn’t.
Oct 2018 · 303
FUCKING (explicit)
this one ***** that one
and that one ***** this one
and this one ***** this one
and that one ***** that one

and this one is jealous of this one
for ******* that one
and that one is jealous of that one
for ******* this one

and all these this’ and thats
have weird fetishes
with animals
or the dead
or *******
or *******
or farting
or feet
or dolls
or multiples
and some sickos even
involve their own children

and there’s not a second
that goes by that there’s not
somebody out there *******

and sometimes it’s quicker
than an antelope
and sometimes it takes
forever and goes nowhere
like playing a game of

but with time and gravity
they start to sag, start to grey
and become scaly
until this one’s neck
starts looking like
that one’s *******
and that one’s *******
starts looking like
David’s rock slinger
that killed Goliath
until they’re used up like
a Kleenex tissue, thrown
away and then no one
wants them anymore

and a fresh crop of frustrated
this’ and thats come along
and start the whole process
over again
and some have moles
and some have scars
and some have birthmarks
and regardless of race, age, ***
if you’re fat, ugly, short, diseased

they’re all people out there
******* each other

as the bed squeaks
as the car rocks
as the boots knock
as the dumpster rattles
as the knees face the sky

we’re all just ******* our way
through life because what
else is there better to do
while we wait?
Oct 2018 · 1.7k
when I wrote my first book
and had it published

my family didn’t even know
I was a writer

hell, I didn’t even know I was a writer
until 9 months prior to my
first publishing

but they were quick to assume
that I was now wealthy in riches

asking if I had quit my job yet
or my dad asking if I was a
millionaire now

and I told him, that
everything was the same
only that I had just done
something else that doesn’t
involve the same routine
of work and life.

but in his brash tone,
he immediately had to
one up me by telling me
that he just got done building
6 Panera Bread restaurants
within a one year timespan
in the Minneapolis metropolitan area.

“we all got our small victories.” I told him

mine just happens to be
words on blank pages
between covers

his just happens to be
$17 ham and cheese

you’re best
Oct 2018 · 277
she lays on her side
facing the Appalachians
he faces the Rockies
and the animals rest
between them
willingly smelling
their farts in a bed
of muddled indolence

they use to resolve the latter of arguments
with passion

now they just decide which shower curtain
matches the season
Sep 2018 · 1.5k
the old saying:
“make love, not war”
never made too much
sense to me.

love is war
and we’re always
fighting for it
like a soldier in combat
because something inside us
tells us that we need love,
(probably from being
at birth)

and for those who dream
of it be labor less

failure is among them

and for those who put in
too much overtime

failure is among them

and for those with hardened shells
that preach they don’t need love

are desperately screaming for it
on the inside with hearts made
of softened clay

our bodies and minds and
feelings are always changing
and the idea to love or be loved
by one single person almost
sounds absurd but for those
who actually can make it happen
is a rare and miraculous thing

it’s amazing what a woman
can and will do for you
after she puts on her eyebrows

like a lioness who hunts and provides
but somehow allows the lazy lion
the credit and reputation
he doesn’t deserve

out of love
out of war
always fighting
Sep 2018 · 1.1k
you a relationship poem?

carry on with your life
in delicacy
like holding
a hand grenade
without a pin
and wait for the next
explosion to come
at any given moment
on any given day
without any given amount
of prepared responses
to help the situation.

who knew
that the only thing
we could prepare for
is to continuously live life
pushing the wrong button
and keep moving on.
Sep 2018 · 571
in the midst of everything
anything can happen
while resting comfortably
in your big home
in your big bed
next to your big wife
while you’re playing with her
cantaloupes and peaches
and you’re either too afraid
when it’s right in front of you,
smudging your shoes or
you’re too busy overwatering
your garden of atonement
and foolishly working hard
for everything and living
for nothing to notice it
as where there are people
dying on the streets
like a used q-tip
on top of the trash pile
who are working for nothing
and living for everything
just to get a little piece
of what we take for granted.
Sep 2018 · 1.2k
between the hat and boots
an old man stands
withered and totaled
with every breath taken
another months rent paid
and every time I blink
another decade passes by

but with each passing year
another candle stands
as the cake burns brighter
in the age of my doing
than the year before

while others await the
next coming attraction

while others rage
and never move on

while others drink
poison and wait

while others hold onto
an extreme admiration
for the total of their deeds

while others are out
walking and mingling
down the streets
and celebrating
their stupid existence

my piano tongue will
cope with the bottle
and write poetry
like taking a ****
it exits my body
and the weight
had being lifted,
but one is excrement
and the other is soul,
essentially the same thing
pending who you are
or who you were

and my two best friends,
loneliness and emptiness
will put on party hats
make some noise and
sing songs for me
under drooping streamers
where the living remain
physically present and
absent minded
once again.
It’s my birthday today
Sep 2018 · 483
there’s something remarkable
about the magical realisms
between the admixture
of writing and driving.
of course, it’s a difficult task
to literally write while driving
and I don’t recommend it
to anyone but the ideas you
can come up with in your head
become evidently transparent
like a clearing through the fog
and if I was given the chance
with a reliable car, a mixtape of
good tunes, a decent amount
of time to road trip from
Portland Maine to Portland Oregon
and getting lost in the
reverie of elucidation
and neglected dreams
along the countryside
and over the mountains
and through the Great Basin
I could easily write an overkill
of poems in my head and if I
could just get them down on
paper would be a
magical realism
in itself.
Aug 2018 · 2.1k
doing either one and
we dream of $8 haircuts
and no plans of anything
but watching the routine
of life unfold in front of
prying eyes through
venetian blinds
as singles mothers
prep their child for the
education of death
as dogs walk their masters
as fathers choke on neckties
and stress in traffic
as the mailman makes
his rounds
and someone is being born
and someone is dying
and someone is dead
and worst of all someone
is dead before they die and
money is made and money is spent
and someone is lubing themselves
with comfort and convenience to
make getting ****** by the world
a little more tolerable
and a little less raw
and I am here
eating walnuts and
drinking Spotted Cow
and listening to Sonic Youth
on this delving day
while the rest are scouring
through another day of
intolerable hell but we never
stop and think for a moment
to ask ourselves who we are,
we just enable them to run our
lives and tell us who we should be
because when they got you at
Aug 2018 · 606
my eyes
like bullet holes
in the side of
car windows
waking up
in someone else’s life
in someone else’s bed
and I dream of escape
but they’ve taken my legs
and restricted my jurisdiction
to four tiny light blue walls
that drive me mad and
imprisoned me
inside a prison
inside a prison
inside infinite prisons
like a Martyoshka doll
with an open door policy for
violence but limiting my
freedom of expression to
cover up these walls with
anything that interests me
but I guess that’s the way
the world works, anything
interesting is prohibited and
beating you senseless is
encourage so may never
know who you are or what
you’re doing or what you’ll
become but if there’s
a little blue sun that shines
on the luck of chance and
it comes to you naturally,
know it, take it and run with it
like you’re being chased by
cannibalize headhunters
because you never know
when it’ll come back, if ever,
and sitting here now
thinking of Havana
realizing that I’m still here
in this reoccurring nightmare
of unnecessary difficulty
I’d appreciate a simple pleasure
like ******* on a mosquito
that’s resting in the ******
Aug 2018 · 472
Just having fun
Aug 2018 · 466
vibrant colors on beautiful birds
caged in uselessness
and never flying free
when the doors wide open
from the presence of fear
and the absence of dream.

mortared into corners and
clutching onto our terrible lives
and meaningless possessions
with talons of counterproductivity.
terror-stricken by vagrancy and
holding up the dagger to our hearts
while submissively allowing the
beast of prey to cut through with
ease until the blue waves come out
through the tear ducts of depression
and the voice starts trembling
and the feathers start molting
and we start falling apart
at the seams.

working hard for everything
and surviving on nothing.

our lives and our deaths
wouldn’t be so sad
and we wouldn’t be
so terrified of change
if only we had proficiency
and understanding
in our viviparous days
that when we wake up
to face the sunrise,
the reckoning of agony

we’d be able to
fly free
a little more often
like catapulted
but here,
in the swampland
of our darkness
that’s our cross to bear.
the claws of
these poems
scratching into
the eyeballs
of blank faces,

faces holding onto
beliefs and propaganda,
and politicians and positions,
faces holding onto
justice and an outlook and
occupations and opinions
faces holding onto
****** victories and wisdom
and problems and grudges
fearful of losing
what little they have
with their incisive
expression of style and
evacuating their poisons
into conversations
into people.

but someone will be
there to replace you,
sleeping in your bed,
filling in at your job,
preaching morality
while the ******
are singing
in their showers
and someone who
you don’t know
will shovel dirt
2 yards into the
ground onto your
decomposing body
so let it all go
and just be

who knew that these
assortment of words,
arranged in peculiar ways
would save me
and get me this far?

but how much more
am I willing to go?

I’ve been living with the dead
and dead to the living
for so long,
there is
no more
Jul 2018 · 617
you can’t use the public restroom  
without smelling someone else’s ****,
counting smeared boogers on the wall
and reading poetry written by little boys
who will one day run the country.
Jul 2018 · 249
use the past as a present
for self education of
caution and awareness
on what not to do
in the future
and then continuously
keep making
new mistakes
and ******* up
as life goes on
in front of
perfect eyes.
Jul 2018 · 317
beautiful morning sounds
like a dumpster crashing
into the garbage truck
and the sun scornfully
cut into my back like
straight razors and
switchblades but the
night before was greeted
with great delight,
pounding away at the
***** and Seagrams and
now I’m hungover and alone
in bed with my cigarette
hole burnt bedsheets,
dreaming of **** like
neon translucent jellyfish
that took up more room
in what little space I had
in my sublet home.
I looked into her small eyes
but saw enormous things
from within as the real
value of her guise came
with madness from above
as she painted a war
in my mind
and her lips blood red.

but my teeth ached from
the drill of recapitulation
to my vibrating head
as the malapert tongues
bluntly warned me
of her subterfuge,
with subtle phrases like;

“she’ll **** you dry of
and dignity”
“enter at your own risk,
it may be  
the last risk
you’ll take”
“you should be medallioned
with gallantry for hanging
onto that one for as long as
you did.”

there’s no knowledge
left in my eye
on how I see the world
passing me by

except that the world
existed before we found
each other and it still
exists after we’re apart

love’s secret is found in the
eye of the needle and
threaded throughout
the stars in the night sky

and now that she’s gone
with everything I own
that fits into a small
brown paper bag,

she’s plays with the chess pieces
of greed and lust
without the purity of consciousness
or ever knowing what love tastes like
and how drunkenness of love feels

but not every ecstasy is the same

so, don’t wait til your dead
to recognize that your desires and
willfulness were only a perception
in your imagination

there’s a skull chalice
that holds all four oceans
within the palm of your hand,
grab it like the lion’s tail or the
cobra’s neck and drink from
the wildernesses reflection

and give it purpose,
experience the breathing,
life is the shortest time you have on Earth
and baggage is like
women’s makeup...

it too, will soon wash away

but no matter what,
nothing matters most than
how we spend
our last days
on the cross.
Jul 2018 · 281
you are the itch on my *******
and I have use the razor blades
of cheap toilet paper to get rid
of you

you are the dirt and grime
under my fingernails
and I have to dig deep
with a safety pin
to get you out

you are like fiberglass
swimming in the pools
of my porous skin and
consciously reminding
the hemisphere of my
suffering with every
thread that I’m alive

you are the haughty
paint chips that have
peeled off the wall and
lightly floated to the
floor awaiting to taint
the envenomed mind
of toddlers

you are the popped
**** blisters oozing
down my sun poisoned

you are the gummy
white film that has
coagulated at the
corner of my mouth

you are the burning rash
on top of my feet and
there is no soothing
aloe that will cure you

you only provide brine
and lemon juice to the
paper cuts of my limitations

and if the choice was mine
to either have another
conversation with you
or take a beheading

I’d sprint towards the guillotine,
impatiently waiting for the
executioner to carry out
the sentence

and my tilted severed head
will slouch peacefully in the
brightly shining sun, smiling
in the woven basket of relief

but I know you’ll be there
painting a mural of
fabricated stories
of aches and moans
in the hallways of
my ear canals

because after I’m long gone
and I’ve said my farewells
to all the foolish molecules
of easily forgotten pastimes
you’ll just keep coming back
like a thunderstorm of
bill collectors
like a kitten to a shoelace
like ****** to your father
and you’ll bring nothing to
the table or offerings to the
gods except exasperation
to our nerve endings and
disdain to everyone and
anyone you fall in with
like a bear claw to the back

so why is it that
the quiet guy who wants
to be left alone, somehow
always attracts the most
bothersome people
of the world who
Happy 4th of July everyone in hello poetry land!
Jul 2018 · 328
it began with the two cats

then the dog trotted in

then enough time past
and unfortunately, so did
one of the cats

then we rescued a bearded dragon

and for a while there
it was just a trifecta
of various species

until the new kitten had arrived

and now the bird is on its way

as the animals keep rolling
into this sanctuary
we call HOME

I spend my afternoons
taking care of our pets
feeding them
watering them
picking up their ****
maintaining their
living spaces
making sure they each
get attention

along with working all morning
and taking care of the kids
cooking dinner
tending to the ignored laundry
mowing the lawn
washing ***** dishes

my wife thinks I’m *******
on my leisurely hours
but not taking into consideration
that *** is no longer
an aching mystery

and as I’m ******* about
common domestic work

those pets bring such
rapturous enlightenment
to my spinning brain

but they don’t pull out
my inane thoughts and
put it down on paper

except for maybe
this poem
Jun 2018 · 478
the gods have spotted me
in the estuary of dreams
and they laugh at me,
they torment me
with their unresponsiveness
but I must outwit them
and I mustn’t let the gods
decide my fate
and the fate of others
lies in the hands of others,
it’s there prerogative to decide
what to make of it
just as well as it is mine.

if I decide to squander the
rest of my days conspiring
for the words of immortality
then that is my privilege and
if the time comes
when nothing comes
from it
then that is my outcome
but I must write everyday
with assertiveness and
guile as if one day I’m
going to tear this job
down brick by brick
before the dogs from
hell come for me and
tear me to shreds but
if my doing is a waste
then our jobs are similar.

we work hard,
make minimal and
produce nothing
that goes to waste
for a profit and
into garbage
and no one even
seems to bat an eye.

someone spent time away
from their loved ones,
resenting the minutes that
are massacred by monotony
during the dull, senseless hours
of moil with the other working
stiffs who are hand-picked by
someone else, having to take
a **** and breathing in the
smell someone else’s ****
as a piece of them dies slowly,
all while barely making a living on
base pay just so the product they
manufacture is conveniently
available at your fingertips
but nobody ever thinks
of what happens to
a crashed car or
a candy bar wrapper or
a half eaten hamburger,
it just gets scooped up
and tossed away
without mulling over
or questioning.

but no matter
how remarkable
anything may seem,
everything has already
been written including
this poem and the next
one after but much like
our lives, it’s a waste,
it’s not as much of a
shame that we waste
our lives but that life
is wasted on us and
what we do with it is
anything but extraordinary
and all this is for nothing,
just another add on to the
heap on Garbage Mountain
so the raccoons that defile
this poisoned Earth
will finally
to collect
a lot to
the very
difficult task
of boiling the ocean but if you
self-actualize your aspirations
in the grasps of your fingers
like a feather in the cap then you
will execute plans of success
and it's easy enough to fail
but for those who've never
tried hard enough or at all,
there's always someone out
there wanting to employ you
so they can accomplish theirs.

and when you get there,
they'll have you work
in the sweltering heat
without air conditioning

and next to people with an
intelligence level further
below par than ever imaginable

and for an under-qualified
supervisor with soft hands,
who never did the dirt with
no prior experience in the
managerial field, they
just "know people"
and haven't a clue or any
knowledge to your job duties,
yet they could effortlessly,
write you up for neglecting
the daily tasks

and at the end of every
two demeaning weeks of  
having the knife held to my throat
and being fed cookies with no milk,
they've prodded a piece of my mind
they've violated a piece of my body
they've robbed a piece of my soul
and in return,
I've recieved a piece of their feeble paycheck

it may not be much
but it's worthy enough to be
retrieveable, especially when
you've been walking around
without any heads or tails in
your pockets for some time
from this pitiful low-wage job
and after feeling like they've
******* me too many times
like a hate **** on a blistering
hot summers night,
I've felt like ******* off the cap
of this bottle and it will be the only
******* I'll be doing as I settle up
my accounts with all the words that
end in the letter K
while I'm dreaming of delusions
that somewhere out there
there's another
golden opportunity
waiting for me
at some other
low-wage pitiful job
that I know
I'm surely
missing out on
and you might be working there,
feeling just the same and ashamed
as I and wondering the same thing
about my job and maybe,
we as compatriots
of the common cloth,
who never had a chance,
made pliable in the wind
amongst the stiffened trees,
will one day, cross each other's paths

but my aphorisms tell me that...

I shouldn't kiss a pair of ****
after they've been *******
on by someone else.
Jun 2018 · 270
it begins with a decanter of Rimbard
add 2 parts Villon
and 1 part Catullus
throw a jigger of Whitman
and a pony shot of D. Thomas
put in 3 dashes of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs
add a splash of Cummings
for flavor and a float of Rumi,
shake well and pour into the
Nebauchadnezzar of D.H Lawrence
while intermixing Hemingway with
a kick of Yeats and Keats from the
oar stirrers of Celine and Pound,
drop in a few ice cubes of Thompson,
cold and solid and a bendy straw of
Carruth with garnish from Li Po and a
cocktail umbrella of Fante to decorate
and call this mixology a Bukowski
and raise the drink high
and pour it down fast
to honor the dying light
from the struggles of
writers before us and
to help us get through
the moil and toil that
holds us back from
what we truly want
within our guts because
I find living, drinking,
smoking, *******, reading
and writing to be difficult
as it is but breathing
should be the hardest
thing you'll have to do
under this dead moon night
Jun 2018 · 613

pioneering and experimenting
in search for myself,
I stopped looking
after the sixteenth year in life
as I planted a seed in a place
where nothing grows
and blossomed like a
beautifully, unblemished
nuisance of the dandelion.

but, if the world was the
gardner of life, it sprayed
**** killer on my soul and
continously pulled me from
the roots in hopes that I would
one day sprout into an orchid
or a water lily or a daffodil,
trying desperately to mold
me the way they wanted to
but I'm no tulip you could
easily pluck from the
moistened soil, just the
aforementioned ****
deep-rooted into the
hard concrete.

each year after that,
I fed myself plant food
on the compost heap of
jobs, women, *****, madness,
fathering and mothering
two children, cooking
cheap meals and avoiding
religion and fashion and
politics and responsibilites and
marriage just so I concentrate
on surviving while feeling
brutalized and institutionalized
by the roses of society,
until the day came when I stepped
in the bear trap of literacy and
was confined with a typewriter.

and now I'm married with responsibilities,
fathering my two children and
the meals have gotten dainty,
the woman are gone,
the ***** has prospered,
the madness is here to stay
and I'm still impassive towards
religion, fashion and politics.

so why am I clocking in and out
of life for 23 hours a day
for everyone else so I sparingly
enjoy one hour of the day to
be myself and write?

because the world creates chaos
and I take their chaos and
create poetry and just when you
thought they've completely
diminished my soul,
a little piece of ash still glimmers
in the thick gray haze where the
victory garden dances with
burning flowers.

no one in this world,
not even my sworn enemy,
should have to
fight for
work for
just to be

and if the end of
each day isn't a
5 or 6 hundred page
novel to write about
and bookmarked with
a crushed daisy
then what the ****
are we even doing here?
Jun 2018 · 563
she held onto the
memories of her

I held onto my drink,

what a lovely sliver
of convoluted enlivenment
we were.

our togetherness was as fun as a root canal

as she was giving a lot of attention
to very little importance,

I remained apathetic

and the rancorous arguments
and grumble of accusations
proliferated into violent and
wasteful actions that ran on
the treadmills to nowhere

and this went on while we ripped
5 or 6 pages off the calendar wall.

but soon,

the storm of squabble suddenly abated
when she rewound herself back into
the arms of her old fling like a
VHS tape tracking back in focus,
her heart never changed,
just returned to where it
fittingly belonged
and as for myself,
I marched forward
into the light
with my old friend Jameson,
reinherited and reenergized,
like finding a lighter
in between couch cushions
but decisively, I took on a new
spectrum of positive reinforcement,
and an unyielding outlook
without her
in it.

people involved with
faint-hearted relationships
are like people
who make art:

they create it,
then want to get rid of it
and move on
to the next thing.
rumor has it
men have trembled to their knees
and swooned on their backs to
the sight of her beauty,
fanning and conceited,
like the plumage of a peacock

but rumor also has it
men have been proven to be fools
because her personality
was as rotten as an apple core
and the flies of blissful transgression
we’re buzzing all around it in the hot sun

my wandering eyes
gazed up and down her legs
with imagination and wonderment
and imprudently, I fell hard and
became engulfed, wholeheartedly,
into the pseudo flames of fervor and
her unsurpassable immoral nature
as she instantly became the
fulfillment to my desperation
and the horticulturalist to the
greenhouse of my heart
pruning my emotions,
snipping on my heartstrings and
trimming away at the hedges of
my unwavering passion
but she also purposefully forgot
the pesticide of ardor as the
boll weevils of heartsickness
festered on the trellis of my
mental and emotional misery

I was left inconsolable and
awry in a damp, dark cellar
like a clydesdale forsaken
in the mudhole of sadness
and loneliness struck so hard
like the back of a claw hammer

and she moves on,
to the next town,
to the next man
like an epidemic
until she is exposed
like that shotgun blast
between her cheeks
and this standard
operating procedure
keeps recirculating
over and over again
until one day,
her **** fall off
and nobody wants
her anymore.

if your ******* is bigger
than your ******,
you’re not marriage material

but what always was,
always will be

like flowers dancing
in the rain
or people *******
in hotel rooms at
four in the morning

and this is how it happens
when I finish a love story
or a poem.
May 2018 · 1.3k
typing away at the writer;
like a machine gun
lock and loaded
and ready to fire
ink splattering
like blood and
words shot out
like the fusillade
of the ******
hands tied behind
my back and the
fold has blinded
my eyes with a
cigarette lit and
my senses of
prevails again
no last words
no last requests
just barrels of this
machine pointed
at my head and
my heart in all it’s
glory like a man
taking a **** and
it could be all taken
away by the trigger
just as quickly as
the turds flushing
down the river of
cowardice gunslingers
but if you
glint towards the
charlatan of brutes
like a dried up
white elk, then
you’ll know what
a poltroon

the mastery
of the world
are eager to know
how much they can
squeeze out of you
like blood from a
rock before
they stick a
skewer into your
vitals and roast the
ebullience off of
your pneuma like
a burnt kabob
and that’s why my
gutter fingers must
rip sheet after sheet
from this monkey box
like the slightly torn pages
from the loose hands
of madman, and it all
comes down en masse
like four walls meeting
in corners
like the miraculous cry
from the sadist
like 7 billion in existence
and which one am I?
the cat burglar,
the dream alchemist,
the televangelist,
the czar,
the grand master of underlying,
the time traveler,
the creator of happiness
or just another standing
in front of the execution
line for one last time
because we never know
how many seasons
we have left
until the end
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