Experimental

Cut Off Your Feet And Name Your Hands After Them

Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop worrying
Stop.

Depressing Lame Poem

The Sun Is A Star

The night can get dark,
but the sun can get darker.
It rises every morning
to remind you you're still living.
When you're separated from the world,
all you want is night,
if only for the hope
of not waking up.

Short Poem

When It Rains, It Fucking Pours

There was a lightning storm the other night.
Part of me wishes I had been struck.

The Poetry

The Poetry

Of the thin blades of grass
Of the ants that walk them
Of the people step on each
Of the cars that drive them
Of the roads that take them
Of the ants that walk them.

Prose

here's a prose piece I wrote about a year ago

Lose/Lose Situation

Recently all I can think about is having a girlfriend. My mind is a skipping record "Need a girlfriend. Need a girlfriend. Need a girlfriend..." Unfortunately, said girlfriend has yet to be procured. The leaves are turning brown outside, but my brain is telling me it's spring. It seems any girl I assume to be single who so much as exchanges words with me instantly becomes a potential companion. Working outside in the cold, handing out pamphlets to children and their parents, demonstrating "The kind of cool stuff we have at Mad Science birthday parties!" I imagine dating the new girl I work with. Creepy, I just met her, and already I see us skipping through meadows hand in hand. Anything she says I take as she is interested in me. She offers me a ride home. We make small talk, either she's feigning interest or she's genuinely attracted to me. I strike out. "What are you doing tonight?" she asks. I reply "Probably just hanging out with my friends, what about you?" She responds with "It's my friend's going away party, we're going downtown." This could be taken as an invitation, and if I had more courage and initiative, I could be holding her hair back in an alley in no time. I don't. I thank her for the ride and leave. Bummer, going to be awkward at work next week. However, out of some strange alignment of the planets, she asks for my number. Good sign. I sit at a washed out computer screen in my apartment. I decide to text her. Things go well, we talk, and we seem to have a lot in common. Maybe she could be the girl my faux-spring-fever calls for. I try to get her to go to dinner with me or at least pay me a conjugal visit. She says she's "busy all the time." She may be busy; or she may be blowing me off. Probably the latter. I'm too pushy with her "Come over... You should come over... Come over after work... Come over tomorrow..." Not good. She probably thinks me to be a mondo creep. I can't give up. I'll back off but keep texting her. I'll probably fuck up again and start pushing her more and more until she snaps and tells me to "LEAVE ME THE FUCK ALONE" in caps lock via text. I'll probably fuck up.

The Fucking Wilderness

Trees

Maybe I'll leave
for the woods.
Retreat
to the wilderness.

Maybe I'll leave
everything behind.
My clothes,
my iPod,
my phone,
my family,
my friends.

Maybe I'll live
in leaves and berries.
My only companions,
the raccoons,
the deer,
the bears,
the cougars,
the moose.

Maybe I'll bathe
in the most pristine of water.
The rivers,
the lakes,
the streams,
the ponds.

Maybe I'll sleep
under the stars.
Comfortable in soil,
rocks,
twigs,
dirt,
insects.

Maybe I'll take my clothes.
Maybe I'll bring a friend.
Maybe I'll only stay for a weekend.
Maybe I'll stay.

Cutup

This is a cut-up version of "Body Hymn".


Skin cells, expanding.

Breathe.

Hands and digits
weigh segregated.

Clavicles contracting,
meeting as anchors,
unable to bend.

Bones welded
beneath knuckles.

Every individual,
diminutive,
form-fitting,
inhaling,
exhaling
pore
conjoined on iron.

Hips clash together.

Skin,
drift from me.