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.

Erotic

Body Hymn

Your bones breathe,
expanding,
inhaling each diminutive pore on my
skin.
Contracting,
exhaling every individual cell of my
skin.

Our clavicles meet and
clash
together, and our hips are
conjoined
together, welded as if iron.

The segregated digits of my
knuckles
bend and give way,
molding
beneath you.

My hands,
your anchors,
weigh you,
unable to drift from me.

Every last
sinew
of every last
muscle
reaches out,
capturing the tendons
buried beneath my
skin,

and we sing
together.

Persona 2

Here's another poem I wrote from the point of view of someone else.

Every Time

She's yelling again
I can't stand it
She's yelling
i'm nodding
i'm agreeing
i'm apologizing
She's yelling
I'm driving to her sister's house
And she's yelling
She's yelling
She hasn't stopped
In three years
Of matrimonial bliss
She's yelling
I'm ignoring
She's yelling
I'm driving

I could kill her now
I could kill us both

She's yelling
I could swerve off the road
I could drive off a cliff
She's yelling
We're here
At her sister's house
We're in the car still

She's apologizing


She's smiling



I remember why now
Her smile is worth three years.

Beauty

Beauty Fades

Beauty is age,
pious and loving.

An old woman's hands,
folding in on themselves,

wrinkles on parchment paper skin,
crevasses cutting through freckled pores.

Gnarled fingers pressed,
dried petals on a withered rose,

extended from frail arms.
Fragile bones

move with fragile grace,
locked away

from all eyes save
God's.

Persona

This is a poem I did for my writing class in which we had to write from the point of view of someone different from ourselves.

Paper Company

Bill! What's goin' on, you dog you?
Yeah, I hear ya' man!

Cheryl... lookin' fantastic as always!

Thomas! How was your weekend bud?
Fucking asshole.
Sounds great guy!

Jesus, it's Chris. Nice fucking tie.
Chris! Great tie man! Where'd you get it?
What does he think this is? Fucking casual Friday?
Men's Warehouse? Really?
Figures.

Solitude in my corner office.
Biggest window on the floor.
What a fucking accomplishment.
Fake smiles get me by,
get them by me.
I guess that's what I get
for working at an office
for a paper company.
Everyone around me
is only paper company.

Sandra, would you send Chris in? I think I'm going to fire him.

This is about love... kind of...

How To Maintain A Healthy Relationship, Chapter 6: Routine

The sheets are
stained tarps
on the bed.

I approach her
with a loving look,
and a soft kiss
on her short-haired head
so as not to frighten.

I look into
her eyes
and split open
her legs
like a bovine's skull.

The moisture seeps out,
the blood,
the fluids,
and her gray matter.

She is penetrated
with my serrated edge,
like through her ribs.
And I saw,
and saw,
and saw.

She cries
and moans.
I cut pieces
out of her.

The perfume
of her open chest
permeates my nostrils.

The tarp
now drenched.

I slip
away from her,
and retreat
to wash my hands of this heifer.

New Beginnings

To commemorate the first post of my blog, I'm posting one of my first poems. Enjoy!

Cavities

My teeth are decaying
at an unexpected rate.

My dentate are a ghost town,
a small collection of former homes
hidden beneath a mossy wood.
Structures cast aside,

once well maintained and cared for,
now long lost in the depths of consciousness.

Windows are fracturing,
doorways collapsing.
Shingles are peeling,
porches folding.

I came upon this tightly knit community
of twenty-nine buildings,

eager to restore each one.
Am I too late?
Will the damage done to these neglected bicuspids
give way to their evident demise?

I hopefully can repair this once great civilization
before the plaster disintegrates

into the soft soil from which
they were built upon.