Welcome

Please excuse the comma splices, tense changes, verbosity, etc. I was just a youngin' and now I realize the error of my grammatical ways. Plus, I preferred the flowery and descriptive writing styles of the early 19th century and beyond rather than the short, journalistic post-Hemingway-style of writing. I love intense imagery and descriptions in general. Still deciding whether I should edit my old poetry for grammar mistakes or take the Beatnik approach and fuck it.

Disclaimer: I only wrote/write on bad days. Grand days have never inspired me enough to write as I've always used writing as an outlet. A majority of my poetry is angsty, dark humored, or depressing, however, I don't have depression, and I'm not self-destructive or suicidal by any means. My writing is mostly a tenfold representation of the kind of day I was having at the time. Embellishing the realities of my bad days on paper helped turn them into good days. Not sticking my head into an oven anytime soon (or ever, actually). :P +10 points if you got the reference.

Thanks for reading! Feel free to comment

Sunday, November 15, 2009

A Day at the Palace

"Let them eat cake,"
She sneered as she
Held a cup of sadness
'Companied by a plateful of
Degraded humanity;
That was on the menu tonight.

Bedazzled with jewels
Mined by peasants beneath her.

Liaisons with men in
Salons during afternoon tea
As Amadeus plays delightful
Laments and requiems
As she eats her cake
And exchanges cordials.

A wall away from nouveau revolutionaries
Erect on barricade
Equipped to invade.

Fallen society,
Gained notoriety.

Glass cup hits floor,
Glass is glitter and glamour,
Which sprinkles on stairs,
For she will fall
As flames hit wall.

Aristocracy expires.

Common man has won,
War has just begun.

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

2-minute Haiku

Clowns

we're in the circus
husky shoes accompany
we all drive small cars

Hammerhead Shark

chomp goes her sharp teeth
munching flotsam and jetsam
adored brevity

Coffee Break

strangle latte boy
need a caffeine pick-me-up
where is my coffee

Friday, August 21, 2009

The Adventures of Josie Appleseed

One day, a shoeless young girl was walking alone in the wilderness without a map. She was lost and could only pay attention to where she was heading. The girl was uncertain of her current location, and she did not want lose her current pace. As a result, she did not turn around to ask for directions.

The girl continued along a rocky pathway through a grove of apple trees. She gazed upon the bushels of apples, and wondered why they were left unpicked. The apples' luster amazed and intrigued her, as the translucent sheen they emitted stood out from the rest of the natural terrain.

Expecting a truly mesmerizing taste, she grabbed one of the apples from the tree and took a bite. She soon spat out the apple, as she realized they were worm-infested crab apples. She tossed the apple on the ground, hoping in time a new apple tree with brilliant crimson apples would sprout from the recalled apple she had attempted to eat. Without thinking, she took another apple from the tree, and bit into it. Her taste buds, already numb from the sourness of the previously discarded apple, withstood the taste.

She continued walking along the rubble as the soles of her feet reacted to the rough road with their generous donations of blood. A sticker they did not receive, nor a pat on the back, nor a merit of honor. The girl knew her feet would callous eventually, so she continued advancing further toward her unknown destination with the apple still in hand.

Copyright © 2009

Life Through the Eyes of a Preskooler [sic]

Wouldn't it be grand to go back in time? The three through six age range enticed me greatly. Back then, life was simple. The greatest fears you had involved losing a tooth, the neighbor's scary nipping chihuahua, or the thought of getting either a time out or a spanking if you threw a fit 'cause your parents wouldn't let you buy that Barbie doll or Hot Wheels car set that occupied the highest shelf at Toys 'R' Us, just out of reach of your barely 4-foot tall frame.

You were often awestruck by the little things, like bubbles dancing through the air as they sporadically popped right in front of your eyes, or finding out you were small enough to ride on the back of the neighbor's dog like a horse. Personally, I was never a big fan of bubbles. Somehow, they would always end up popping in my face. I swear I must have been farsighted as a child.

I miss the good ol' days...when it was safe to color outside of the lines, spill flour all over the kitchen, and give the neighbor's dog or your sibling (but really, what's the difference? ;]) a free haircut. When the worst thing Heather or Tommy could say to you was "Shut up" or "You can't play with us."

Now, a majority of children, adolescents, and adults who belong to Generation Y and Y2K are procrastinating, lazy, selfish, arrogant, rude, impractical, immoral, close-minded, ignorant, and materialistic barbarians from Planet I-Want-It-Now with considerably minute attention spans.

The only thing on our mind consists of either purchasing a wardrobe worth more than someone's annual salary or complaining about how hard we have it, how much our life sucks, and how "we all just wanna be big rock stars and live in hilltop houses, drivin' fifteen cars. The girls come easy, and the drugs come cheap. We'll all stay skinny 'cause we just won't eat." You get the picture.

Yeah, I basically just insulted myself, but I'll live as I brew my fresh hot cup of hypocrisy. We need to END this stereotype and revert back to simpler times.

"I have to write a five page essay, and it's due in a week!"

"I'm calling in sick 'cause I have the worst cold ever."

"I got grounded. My life is over."

"I got a 'D' on my test."

"They cancelled The Hills!"

"They can't make me run the mile in Phys. Ed."

*drops object on floor*

"Eh, someone else will clean it up. Why should I have to?"

"I'm not going swimming for gym - the chlorine will dry out my hair."

"Why pay for college when I can buy these insanely cute shoes?!"

*a month later*

Seventeen says these shoes are out of style. Better go buy some more!"

*watches TV*

"I wish I were that pretty/skinny/beautiful/gorgeous/ripped/muscular/hot..."

If you're lucky, when you start climbing over that huge hill and come across Mid-life Crisis Peak in your brand spankin' new Italian leather shoes, you may still have that end-of-the-alphabet cup size, those monstrous biceps, or enough 6-packs to run Budweiser out of business, but thanks to society, that's all that matters! Why have an IQ of 130 when you would rather have A NEW CAR!?

*brought to you by The Price is Right*

Life gradually appears to be increasingly complicated due to our failure to see how out of control we have become as humans. The Y2K scare is coming true, and honestly, I am terrified of how our world will turn out once our generation becomes the main inhabitant of this finite planet.

"My job got outsourced to India. I don't know how I'm going to financially support my family." Why is this my problem?

"Bernie Madoff made off with my life savings." Who's Bernie Madoff?

"The bank owns my house 'cause I couldn't pay back my home loans." What are they talking about?

"I lost my home in the flood, and everything in it. I lost my pictures, and the place I grew up, and I'll never be able to resurrect the memories." Cry me a river, I still have my new car...

Instead of fighting over a box of crayons with Heather and Tommy, we'll be nuking each other 'cause our politicians told us to ...

Unless the living generations of the world can contribute to this kick ass planet in some form, aside from benefitting our economy and increasing the abundance of plants through the exhalation of CO2, the generations will be banished from this godforsaken planet as they are relentlessly stomped on by throngs of passersby with massive Jimmy Choo pumps.

Irony will always prevail. That is all.

Copyright © 2009

A Perplexed Generation

Clinking can,
Carried by wind,
Flounders through zephyr,
Meant for blue bin,
Wondering.

Packets of paper,
Thrashing about,
Skimming through air,
With wings of wren,
Wondering.

Plastic bottles,
Propelled by wind,
Kicked to curb,
Wanders 'long road,
Wondering.

Nostrils remain uninhabited -
Kleenex becomes a rarity.

Buildings remain dark -
Energy prices escalate.

Homes remain frigid -
Insulation is scarce.

Game boards collect dust -
Now obsolete.

Our perplexed generation -
Wondering.

Copyright © 2009

Monday, March 23, 2009

A Man for All Seasons

On sale now for a limited time: tall, dark, and handsome.

Buy one, get one free,
Better get em’ while they last,
They don’t come cheap.

Arm candy strung upon your limb,
This season’s Prada bag,
Thrown away—
Out of season.

Umbrella—
Perpetual April rain remains evident.

Sunglasses—
Don’t look back into the incessant Sun.

Hat—
Leaves may fall.

Wear him like a coat during winter—
Weather-permitting.

Copyright © 2009

Non-Existent Motives

I laugh at myself in the mirror.

Liar. Liar. Liar.

Why should I care?
Why do I care?

Wasting hours wondering—
How my hair looks
How much weight I've lost
How I can get a date

Why ask questions when you know the answers?

Much brought on by life—
Useless rubbish.

Does it matter—
How much oxygen we waste
How many candles we blow out
How many times we say, “Hello”

Why live a lie when there is no truth?

No point in moving on,
Or starting off fresh,
Or living up to expectations.

Eh, what the hell, I’m—
Dropping my comb
Grabbing the Doritos
Hanging up the phone

What’s the point?

Don’t confuse with apathy,
You’d have to care enough to classify life.

Copyright © 2009

Pantomime-in-a-Box

I tightly clutch onto lace curtain,
Refuse to end up 6-feet below,
Patch of Kentucky blue grass,
Keeping me safe from rain that seeps,
Into earthen cracks above my cardboard box.

My smile,
Eroded with the compost,
Made the grass green,
The days short and sweet.

The air has evaporated,
I gasp for oxygen.

Asphyxiated by reality,
Comforted by illusions.

Ears cannot hear my cries for help,
As I scratch on the box,
My name,
I cannot remember.

I remain homeless,
Non-existent,
Guilty,
Till I finally decompose.

Forever exiled and confined to this place,
Not even God can save my soul,
He mocks my attempts,
To break the latch.

Copyright © 2009

First-Time Flyer

I came back from my mother-in-law's house today,
She screamed at me in a strange Nordic language,
As if I could understand her,
After I messed around with her custom-made alpine skiis.

I did,
But I acted like I had no clue,
What this angry, tense lady was saying,
As I packed my suitcase,
Filling it with crap I didn't need.

Bottles of dried up aloe vera that smelled like Crest toothpaste,
10-year old jugs of Jamaican rum filled with sand,
Okay, hold the rum,
Just sand,
For some reason,
A broken umberella that looked like Tim Burton's rendition of Mary Poppins,
And a plastered smile.

I got to the airport,
Anxious about my relations with my mother-in-law,
After all,
The woman's face looked like a safety-recalled Coach purse.

Well, I approached airport security,
"Take your shoes off, ma'am," they tell me,
Surely, they must be insinuating something.

Now, don't take this the wrong way,
I love guys,
But I'm not the type of girl who likes to roam around.

I went berserk on the security guard,
"Well, I've never!"
I yelled,
As I hit him with my Fuicci knock-off.

I got my Fuicci from a street peddler in the Bronx.
Hey, if no one knows,
What's the harm?

Well...

I lost the battle of Fuicci vs. truncheon.

Despite what they show in Cops,
Tasers hurt,
I now have burn marks,
End of story.

Come to think of it,
Cops wear Axe,
Axe smells bad.

Anyways, they let me go after I plead insanity,
Told them the crazy Russian guy from Seinfeld forced me to do it,
Payback for not letting me have free cable.

I stomped off in my Scandinavian Dalmatian-spotted tube socks,
Not a care in the world,
Just want my damn shoes they made me take off,
Only take-off I want right now involves a plane and a runway.

I looked over past the security checkpoint,
And saw a man dawning drag,
No shoes,
Yellow nylons that appeared to suffer from jaundice,
either that or the feelings between him and coffee are not mutual.

I then ran off to catch my flight,
Hopefully, the pilot isn't high off of airplane fumes,
There was this one time in Houston...

Copyright © 2009

Saturday, March 21, 2009

A Misanthropist's Grocery List

I need an inoculation of artificial happiness.
--Eh, it’ll probably only hurt for a second—the happiness, not the inoculation.

I need Novocain.
--Go to dentist when done shopping—bring $70.

I need a dose of reality.
--Doctor said to take 7 capsules every hour—call him in the morning.

I need a steel trapezoid to remind myself I’m still alive.
--Head to Hardware Department—ask for X-Acto.

I need an enabler.
--Call Susan and see if she would be up for the task.

I need endorphins. (<- picture a strikeout here)
--Screw it—not possible with X-Acto.

I need a fix.

What’s my vice, you ask?

Life.

Copyright © 2009

The Partnership of Sol and Luna

I now pronounce you Sun and Moon,
You may kiss the sky.

No love at first sight,
Sol evades Luna,
Luna eludes Sol.

Luna, a rebel,
A loner,
Out past season's curfew.

Man and wife,
Span and strife,
Confined by Earth’s restraining order,
Never to meet face to face—
Arranged marriage.

Something old,
Something new,
Sol is borrowed,
Luna-- blue.

Sol, emasculated by Luna,
She steals his lucid light.

Sallow shimmer of sadness,
Replacing anger that lights the sky.

Battle fought religiously over kitchen table in the sky.

No voices, just gestures.
Not seen, but felt.
Earth remains idle,
Caught in middle of millennia of bickering.

Sol contemplates his existence--
Sinks into horizon’s death box.

Luna reawakens with relentless beauty,
Overshadows significant other.

Clink of glasses at non-Emaculate reception,
A celestial unity between two adversaries.

Copyright © 2009

Sunday, February 22, 2009

"The Ranting of a Closet Cynic" (Part One and Part Two, supposedly)

Walking upstairs, I notice the Christmas tree standing dormant in front of the living room windows. The plastic artificial evergreen remains idle with its adornment of cracked candy canes; a slightly grotesque scene. The counterfeit tree establishes a gloomy aura that incinerates happiness upon its attempted passage into my fiery home. The tree’s volatile existence remains hidden as the snow begins to fade away, replaced by sporadic brown patches of Kentucky blue grass. 'Tis proof of my procrastination.

I don’t have any aspirations in life, however, if in some rather odd way you, for some reason, feel better about yourself due to my recent displays of cynicism, I consider that an indirect form of misanthropy on my part.

I have to admit this isn’t my first attempt at writing a book; however, none of my “books” seem to advance past the pamphlet stage. I have already completed the task of embellishing the God-awesome title of this book with quotation marks to signify that, if all else should fail, as it obviously has, this literary unit shall end up morphing into a short story, thanks in part to my horrid time management skills.

You may thank me, personally, for not handwriting this book, due to my cryptic usage of cursive “writing” that is only readable by myself and a few elite others that were gifted with magnificent peepers. I accept gratuities in many forms, if you are in a generous mood. If you feel like sending fan mail, I accept that, too, however, for safety precautions, refer to the phone book.

If, for some strange reason, you believe I come off as arrogant, selfish, or egotistical, your thoughts are simply misconstrued. I like to think of myself as the non-existent God’s gift to the world. Yes, I’ve had some faults with religion. I’ve tried, yet have not failed, by any means. Heaven just isn’t ready to handle someone like me, but once I lock-pick those pearly gates, I shall be hanging out in the clouds, possibly; if it occurs to me upon being placed in my death box that there certainly is such a destination.

As I write this musing, my fellow comrades are engaging in a conversation that involves the comparison of cup sizes and bosom shapes. I find it hard to concentrate on MY story when THEY won’t shut their traps.

Now, where was I…Ah, yes, hats.

I like hats. Hats are mighty fine. They have a way of keeping your head safe from possible infernos caused by nuclear fall-outs, and they protect my rather large cranium from acid rain, flying monkeys, and the occasional sphincter-less fowl.

(More later) *runs off to steal candy from small children whilst humming a random Bob Dylan song (or Cat Stevens, can't decide)*


PART 2:

I am still stuck in this closet, yet I have no intentions of leaving this, possibly tentative, wardrobe receptacle, I guess one could call it. I...I...I will try and camouflage my cynical identity by wearing my optimist mask to portray myself as a convivial figure. It takes a vast amount of physical and mental effort to cast a veil upon my cynicism to divert your attention to my fictitious displays of optimism. Yet, for some reason, my original acts of randomness, and the ability to “connect” irrelevant paragraphs, still remain solid, in my opinion.

Now, I must admit I do try extremely hard to keep intruders out of my closet. You know the type... They're always trying to figure out what's wrong with you and how they can give you advice since they feel morally obliged to do so-- this used to be me. However, ever since I have called this closet of mine “home,” I have made good use of my time spent in this coffer by gathering my thoughts and evaluating my life. *crumples up paper and throws it on floor* Who am I kidding? To ‘ell with evaluations and expectations, I want enlightenment!

I do not know what life has in store for myself, however, if I had the opportunity to find out, I’d probably be stuck somewhere in Scranton, Pennsylvania near the security clearance while my flight takes off without me, somehow losing my baggage in the process. I do feel the need to be enlightened in some way, though, but not solely, by any means. I find that enlightenment is emitted from one human to another somehow…It’s hard to explain.

This poses a rhetorical question: Are my attempts to avert your attention from my cynicism to my potentially existentialist views on life working?

*picks up paper; un-crumples paper; struggles to read own handwriting on paper; throws paper on floor; rinses and repeat*

Copyright © 2009

Black Friday Hysteria

"Attention Wal-Mart shoppers, there are ten Blu-Ray DVD Players available in the Enterta--Get 'em!"

Black Friday shopping is a tradition of grandeur in my family. I enjoy the competitiveness involved in this fanatical form of consumerism. This version of shopping allows you to appreciate the material items you possess since you're fighting tooth and nail to obtain your purchases. What could be more intense than shopping alongside crazed consumers that are hyped up on Red Bull?

The art of Black Friday shopping sheds light to our barbaric materialist approaches on life. We are always seeking to buy new commodities to replenish our egos, release ourselves from boredom and increase our self-esteem. I have to admit, I am a victim of this vicious cycle and I will most likely never change my stubborn consumer ways. However, it's important that you fix your problems so you can satisfy the souls of hypocrites like me.

I believe Black Friday shopping should be an Olympic event. All you require is a team of four people. One person completes the heavy lifting, the second person is the sprinter, the third person is the strategist and the leader stands off to the side, with latte in hand, instructing their team members. The award, of course, is the Blu-Ray DVD Player you snagged from the Entertainment Department.

Black Friday shopping requires speed, strength, strategy, agility, the ability to use alliteration, and most importantly, extreme discipline. How many people do you know of that would be able to wake-up at 3AM to attend a sale at Penny's?

I must extend a large amount of gratitude to the retailers of caffeinated products, as Black Friday would be nothing without caffeine. Caffeine makes the world go 'round or at least the wheels of shopping carts. Without caffeine, store clerks would be sensible and refuse to work on Black Friday, thereby restricting our shopping addiction. Consumers without caffeine would be uncoordinated and sleep deprived. Thanks to caffeine, consumers can be as blood thirsty and as insane as possible, depending on their dosages.

While my family is not as gung-ho about Black Friday shopping as other people we still consider this type of highly-skilled shopping to be a great deal of fun. We feel it's our responsibility to help keep the economy on its toes. There's nothing more exhilarating than the feel of crisp, morning air, the warmth of hot java and the sight of a Plasma TV gleaming in a store window. People like us are required to keep the stock market from crashing during these desperate times.

Copyright © 2008-2009

The Man Who Would Be King

A troubled troubadour,
Tormented by filthy pleasing things.

He set out to reclaim his rightful throne.

Trilby, his crown,
Epiphone, his scepter,
London, his home.

Stuck in the shambles during infancy.

One last show as a dire escape from the rock underworld.

Copyright © 2009

Saturday, February 21, 2009

House of Cards

Trapped in a room made out of a deck of cards.

Queen of hearts boasts worthless riches,
Queen of Bitches.

King of diamonds questions his title,
Lineage is vital.

Seven of clubs bears good news,
Anticipated muse.

Ace of spades craves attention,
Awaits ascension.

Suit of colors, true to its name, intentionally plastered on the souls of cards that leave the stack.

Luck dealt separately in each hand,
Fortune grand.

Truth in every deal will soon reveal fate that lies ahead.

House collapsing as the song is sung, the word spoken -- free.

Copyright © 2009