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

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.

Perpetual April rain remains evident.

Don’t look back into the incessant Sun.

Leaves may fall.

Wear him like a coat during winter—

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


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,
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?


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?


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