Posted in Poetry

Raw and Mismanaged

I’m not
how to open up;
no one sees my emotions.

They haven’t figured out
how raw and mismanaged

my life is—not even my dad.

He would handle it
than I do.

Tell me a joke about how
Russia is great,

how my depression all delineates down to “colonialism.”

You think I’m
joking but the day
my mother


all he could do was send
me a picture

of his breakfast

and ask me if he could
keep his handicap parking pass.


Posted in Poetry


Wanna know something tragic?

This one sour girl
followed me
around for two years, trying to appreciate
all my thoughts and ideas.

It was so awkward

because I just got pickled and pretty
much ran away every chance I got.
I don’t know what I was thinking—
maybe it would have been sexy

to touch her knee.

But nothing eventful happened.

When she gave up
all that was left was four tubes of lipstick
and this scrap of paper:
I don’t know who you think you are you’re just

a pile of atoms.


Posted in Poetry

Skunks, not so much

I want to know how
it happened; I don’t think it’s
fair that you’re talking to someone
else about it, just because
I forgot to call.

Maybe there’s something

Maybe we, maybe I…

maybe I could fix it.

I’d get a good
job, get ahead,

I wouldn’t lose those
socks; I can’t get

better than you.

You, you’re like
me—skunks, not so much.

I hope you see
where I’m coming from.