Posted in Non-Fiction, Poetry

timing is everything

I have only ever been to sex parties
that are positive; there’s no pressure
to slide it in if you’re feeling like a corpse.

it’s more about meeting nice people and
constructive discussions about why our dollar is really crappy.
That’s not to say that you can’t rip off
your clothes and get real “progressive”…if you know what I mean.

One time, this guy
I’d made eyes at across the room
at a few prior functions, just straight up tossed me into a wall.
He was aggressive.
A real animal.
Not the kind you would immediately
picture though, more like a
thirsty emu or maybe an iguana
with really dry skin: he drank me right the fuck up.

It got so wild I knocked out his fake tooth.
He didn’t even flinch. In fact, he never
even asked for it back—I still have it
in a leather pouch on my spice rack.

If I was ready to expand into different sectors
of adult life, I’d probably have his kid.
He really is just that good of a dude.

I guess this is what people mean by “timing is everything”:
I’m just not ready to restrict my bedroom to hockey pool transactions.

Even if his tongue is bifurcated.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

less dirty

My sister lives on a corner
where you can buy this stuff
that comes in a syringe, for 50 cents a milligram.

It’s hard not to go back to it.

I get the sense that if you embrace it once, a monogamous relationship
becomes mandatory. If it were a dollar, maybe it would be a different story.
As it stands, whenever I see all of these guys
shooting up, I can’t help but feel a sense of jealousy.

I once got into a huge fight with this one turkey
who was a little too eager, took things a little too fast.
It didn’t matter that he was blue in the face, I just can’t take
a man who treats a lover with such reckless abandon.
I left him out behind that old 50¢ store
they converted into a library. I figured
once he’d cooled off, maybe he could pick up a book
on the topic of romance.

But don’t kid yourself, I’m no knight
in shining armor. I’m just a sucker
for the “hooker with a heart of gold” storyline.

It makes this addiction seem a little less dirty to me.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry


My mama always tells me
that I should find better ways to make a living. She reckons
that I can’t afford to keep going at this pace.

Sometimes she’ll visit me right
in the middle
of a particularly tough week. I’m bloated, tense, and unable
to sit. Those days always play out the same way:
she’ll dote over me,
feed me some sort of hot broth,
and try to help me work it out of my system.

she stayed with me for over a week while I swore
to her that this time it was going to make me tap, that I wanted to die.

But it always comes.

Crashing through my system like a linebacker, everything exits
my body as a giant grenade.

Even though she can see the sheer ecstasy in eyes
that this relief provides, mama will always cluck her tongue
at me and swear I need more fiber in my diet.
It’s her polite way of asking me to deal with my

She’s probably right, from a health standpoint,
but I always roll my eyes at her.

What does All-Bran® have to do with writer’s block?


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

sentiment analysis

I spend a lot of time weeping
about all of the megafauna that have died.

My friends don’t understand.

They think this dystopian
robot aesthetic we’re headed towards
is just fine; there’s bound to be collateral
when you’re trying to find a more efficient way to make breakfast sausages.

I feel as though the information age is polluting everyone
with a strange sense of values, like disdain
for reptiles and a belief in the American two party system.
I guess that’s why I’m so interested
in sentiment analysis: it’s a really organized way
to represent all the fucked up little things
our hearts really desire.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry


It took twenty years but I’ve finally
gotten into the habit of making my own meals.

I’ve been a rabid reader my whole life
so I figured that the only real difference
between my love of magic realism
and kale, was the types of books I was reading.
After that, going to the gym three times a week
didn’t seem so extreme.

That’s all there really is to it.

Suki sees right through this, of course.
Even before I told her
about my lifestyle changes, I could hear her “nyet nyet-ing”
with a dramatic roll of her eyes.

“You rely too much on institutions, my boy Rutherford.”
“Could you go one day without making some
sort of obscene, divine offering of your body
to some non-existant spirit?”

I assure her
I haven’t been to church
since I was 12, that the only temple I
am concerned with is my body.

“Yea, but
you were raised Catholic.” she teases.
“According to Max Weber,
you’re not too far away from checking yourself into
a mental institution just to kill yourself.