Posted in Poems

Prototype

She’s just a cheap
prototype of
a girlfriend

ain’t no one finds that sexy

Something about her smells
like a fart locked in a jar

If you were to let that
thing out
it’d basically take out
all of downtown

Of course I’m angry

There’s no warranty when
you get mixed up in
this sort of business

But
it’s not like I can
call the feds on her

they don’t give a crap about
that kinda stuff

They’re too busy

writing sonnets about
cocaine dependency and
metaphorical disembodiment.

-12.08.17

Posted in Poems

Resolution

I
haven’t figured out how
to live

with anti-depressants, yet.

Every year I choose
January 1st
as the starting point, but I am

never ready to go.

People tell me that I need to pick
better priorities, that my resolve should be more
tugboat than raft. What they don’t understand

is that popping pills is not
like saying “Hellllloooooo!”
to an Americano in the morning.

Fun fact,

it’s more like trying to fuck a girl
with hiccups: every crest has a trough and no one really ever gets off.
You both
just
find a way to accept the numb.

-12.06.17

Posted in Poems

Raw and Mismanaged

I’m not
sure
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
worse
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

died,

all he could do was send
me a picture

of his breakfast

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

-11.28.17

Posted in Poems

Atomic

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.

-11.20.17

Posted in Poems

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
left.

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
something

better than you.

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

I hope you see
where I’m coming from.

-11.07.17

 

Posted in Poems

Midterm

I had a test on Sunday—
it’s the one where
you shit
yourself.

I don’t
even remember
what I wrote down
for the third
question;

How’s your vagina?”

The older I get, the worse
my handwriting gets.

It’s just so hard to
think when you know
he’s gonna leave.

Man, all that I could
focus on was how
cold my bum is,
without a
ginch on.

-11.20.17

Posted in Poems

Dysfunctional and Rusty

I want her
to tell me
that she loves
me.

No butter, no grease; I mean
it’s just
biology.

She’s changed so much. I guess
she thought she had it all
figured out, but she’s just like her mother:
all dysfunctional
and rusty.

The older we get, the more
she wants to show
me, but I just know
we’ll be divorced in 6 months.

The best we can hope for is to avoid any litigation.

-11.18.17