Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

Grillmaster Kyle

I’ve always been better at giving, but I guess
there’s only so much you can impart on someone.

No matter how much good
you think you’re spreading
in the world, there’s always going to be those
who come along and skew your perception of things.

You kind of have to take it with a grain of salt
and move forward if you want to keep relationships intact.

Take Kyle for instance,
he’s basically a beast.

In a family full of vegans, he’s the one
that goes out and changes his name to
and opens up a butcher shop.

Can you imagine that? Just blood and guts
all day and then
he has the audacity to come home and offer to buy me a beer.
Like I don’t know what he’s getting
up to downtown, during the week.

he takes me for the fool—broccoli salads
and non-dairy cheese—I reckon he looks down
on me for not having the fortitude to kill an animal.

But like I said, you know, that whole thing
about giving. I guess that’s why
I’ll always set a place at the dinner table for him…

he is my son after all.



Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

people with dogs

Even when I told her
that we were failing, that she was ruining our
song, she just stood in the middle of the ocean sabotaging things.
Her mother told me
it was out of love and her friends all say
it was out of fear, but what do I know?

I’m not exactly a psychologist,

yet. My friends call her a beast, though
I’m sure I can get better insights
on the topic, than drunken texts from frat boys
at 2am. I’m not even sure what good
an answer will do because closure
doesn’t really exist,

it doesn’t really solve the mystery of why people do bad things…

or why they never call you back.

I mean, there are some
who try to tell me that people with dogs
are so much nicer,
but that doesn’t really explain Kate to me.
She has a bichon frisé and

she still sucks.


Posted in Poetry

Should Have

I have an old anxiety
about not knowing what others
are talking about. I feel like
I’m letting you down
when I have to pull out
the weather app or use Google translate.

Some things I am wise to though, like linear progression.
You can’t stop linear progression.

Just ask
my girlfriend. She was
on the pill
and still
got pregnant.

I’ve got a lovely new song
I like to sing to her:

“I should have just came in your mouth.”



Posted in Poetry


I am having the worst time of my life.

My business is going
to shit,
all because of a woman.

Not the sexy elderly kind. The kind that makes you
talk a lot about
killing your babies.
I need some damn space but she always
finds a way to cheap shot me and get me back on the train.

Then it’s just another week, maybe two of not eating and constant begging.

What a hell of a transition—at least,
that’s what I call it to the investors.

I’d just roll her straight down the hill, if that sort of thing was possible.
She is definitely
confusing me
than she is helping me.


the Devil

in a bottle.



Posted in Poetry

Loose Pieces

I’m not into buying Legos. They remind me too much of something my therapist told me—how my life couldn’t stand on a shakey foundation. There’s so much more to building a home than sticking a dog and some kids in the basement and telling yourself you’ve achieved some goals.

Or maybe there isn’t.

Maybe you’re just supposed to suck it up and live with someone you’re not in love with because that’s comfortable. And just raise some half decent kids, feed the dog, grow a beard.

At least until you step on one of those loose pieces. Trying to find the bathroom at 2AM, you remember that when you start with something broken, you’re bound to always be picking something up.



Posted in Poetry


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

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.


Posted in Poetry


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
find a way to accept the numb.