Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

summer i

slashing cooked blacktop lane
dropping sticky layups around
imposter mutombo
floating teardrops over
wannabe mourning
burying treys in transition
off of rocky road crossovers





Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry


when i was in the sixth grade, my neighbour would stick her head out the window while my friends and i waited for the bus. she would scream about how dangerous microwaves were for society. covered in a thick, pasty-white cream, which i can only assume was SPF 50 or higher sunscreen. her most famous line was: “i know i’m gonna go out, but it’s not gonna be skin cancer.” then she’d spend the rest of the afternoon in her rocking chair slurring insults at panasonic, general electric, and maytag in between swigs of watermelon-lemon soda water.

momma used to say that if it weren’t for all of the cussin’, her rants would almost be poetic. heck, if fruity loops had been around back then, she’d probably have become a somewhat successful myspace rapper. that’s the thing about poor mental health: it’s cute when you can wrap up someone’s eccentricities up with a nice commodifiable bow.


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry

fire at the caffeine factory

if starbucks burns down i’ll become one of those hopeless people
a human being in appearance
broken elavator on the inside

when starbucks burns down
i say when because
so many of my friends are convinced it will happen
on account of my dependency for
that divine intervention would be
appropriate at this point

when it burns down

my son will have to watch me
a ruined man of 44
crawl the streets
sniffing asphalt cracks in the faint hope
of one last hit of sweet
roasted goodness

not knowing if it’s tuesday
or thursday night
and forgetting to pick him up
from badminton practice

when starbucks burns down
my wife will leave me
not because of the state that i’m in
but to fly to seattle
in a desperate fit to slam one last
skinny caramel macchiato
before she blows her brains out

when starbucks burns down
the children of tomorrow
will become the children of today
because no one old enough to know
what caffeine smells like
will have any fucking clue what to do
with their lives anymore


Posted in eavesdrop, Poetry


I’ve learned many things
over the course of my nomadic existence.

For instance,
the Lances of the world
aren’t at hockey games—they’re in academia.

They write failed poems and make salsa verde
on the weekends. They have best friends named Chris
and spend their free time searching for sales
on machetes. They never
try to squeeze onto a full bus, use the word
“epic” ironically, and call their dogs “Keith”
on account of their perfect teeth.

It’s a light existence
full of takeaway containers and reminiscing
about how good college was.

If it didn’t hurt so much
to stand in one place, I might think about changing
my name
and adopting that 500k a year lifestyle.