firstdraftttt

As a young poet, I don't curse my father, my brother, or my mother. In fact, I feel indebted to them: my family, my friend, my foe, lover alike. Without them I wouldn't be. Without them I wouldn't be me.
As a young poet, without them.
As a young poet, me.
Through love and hate, and all they precipitate,
I shiver and run til I shake
assuredly firm hands with fate
So that, together, sorrow, spite, and splendor dissipate.

words II

One summer I was sittin’ on a boat on Berry Lake with a whole slew a people from my school. We were all chattin’ about stuff that didn’t matter and tannin’ or sunburnin’ as we laid on the prickly pontoon carpet floor. Some people were gulpin’ cheap beer that someone finagled from their dad’s garage fridge. I didn’t like the taste of it. It was so cold that it hurt my mouth; and it tasted sharply acidic and metallic as the rebellious bubbles riveted across my tongue. I remember shieldin’ my eyes from the sun as David Sabrowski asked if I wanted to hear a joke. David was a nice enough kid. Played on the football team, but nothin’ to be bragged about. His young, patchy beard moved around with his face muscles as he stretched his mouth to talk an’ tell me the joke. I don’t remember too much about what the joke was; but I remember laughin’ so loud that I’m sure people way on the pier could hear me.

words

One time I had a weird dream. First you told me that Will Smith was your favorite singer and then we were runnin’ around an old TV turn dial until the presidential debate flashed dully in black an’ white on the screen. You started cryin’ an’ told me that red, white, an’ blue is a ‘fashion faux pas’ unless one of the colors is in sequins. I didn’t know what ‘fashion faux pas’ meant, so I looked it up on Google. The first line in the search result featured a tiny thumbnail picture of my Grandma wearing polka dots. The line next to it read “Grandma wants to know what ‘Google’ means. I didn’t know how to define Google without infringing on copyright law. So then I swung ‘round on my swivel chair and I fell off a cliff.

Snowball Poem about times when there aren't snowballs

rain
makes flowers
grow up tall.
and Sun greens leaves
that wave in the wind.

This is a sweet, boring poem
that no one will ever remember long.
But it's a break from the hustle-bustle-
such as how the past romantic period people wrote

2 Entire novEls writtEn Exluding thE lEttEr E

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gadsby_%28novel%29

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Void

Homonym----Mole, Mole, Mole

How to make a mole (unit) :

6.02214179(30)×10²³
of something
of anything
of chemical, physical substance.
Avogadro's number.
a measure of molarity.
Avocado sliced to
equal
6.02214179(30)×10²³


How to make a mole (animal) :

Dig a hole in your back yard
The most successful time is fall,
specifically the middle of October.
Leave out a plate of vegan brownies
(moles are vegan).
The most successful plate color is
orange.
The most successful time is
11:11 am.
For added efficiency, add
smooth jazz music.

How to make a mole (beauty mark) :

 melanocytic nevus
is a genetic growth
however-
like Marilyn Monroe
one can fake a mole
with a make-up pencil
by drawing
a little
brown
dot
on the facial skin

Z

He was proud of his Jewish features, and broad shoulders
that were more often than not-covered in plaid.
He lived at the end of the block.
He drove his Taurus out of his suburban-shrubbery-sprawl
Mondays-Fridays.
The well-kept, shiny Taurus returned to the blacktopped driveway
a little after 5pm
of which after,
Z would leave the garage door open,
turn on 105.3 fm classic rock
and water his front yard shrubberies
and think about politics.
Sometimes
he would then proceed to turn off the garden hose,
close the garage door,
turn off the radio,
and walk into the house side-door.
He'd mix himself some kind of drink
and take it to the back deck
to sip
while talking politics on the phone to his lady.

M.

You ever get fed up with someone?
Like,
this guy calls ya at 1-something in the morning
when you're playing chess with your friend, Chris
an' when you see "M" displayed on the phone face
an' you're like
'heck with that'
and leave the phone ring
cuz you don't wanna talk to that bum-banchee
and hope that he isn't dumb enough to leave
an annoying, pathetic, high-slurred voicemail

F.

Have you ever known a person,
where every time you're within a 10 foor radius of them,
you think-
This person is so flippin' cool
and/or
I wish I was as cool as this person....
I mean, this lady could rock a fanny pack-
  as in,
      be the only
person that can look cool with a cheezy-snap-back-money-pouch
around their waist.
That's F.
Curator of a little-hip art gallery
in a little-hip part of town
she jets off to everywhere anyone has ever wanted to go
to find art
to find people
to find everything that makes her what I envy

beforegoingtothedoctoronathursdaymorning

my mind is a mess
I
am
sick.
every muscle
every breath
I pop a pill
      and wait to feel progress
shut up
everything
the blinds
the music
my mind
the day
I
am
sick
the cold
  shivers every cell
and pain
  writhes rampant
on the chaos-sticken-freeway
that is hidden
under a thin, pink skin

my mother never taught me how to braid hair

we progress through clock ticks
breathing an air that is
is really only 21% oxygen
&
I watch red-rythmned peaks on the LCD
tick our time
closer and closer
 away from me

...

Remember when our hands were small
and we took our teacher's chalkboard erasers
out the side school door
and smashed the soft spongy blocks
into an all-consuming cloud of smoke?

Do You Ever Wonder if You're a Little Crazy?

(not finishedddddddddddddddd,workinprogress)

Plato said that "Art is a lie."

Sensation fuels the impulse to perception
brain-vomit-discharge-the-thoughts &
Imagination jumps the train to perfection.
I am an amateur in my mind
and frankly, you don't give a damn.
Idon'tcareyoudon'tcare
The post-romantic attitude called and left you a message
              it's not all about you anymore.
Good vs. Evil flashes flourescent on channel 6
Idon'tcareyoudon'tcare
You turn off
                     the television because
                     "being green" is what's in-
                                                                    coming traffic jams of information feed
                                                                    tailor a short a tension span

                                                                    but your innate skepticism wavers
                                                                    outside the lines
                                                           you can never be sure
                                                           what is reel
                                                           what is write
                                                           what is real
                                                           what is right

Miranda July

*Miranda July's real name is Shiela Shwartz.
But you'd wouldn't be as apt to buy a book from a Shiela Shwartz compared to the glamor word-sound of "Miranda July" now would you?
What if she wore tweed blazers & chunky pearls?
Knee length pencil skirts and dusty-nude-panthose?
But still wrote about the power of limits on art
and the beauty in the everyday.
We buy what is sold to us.
We sell what is bought to us.


*(what if)

Yesterday's Wine Glass

Yesterday's wine glass sits on a cluttered coffee table.
a dry, crusted circle of red is all that remains
of a cirlce of sounds.
Laughs, exclamations,
the clink of drinks
and the stretching of smiles.
I don't know if you actually wanted to come here.
I don't know if you actually enjoyeed yourself;
sitting there drinking out of yesterday's wine glass.
But now it sits
catching the morning sun on it's finger-print-smudged glass,
a chalice of thoughts.