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.