Melted Candles and Nestle Quik

There’s a frog in my heart dying to croak.
I eloped with an interloper to a ski slope.
Hope you steal all my money before I’m broke.
I got thirteen pennies and sixteen missing jokes.
If you steal one of my jokes I’m gonna go berserk.
I work hard at avoiding work it’s my greatest trait.
It’s half past eight and I’m late and the ghosts are gone.
Born forlorn. See and mourn. The world is just porn.
My girl is horny for some other guy’s pony.
Wake with the candles melted into the cake.



Take Your Shot, Shoot Me Down

Rambling wordsmith without a pen, then, when the walls crumble,
I’m the man with the shovel. Above it all, the Earth looks like a marble
somebody shot on a big black carpet, it ain’t far fetched to think I’m
the creator of this detonation. Blow it up. My ego and us, shards
of Woo, shards of You. Part of me needs a lobotomy, the other part
needs a tender hand to grip when I slip. I’m gone, ragged vagabond.
But I’m also here, peanut shells and flip flops and whiplash. Come over.
Call me. Kiss me. Punch me in my soft cheeks. Everything is confusing.
Everything is inspiration. Inspiration is everything. The roses in the trash
and the one blooming on your face when I whisper something sweet.
Though, I usually shout nothing sweet. These words carry their own micro-climate.
This weather buries my snow angel and melts my burning heart. My yearning
start to this life put me in an anxious, sickening tailspin, I type these words
in an airport bar…. again. I fly back home in a metal bird I know no science of.
I’m just a poet researching what it means to dance and cry and high-five the
passing sky. If there is one thing I leave you with, it’s that I hope you never lose
your hope, and I pray that a day comes when the anxiety goes away. And I’d love
to see you in love, even if it’s not with me.

I don’t edit. I don’t repeat. I will keep on truckin’,
even through all the fucking defeat.

Broken Bone Marrow

Spiraling little sparrow
Broken spare wing.
Choking on bone marrow.
Going home tomorrow.

Talking to yourself again…
In the bathroom with the
toothpaste stains.

Looking through my phone,
at old numbers that I’ve called.
And don’t remember calling.

Listening to Damien Jurado
over and over,
singing about leaving

I’m thinking of quitting,
but I know I can’t.
I’m thinking of you,
but I know I shouldn’t.

Put the pin in the map,
stick the needle in my arm,
watch my blood fill up
the vile. Vile little blood
droplets. I know these
claws and these jaws,
and it’s the only bite
I like.

Singing about leaving,
while stuck in this place,
it makes sense then that my
bark is worse than my bite,
if I have teeth at all.

“You’re at it again,” She says…
“Is it you?” I ask.

Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.

Like a Shot of Something Brown

If I was given a life raft the first thing I’d do is
look for a hole to pop in it. My heart is heavy,
but my head is buried, so all you get is the
cruddy leftovers. Could I ever, really ever,
be the man you need, when every little
shift in the breeze brings me to my knees?

Sometimes I wonder if I’m a tender little savage,
unable to not wreck everything with my mouth,
do you know what I’m talking about? and if so,
can you let me know because things are headed south.

I’m traveling alone, marrow and bone. Tomorrow is torn
from the flesh of the next person you’re going to disown.
Tonight we light the last effigy ablaze and wait for morning
to come and show us what ash we made.

Plunging necklines and cliffs, careful where you slip.

Throw out the tin you kept that photograph in.
But don’t throw out that feeling that it had meaning.
My brain is congested and possibly bleeding.
I saw you under a tree that was leaning,
and wanted to lean in.

When I think of my feelings, I think of the sky,
or I think of animals, when in reality we’re
probably just a clump of something in between.

This void doesn’t have a warning, there’s no sign
at the side of the road that says ‘don’t look this way’,
you only realize you’re fucked-up upside down when you
you spot your feet marks on the bottom of the clouds.

My heart is a dart you throw at the ground.

Get me drunk, kiss me on my cheek, spin me around.

Pick me and slam me down like a shot of something brown.



after they stop putting candles on the cake
and everybody stops singing for us
I’ll be there with a cupcake and a match
to make sure every birthday is happy.

the flowers I sent are still in a vase
and the card is still in the envelope
but I added water and cut the stems
and kept them fresh for you, anyway,
because one day you’ll notice.

It started as a day by the river
that turned into a poem that
became a tattoo on my shoulder
and now it’s a story I tell strangers
that ask what’s the one piece
of ink that means the most.

When everybody stops looking
and you feel like the spotlight has dimmed
and you wonder if you still sparkle
I’ll be there to shine that so bright
you feel asphyxiated by the glow.


I’m a customizable bowl of vapors. Capers in my salad. Sad 80’s Rock ballad
on the jukebox. Your future king. Drama sewer queen. A stand-in for a llama.
Follow me down the spiraling staircase.
Down to the
You can’t save me.
The backyard backdoor no-escape, cape-in-the-mud pummeling
that comes around on the second.
You can’t evade this.
It’s like clockwork sock-to-the-jaw. Come to realize nobody’s interested in Nabokov.
Why she asked? He’s not your type, I replied. I’m an orange away from an old fashion,
but an apple away from death. Be careful where you go bobbing.
The ghosts of Paris are out in London. Push the pin into the map and listen
to the Earth scream. I’m a modern gentlemen with a polished spin vomiting gin.
Just a glitch in a cyborg’s dream.
Listen to the rioting choir sing.
Watch the enraged mob dance.
Interchangeable residences and lovers like flipping pages in a waiting room.
Turn your head and cough. Take your heart and split it in two.
Keep half in your hand and the other buried underground.
Count the syllables and make sure your shirt is tucked in.
We’re submerged in an avalanche of non-meaning;
of words imbued with less and less importance,
the pure silliness of expression
is suffocating.
I gag from my own urge to speak, to joke, to point out the street signs
and read aloud from menus, to ask questions whose answers
I neither desire for nor care about. The marionette just mouthing his lines.
Just a wooden boy without anything to say.
Point and shoot.


Lay Down with the Jesters

My Mayan ruins… my life in stitches… take this photograph of me smiling.
Every man is an island. My jacket is rent in Mexico City. My disposable camera heart.
Take this image and remember me for my jokes. My teeth are strong.
My phone chimes with hollow alerts… we live for little moments of validation
while life passes us by… my Google Home answers my roaming calls.
You can buy yourself out of anything. Praying to a bottom shelf God.
Lost in plot points and soundbites and applying effects to a simple smile…
Extra ample simple syrup we drown in a teardrop that’s not even ours.
My cat bites me like he hates me. I sit in a crumbling building mumbling faintly.

First poem or last poem or one in between who knows? I’m no sugarcoat donut
misspelled sunset I caught late, rode the last wave, my heart is a pillowcase.
Take it in your hand to suffocate, my throat is the ultimate polka dot. What a bull’s-eye!
What a somersault alibi she wrapped up in that night. Spread thin like mayonnaise light.
Lay me down with the lambs, let me sleep with the queens, in the barn with the jesters. Smile at the morning. Clouds like gravity blankets. Dissolving into the pancake simulacra. Wipe the hashtag from my eye. Shake the egg so the yolk is woke. I can not tell a lie.
10:15 AM. I’m your favorite pagan. Pillaging your wiggling body. Shit. Let’s just stay in.

These ancient dreams drip and percolate the sound of my grief catch in my teeth.
Turning the technological tides like a flurry of flotsam the soul is squeezed dry. Rip tide.
Put ink into my skin and hide. Personal hideaways are dreams of mine… eyes of Iodine. Lip to lip we touch time. Suspended in the grip of life I let love slip like a disc in my spine. I’ve touched the sparkle and shine that left me stumbling in the brine. Fumbling my line.
Up to my thighs in grime. Like an asteroid I can end it all. One phone call. Upend it all.
Like a frog hopping tall dropping cards at the mall, my shutter speed full of unbelievable
tales of never-ending joy and despair… a spoke in the cosmic wheel that makes me squeal with terror and delight. An over-cerebral zebra at the watering hole drinking in his ego.

At the point of no interest I stand on the precipice with my selfie stick.