Shear[s]crap


Heaven sent this message for a reason!
We can’t stare at it with blind eyes
while the rest of the world sleeps.

What kind of people would we be
if we just let a pair of kitchen shears
go by the wayside?!

We need to give them a proper home
before they end up as scrap metal, or
worse, a pair of average scissors.

Tortoise Shell Comb


Substance abuse caters to the infinitely patient and unlikely tortoise shell comb, unbreakable and unwilling to change its sorry status as a tool of man–it’ll live out its days as an unrepentant drone, content to wallow in the vanity drawer with the brushes and lotions of the world.

Take Your Vitamins


I have no use
meddling with some
cute piddly melody

if nothing of substance
ever becomes of it–nay,

there are too many jokers
caught in this farmer’s market
[and not enough bok choy to go ’round].

I’m Not Offended that You Vomited


While I’ve got your attention, I have a couple things I need to get off my chest. For starters, this shirt is really bunching at my armpits. You don’t mind if I take it off, do you? Well, I’m taking it off either way, so your opinion really doesn’t mean squat to me at the moment.

But you know, I only took off my shirt to show you the other thing I want to get off my chest. Do you see it? Look closer. [Closer! CLOSER!] Yeah, it’s weird to have a toenail growing out of a nipple. I’m not offended that you vomited; apparently I’m the only documented case of this ever happening.

I wanted to ask you a question about this thing. Should I just trim it and polish it, or should I go for more drastic measures? I don’t know if my insurance will cover this type of cosmetic surgery. I should just get a boob job and hope that my new jugs distract from the freak show.

Kill to Fill


This arrow has too many feathers for my liking. I can understand their utility up to a certain point, but I fail to see the point of a dozen. Doesn’t wind resistance hamper any semblance of aerodynamic effectiveness? And come to think of it, where did those feathers come from? How many birds must you kill to fill your quiver, you rat bastard?

Subject to Change


The clock strikes its mother as it lunges for the last grocery bag at the end of the checkout counter. No clock can afford to keep its dignity with plastic as expensive as it’s become. Please be aware that clocks are rarely such instigating ne’er-do-wells, but time[r]s are always subject to change.

I’m No Critic


I’m not in the business of explaining or justifying the words I use [and am capable of producing]–I’ll leave that to the people who read it. I generally stick to that ideology when it applies to things other people have created as well, not because I don’t recognize or understand the significance of their exploration, but because I’m too busy worrying about the significance of my own exploration.

Is that selfish? I guess it must be, but I can’t function any other way right now, so it’ll have to do.

Why should this development be judged as uplifting [rather than shackling] to my soul and creative spark? Well, I thought about it while I wrote [and edited and kicked and throttled] it, that’s why. It’s been mine to think about for much too long by the point it reaches the reader, so some fresh eyes would certainly be nice.

Marketing to Kids


A good number of people move right along that conveyor belt of popular youth, unquestioning, satisfied to be simple consumers. They keep doing the same thing over and over, repeating only their initial motions and favorite pastimes while corporate profiteers responsible for the stagnation of products and experiences fire their older employees in favor of youthful tastemakers who take the same old pile of shit and mold it into a unicorn [still made of shit].

Morning Announcements [3643 CE]


The one-eyed swashbuckler
emitted an orchid
from his mid length polka-dotted beard.

It took me a second
to fathom his greatness,
but lo and behold,
I was hooked.

Ten thousand seas we sailed
across the galaxy, and
not one of them
had a decent shanty [to be found
within a mile’s reach of their docks].

Things got more curious as time went on,
and as I describe it to most other folks,
we give the whole scenario two stars
[out of five]–the two stars
were granted for originality,
and that’s about all I can vouch
for this piece of drivel.

Everyone’s a critic… you can’t imagine
how few of them are actually suited
to give directions to media consumers.

Remember when your news source
was the local paper? Gone
are the days of necessary ignorance.

We must now rid ourselves of the notion
that grilled cheese sandwiches need mustard
to truly feel complete.

There are several other acceptable methods,
each yields a sandwich
with surprising and delicious consequences.

The list of alternate ingredients may be found
on the bulletin board in Break Room X234CPI276.

Why Poetry?


The question that I face on a daily basis usually goes like this:

There’s nothing that I’d like to do at this moment, so how do I move forward?

In my experience, what usually comes next is the postulation and defense of my abilities without any actual demonstration, save a word or two on the subject.

That’s obviously unacceptable for a person as unproved as myself. Who cares if I’ve composed over 400 poems if they haven’t reached the people who matter, the difference makers?

Well, I do.

But, how do I know that this assault of poetry is even worth the space it takes up, let alone the praise of my peers for its originality?

Let’s just chalk it up to a gut feeling.

So at this point, I’ve reinforced my narcissism and afforded myself more time to concoct my linguistic nightmares. They can only get better as I move forward.

Looking back at my first pieces, my work was bulky and unfocused; sometimes a single poem would hold the contents and themes of four or five distinct pieces. This stemmed from the idea that in order to compete with other writers, I had to jam-pack my work and out-muscle their imagery.

When I jump back to the present, four years later, my definition of a poem has dramatically shifted, and is constantly morphing according to the experience I’ve gained within the craft. I see as much validity in a two-word poem as I do in a fifteen-page one.

Now that I understand my place in this big ol’ world of artful writers, all that’s left to do is WRITE.

But of course, I wouldn’t be an artist if I could just write away the hours of the day (wow, what a rhyme).

My writing represents 1% of my time; the other 99% is existential dross and backpedaling in the name of the art. How can I write worthwhile stuff if I haven’t put the sufficient thought into it?

Some of the pieces I flip into existence don’t seem to contain much thought, and in fact resemble thin veneers of this thing we call reality (or surrealism). Don’t worry, I’ve come up with a way to explain these.

No matter what the piece’s contents or length, as long as I enter that special little cave of my subconscious through the duration of its composition, I am satisfied with the words that ensue. Quality over quantity, baby.

All this justification of the craft of poetry really makes me want to jot one out for you, so that’s exactly what I’ll do. You see, you never know when a person will gain the inspiration to create the next great work of art. Honest!

So here it is, the poem to come out of January 4, 2014 at 3:37 PM Central DST:

What’s your deal with fish and chips?
I understand the relationship between protein and potatoes,
but that doesn’t explain the cutesy phrase
falling out of the mouths of millions of unsuspecting diners
at any point during a Friday afternoon in the developed world
(and perhaps in the developing world to a lesser extent).

I know this is a loaded question to ask a waiter,
especially one who just wants to take my order already.

Don’t worry, I’ll let you go soon enough.
Just please, pay attention to me
for at least fifteen seconds more.

The Small People Think


Then and there a chant arose,
a star-spangled tribute
to thrown-out galoshes
and purple tuxedoes

replaced by the dozens
in true democratic form.

It took a long time
to get to this point–
we thought
we were just invincible…

Rather not stoke the flames
of this goddamn pastry warfare,
for sure it’ll mash up our brains.

But, you know
it’s not important what the small people think.
Their stupid labor is what got us here,
so let’s not belabor the point.