Monthly Archives: May 2014


I haven’t written a poem in days,
the kind of break that could easily turn
into an extended bout of malaise,
antipathy towards anything that could
be word related. I’m playing chicken
with the universe, expecting it to
blink first, capitulate and create a
wonderful life for me, yearly book deals
and high royalties, a long series of
celestial gifts I’ve earned for being
such a good boy, such a well-behaved child
of the world. It’ll come now, any day.
There’s no need for me to participate.
I am the master of coincidence.


I’m reading Dracula and finding flaws
in the logic of religions: 1) If
each belief is the One True Way, why do
writers bother with new fictional gods?
2) Did Jesus ever jerk off as a teen?
3) Is there an exact constant speed at which
Mohamed flies, Mary rises, or the
angels fighting Satan dutifully
march off to their not war to never die?
4) Does it make a difference to vampires
which communion wafers one chooses to
sterilize consecrated ground, or would
Eastern Orthodox work just as well as
Baptist, Mormon, Seventh-Day Adventist?

Frozen Yogurt

Taste image and color image and smell
and everything else you’d expect from
a poet, only this time we’re in a
frozen yogurt place and it’s October.
But this is California, and it’s
90 degrees outside (why don’t you live
here? it’s nice) so maybe things are a bit
different. Or you could always pretend
that it’s really 4th of July and the
colors are a bit more red, white, and blue
than black, green, and orange, the tastes cooler,
too, than this new pumpkin flavor, the smells
a mix of bbq and fireworks
instead of—no, we have that when it burns.


What was yesterday? No, let me rephrase:
what was I doing 24 hours
ago that led me to today? Was it
a birthing phenomenon, a newness
brought upon by my actions to enhance
my life? Or a slow, floating sensation,
a makeshift raft lolling on the day’s waves?
Each morning is like another jump off
of a cliff towards death, and what I want to
know is whether I was pushed, I stumbled,
or I leapt. The ground is racing towards me,
the whistling sound my plummet makes getting
lower, and at some point I’ll be little
more than a cloud of impact dust. How soon?