Tag Archives: poetry poem


This is what happens when you fall behind:
you write a “this is what happens” poem
like you’re some Great Artist in the know, some
ageless linguistic mystic, comma here,
example there, extended metaphor
to illustrate the wisdom of your oh
so timeless take on the nature of man.
And you can, because you use phrases like
“the nature of man” and own it, and oh
there’s that interjection again, all the
best poets make such exclamatory
motions, and this is what happens when you
commit your life to art, and oh what a
life and oh what a world oh if only.

Minute Rice

I guess minute quinoa, actually.
I don’t know how many syllables that
words is, so don’t bother sifting through the
lines in hopes of finding some deep-seated
secret message in this particular
piece. I forgot what I wanted to write
about, fuck. Now I’ll spend the rest of the
poem stalling until I ultimately
recall what this scribbling was all for.
If I really wanted to be a douche—
I do—I’d wait until the absolute
last line to unveil some meaningless phrase
or word, something absurd, like mittens, or
minute rice, pretend it was so artsy.

Frying Pan

Old Nantucket was a mighty man, washed
his face in a something that isn’t a
frying pan, because that’s how poetry
works, right? So long as I’m clever, no one
will notice I have nothing important
to say. I’m doing it right now. Although
it also works the other way: if I’m
obscurely emotional, vividly
reliving some insipid childhood
incident, nostalgic images thrown
in with poignant emotional roughage,
no one will notice I’m dumb as a brick,
shallower than a bathroom floor puddle
of late night sick, trying to make it stick.

Play Mat

This is one of those poems where today
I came across an unspecial image
or scene and it reminded me of a
long forgotten memory, and in my
writing them down—the juxtaposition
clearly being so profound—I promptly
discovered, uncovered, whatevered a
special and now unforgettable
aspect of life or truth or myself and
I had to share it with everyone
else or risk it not being real after
all, which would be a complete shame, and I
would only have myself to blame. Oh yeah:
a play mat; my lost racecars; growing old.