First of all, there’s no such thing as a millennial. It’s something your mother made up to scare you. Sure there’s positive and negative attributes pushed on millennials but the bottom line is those negative attributes end up creating dissonance between different generations. I have made a point in my life to not identify generation y as generation y or the same for baby boomers. They are just persons. Peoples. Individuals. Folks. It is insane, especially in a time in history that feels as if it is moving so fast, to think that you can put people in a box. To think that any one quality exists among a group of people is ludicrous, not to mention, in my humble opinion, a huge factor as to the disconnect that exists in our society.
I think that the world is so big that the only way we think we can manage it is to label it. Maybe labels are useful societal tools, but I think it’s much more likely that these labels we fling out are lazy ways to categorize varying opinions on groups of people who in fact are barely even groups of people. They are just humans huddling around the fire for warmth.
And good for them. Common interest is the breeding ground of society, but remember this: everyone loves food. I think it’s impossible that anything has brought humanity together more than food. Maybe sex, though that’s debatable too. My point is that we can build up common interest as reason for separation from other people, but at the end of the day we’re just slowly surrounding ourselves with people who are more and more like us. No wonder we are such a polarized world. I think the big thing is to break through perceptions, find the people you’re afraid of, and talk to them. I’m not saying to find the evil dictator and ask him out for a drink, but I kind of am.
I witnessed a conversation at work today between two people with very different political affiliations and it was one of the most respectful things I have ever seen. This is what the world asks of us. To not think we are right, and to remember that the person who believes something so different from you has needs that are not being met too. So say something. Get outside your comfort zone. Make sure we keep talking to each other. And I mean talking. Wars are made from people who are too afraid to talk to each other. End rant.


you are not a flower.

you do not rise
from the soil
like some dandy little
spark of life

you are not
with green vanity

you just are.

when spring hits

you do not bloom

you do not rise up

from the cold winter

to burst forth into
some spectral showcase
of expressionistical color

you are not some

you are not
in constant competition
with the bright roses
around you

you are not
in constant praise
of the sun

your tongue is not
held out before you
drinking in
the ultraviolet rays
you’ve been fed

you do not
think of your roots
as being for
gathering life
into your body
like stranger prayer

you are not a flower.

you bloom inward
you burn circles
in your living room rug

trying to find
unidentified life lying
in the widening crack
of your ceiling

you lick the salt
from your wounds
and watch your hands

you waste days
you boil water into boredom

you’ve torn your roots
from the bureaucratic soil
of bureaucracy

your two-dimensional legs
from the blueprint
they laid out for you

and you’re not always
so beautiful

you don’t have
the distinct privilege
of a best laid plan

you are something else

without petals

you dance best drunk
and to heavy metal

you are not a flower.

you are the crayon
that walked to the edge
of town
and outside of the lines

and when you bloom
it’ll be in the middle of winter
in the middle of the night
and you will not bloom delicate

you my dear
will bloom fists and fury



wherein my tongue rolls out before me
like a great delicate scroll of paper
like a languid love letter yellowed with time
each syllable a worm digging through my stomach

and the crows come along
and they pick at my lengthy tongue
each one snagging a small segment
of my soft pink honesty

my raw delicate marriage to uncertainty

and when the crows have had their fill
i cross the warped floorboards
of my crooked house
teetering on the top of a thin mountain

wherein i roll my tongue back up
into the hardware of my guts
the strange wiring of my innards
where sparks fly like desperate traffic
at an intersection

and in my jaded bed i dream

i dream of a reality where i do not question
the period beneath my question marks
where the laws all make sense
and more than strange suggestion

i dream in worlds where the bleeding hearts bleed

a great still lake where each and every pixelated
square is covered by handcarved canoes

and when ever the wind blows through
the canoes move in succession like music
and the storms come and the storm passes
and when it’s all over the canoes sit still

never having to flinch at a raised hand
or a dark comment or a loud voice
just canoe after canoe on a vast quiet lake
moving in succession like music
through time and space
through grey thought and afterthought
my soft tongue rolled out before me




I’ve always wanted to do something like this, so I’m going to start light. I like writing at someone else’s prompt. I used to hate it, but after writing a lot of poems you start to learn your own tricks and themes and sometimes it feels like you’re writing the same poems again and again. (Good chance to write something completely outside of your comfort zone, in my opinion.)
Anyways, I would like to say, if anyone is interested, send me an email at and tell me a little bit about the poem you would like for me to write. Could be just one word, a theme, a style, anything is fine. Just give me some kind of prompt. I am going to choose my five favorites and mail out poems to those folks. I can’t wait to see what you guys come up with and see how this goes. I’ll keep it open for one week! So send your requests on over! This should be fun.

Please include your mailing address! Can’t wait!



he takes the manuscript. he paces. he paces around the room
with the manuscript. he doesn’t know what the manuscript is
anymore. it’s paper. it’s just a bunch of paper. what is paper?
what is that noise of feet against the floor? he sets down the
manuscript. he bites his nails. he paces. he bites his nails while
he paces. he daydreams. he is superman. he is superman in
some weird fetish dungeon. there are german women crawling
all over him. he daydreams. he digresses. he grabs his glass.
he fills his glass in the bathroom sink with water. he sips the
water. he looks in the mirror. he’s not there. he stares but
he is not there. he leaves the bathroom. forgets his water. he
paces some more. he bites his nails. he bites the tips of his
fingers. he eats the skin right of his fingers. he chews on the
bone like a dog. he takes the manuscript. blood on the manuscript.
he sits down sips whiskey sitting in his oversized chair and he
reads over the manuscript. what did i even write? he thinks.
what is it here that i even did? did i write this? i can’t remember
a word that i wrote. who am i? who were my parents? why am
i looking through this paper? ooh ooh that’s pretty good, he
thinks, as he looks at a line here and there. pretty good

pretty good he continues. this is not too bad. i think this
is pretty good. he rearranges the poems. he rearranges the
order of the poems. he thinks to himself what is the proper order
of the poems? in what way can i arrange the clear glass
slides of my heart to best show up on the projector? how do i trick
them into loving me? how do they do it? how did they trick them? how did
they get them to fall for them? how did they get them to fall in love?
what flowers did they buy for society? where did they take her?
how far did they drive just to be with her? what did they do? what
is it that they did? his bone dry finger drips red blood on the
manuscript and again he’s pacing. he’s pacing across the living room
barefeet sliding against the grime of the wood floors. what barking
in my skull? what incessant noise? what remainder of the division
that i was able to equate to paper. what to throw out. what to keep?
what to tuck away for after i die? did the others do it? did they tuck

away for after they die? are we just robbing the cat from the
sarcophagus? why this pacing? he takes the manuscript. he sets the
manuscript on the window sill. a slight breeze picks up. the pages
dance. he cringes. runs for the window. saves his darlings. feels the
white ash on the tips of his fingers. he falls to his knees. a bird in
the window. he says back bird! away bird! this is not your manuscript
bird! this is my manuscript bird! you can’t have it! it’s mine! i wrote
it! plagiarist! fraud! wolf in sheep’s clothing! the bird just wants to
read it. can’t i just read it? says the bird. no! back devil! back you
devil bird! the bird shits. resumes to the sky. flies the fuck off. the
man looks at the manuscript. looks at the fire. looks at the manuscript
looks at the fire. manuscript. fire. manuscript fire. he paces. he eats
the pages. he takes page one and crinkles it into his mouth. he takes
page two. eats it. page three page four. every single page now gone.
tumbling inside of his sickly stomach. he looks to the fire. he thinks
i am the fire. now i am the fire. what have i done? he vomits up the
manuscript but just scattered letters come out. o’s and k’s and x’s.
he assembles them like a puzzle. the shadow of the sun moves
across his wood floors. he finishes the puzzle. he packs the manuscript
into a manila envelope and he stumbles out the doorway down the
stairwell to the mailbox he puts the manuscript in the mailbox he closes
the door. he sits down. he sips the whiskey. he walks into the fire.
he starts to burn. a little more each minute as the flames lick his fingers.
he paces. he paces around the fire. his ankles turned to ash. his shins
turned to ash. his knees ash his hips ash his shoulders ash. dear editor,
attached is a copy of my manuscript for your consideration. thank
you for your time. sincerely me. p.s. i am a big fan of everything that
you guys do and to be a part of it would just mean the world to me.



he is trapped in open boxes
drowning in bonfire
shaking the stirred cage

he rubs his back against bookcases
and paces mad man madman through
the halls of twilight

fingers lost in manic hair
mustache twirled
like a primitive torture device

he bathes
in the blood
of philosophers

he is
queen size mattress
on the ceiling
punchbag basement
textbook torn asunder

he is lost in the arrow of his compass
he dives off like a diver
into blue mystery hazy cold rivers
reflections of bridges
in his deep puddle heart

he looks you in the eye
he grabs your heart by the collar
he punch you in the
critical thinking

he turn hungry monster at midnight
dance like electric jello puppet

he kiss you with words

he stab you in the ignorance

he is peanut butter
peter parker
cartoon character

he is love
strewn out like intestines
across your thin



i used to be quiet
but over time
i have fed myself noise
shoved grape after auditory grape
into my voice box until it became an
pulsating waves of grandiose aria
binaural beats twisting through skulls
and rippling across time like landscapes
i have become so loud
ears turned up to hear me speak
it is good to know that there is a
ten ton grizzly bear
hibernating in the caverns of us all
and its roar will wake the zombie masses
from their slumber
travelling across planes like american highways
like the root systems of aspens
spreading gospel in the dirt beneath the churches
it is good to be loud

but lately i’ve been missing
the feeling of being quiet
to sit alone lost in time
a grain of sand
beneath a rock
in the bottom of a river

some days i’m so busy feeding others
with the bread crumbs of epistrophe
with the afterbirth of inspiration
that i forget to feed myself
i’ve lost weight
i’ve become like snow on the sidewalk
in the sun

i’ve become stretched out
no longer a small fireplace fire
i have become a massive electric blanket
tenting in those who seek refuge from the cold

dear day
hear my shivering prayer
bring me sun outside of myself
run blood to the tips of my fingers
run electric my spinal seascape
lay me down to sleep
in a twin-sized bed in a room with no view
locked away from the prophet in the mirror
a flying insect
returned to its cocoon
hoping for a moment to be
a squishy little nothing
amen amen



come now and gather round children
and i will tell you the tale
of a wind that is bound to blow in
and the way that the wind will wail

see i too once was a baby
rocking away in the bough
when a breeze came along and it shoved me
down down down

and i fell from the arms of my mother
i fell from the limbs of the tree
and this wind that keeps on blowing
will never let me be

when i sleep it scratches my window
and it wakes me from my dreams
this wind never gets it answers
at least that’s how it seems

this wind is a storm in the making
and it follows me like death
and i’m worried that this poem
will be my final breath

and i’m worried for you dear children
that’s why i sing this story
of the wind that never softens
of its evil endlessly glory

it will follow you
it will follow you
it will follow you to the graveyard

it will follow you
it will follow you
it will lead you to the end

it will follow you
it will follow you
like a song lost in your skull now

and the thing about
this wind called death
is he is your most loyal friend



and in the middle of the night
the boy sneaks back into his poet soul
out of nowhere
he climbs into the rib cage of his heart
pulls up the skin of his arms like sleeves
and finds his electric fingers bouncing on the keys

sometimes the brain packs up its shit
lifts its trousers and two little suitcases
and hops on a plane to nonsenseville, nowhere
sometimes it’s meditation
sometimes yer running from a life yer afraid of
throwing on kicks and pushing off the ground
into the dark forest
push through to spectre
where some blonde girl throws yer sneakers up on the line
sometimes some times some times
blah blah blah

here we are
you and me. a fireplace. a bottle of whiskey.
a really fucking big bottle of whiskey haha.
you and me.
(it’s inescapable really the way i think about
but dear reader it’s you too!
it’s you i love too!
you’ve been so patient with my anxious stupid.
you’re always there for me.

i am sorry if i’ve been an absent father of a poet.
life isn’t always linear.
in a world where we are multiple people
there’s a lot of group therapy to be had.

my path has never been that of a paintbrush –
i’ve got bills to pay
debts from past lives
(kind of makes me sound like a drug dealer)
but the truth is
i’m more of a free spirit
with its ghostly tail attached to a dollhouse.

but i’m here to visit.
here to say hello.
to shake the hand to kiss the baby
to go around the wedding saying nice things
to dance with the bride
to love the way the love manual tells me to love

but then
in the middle of the night
i pull my heart up from under the floorboards
throw it in my tin man chest
and i splatter my red all over the walls
i graffiti the city and i flood the streets
and the townspeople will awake
to find christmasday in july
to find the sonic echos of my soul
and a dead poet in the street
then buried in the ground
then mixing with the worms and the roots

that is how they will find me
and you and him and her and the mailman


i am unafraid to say to you.

let each day work towards my freedom
let each moment in love be unabashedly sincere
let each porch swing swing high into the night
fly off its ropes and ascend graceful into the heavens

let there be flashfloods of hope
lightning storms of abundance
angels dancing like hipsters in the flat
of some famous dead poet

let us kiss like we just discovered this. lips
let us bust through the ropes that contain
our cocaine hearts
let us be ready to face our new love

let the birds free from the chapel
traveling through time to a holy grave
soldiers falling for the future
as one ascends into existence in this white light symphony
this giant sandbox of death and orgasm

let die the dying dog
pour water on the campfire and get some sleep
take moments to just be
tear them off the paper on the bulletin board
call the number listed

let lay my head beneath you
i do not fear how tall you are
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
how deep your rivers run through my limbs

let down the moon from drunk denver
let our steps be chaotic, unplanned and together
let lay we against the timeless brick walls
let lay we lost in the cosmos above oz

let we move
not forward not backward
not any way in particular
let we dance yes dance
dance veronically for the world
let we dance for the stoplights
for the lost generations
let we breathe this gospel in
let we scatterbrain talk
let we automatic touch
let we semi-automatic breathe
let we swallow these great sighs like buildings falling

these tied up wildflowers
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you
i am unafraid to say to you the end.