Soy sauce.

I put too much soy sauce on my rice a minute ago, and I don’t usually do that. That made me mildly depressed because I remembered that the rice they served us in school wasn’t really all that great. And then I also remembered when I put too much soy sauce on my shitty rice back then, and the other kids made fun of me. They were right to. It was amusing. My packet had ripped beyond all repair. I made a mess. I am a mess.

I have the overwhelming urge to hurt you, as I’m sure you innocently marvel at my irreverence. Maybe it’s because of my rice. I’ll probably never do it though, reader. I don’t actually know you. You sure as hell will never know me, no matter how much I’m willing to divulge. But even then, I want to drive a stake through the part of your brain that manufactures all the melodramatic tactics that have gotten you this far. Right smack dab in the center of whatever gland produces the hormone that makes people have to talk you off of a cliff, when they’re on their death bed. All the self loathing and pity adds up on my time card. A handsome sum on my paycheck. All the fantasy. All the poker faces. Too many pipe-dreams, and I’m not a plumber.

What was I saying? Oh yeah, a stake through the brain or something. You’re a vampire, and half as romantic.

Or at the end of the day, I could just pour too much soy sauce on you, and remember why I hate salt.


A list of things I find romantic.

Vibrato; thick, heavy, powerful, controlled vibrato.

Perfect meter.

Imperfect meter.

Perfect pitch.

Imperfect pitch.


Lack of technique.



Unsent drafts.

Plane crashes.

Plain crashes.

Quiet friendships.

Suicide letters that go in a special box, that you never live up to. Or die up to.

Improper grammar for the sake of poetry.

Geodesic domes.


Sobriety; perspective. 

Bird nests; homes built of garbage-earth and debris.


When somebody really knows how to pet a cat. I mean really knows.



Out-of tune-pianos. 

Body farms. 

Graffiti; in hard to reach places. Like painting on my heart. You’re a vandal. A felon. Sandblast it off before the kids see it on their way to school. Problem is, I love graffiti. Lacquer it. Permanent. Fuck you, I think.

Unrequited delusions of grandeur; Reciprocity doesn’t always mean equality. Shit in your own hand, or wish in it, I don’t care anymore. 



Flogging yourself in the back. You’ll never see the scars. Even they hide from you.

Food, again.

Trills and ornaments.

Travailing melisma and delicate, lyrical phrasing.

Bow control. From frog to tip.

Diminuendo, more than crescendo.




Metaphors for the poor.





My Home Improvement Fan-Fiction.

Today, my brother asked me if I would eat a Maraschino cherry out of Richard Karn’s ass for a million dollars. I said I would do it just for the Maraschino cherry. I like those. I like money too.

Win win, baby.

I can also do Tim Allen’s signature grunting noise very well. Uncanny, even. Behold my talents, as they overflow from my being.

Things about me. Take notes.

My grandfather is a Freemason and I’m still waiting for this to affect me.

When I was five, I cried because Steve from Blue’s Clues left Blue’s Clues. I don’t remember why it hurt so good.

I mostly get emotional when I see people being good people, to other people. It happens often, so the only option I’m left with is to believe that most people are good people.

The only time I’ve ever driven was a go-cart in Florida for my tenth birthday vacation. I peaked then and there. Don’t ask me to do anything for you, unless it’s listening. Otherwise, I’m grossly underqualified to see to the completion of any task you might have for me.

In high-school, I had a teacher who had a very big mouth, and it was apparent when he spoke. His words were wet, and he smacked his lips and tongue around like he owned the place. It made me uncomfortable. I couldn’t take him seriously when he’d yell at other students because there was always an extra salivary syllable after each word. Directly after his class, I would walk straight home listening to Enka and smoke elephantine amounts of pot when I got there. It wasn’t ‘ol Smacky’s fault though. I got a B+.

My mom used to think I touched myself in the shower a lot, but actually I just had poor time management skills at six in the morning. Sorry…?

My friend once called me a poet because I knew what simile was. This is probably a direct consequence of that. 

I’m not proud of it, but when I was fifteen years old, I fingered my girlfriend in the back of her dad’s Ford Explorer while we were all at a drive-in theater in Pueblo, Colorado. The kind where they pipe the audio through your car’s stereo system, until everybody’s cars sync up to create a hysterically amplified, sonic borg large enough to be heard in the next town over. 

Her parents were twelve feet away from us focused on the screen with an unyielding zeal and attention, the likes of which I have never witnessed before, and we were probably horny. Teenagers are gross. It was an Adam Sandler movie, and I’m fairly certain that was the bigger of the two sins going on at the moment. When the movie was finished, her parents apologized because the movie had a lot of curse words and sexual innuendos in it that they weren’t prepared for. My girlfriend and I choked the ironic laughter down like she asks me to choke her in the bedroom. Teenagers are gross.

I took gymnastics for a second, and I’m pretty sure it doesn’t matter.

One time, I went to that same girlfriend’s-Godfamily-Step-Aunt’s wedding and I think it sucked kinda…? I was there for the whole thing. I stayed for reception too, and stole the Goodie-Bags of candy off of the tables of the guests that didn’t arrive, and gave it to the many children in exchange for them not making fun of my long hair. Those cruel little bastards had me running a prison-protection economy, where I would trade the goods (i.e. candy, in place of the usual pack of cigarettes or porno mag) for my own safety (i.e. my self-esteem, in place of the usual prevention of a shanking, or shower-sodomy-session.) 

I still don’t remember who was getting married. I just clapped when other people started clapping as a chick in a dress walked in holding the hand of a bald-guy with a soul patch, wearing a tuxedo that had purple on it somewhere. Lowkey, I was fantasizing that I was just attending Howie Mandel’s modest, under-the-radar wedding in Colorado Springs. Maybe then I could consider myself lucky. My girlfriend wasn’t aware of that fantasy of mine. She wouldn’t have laughed anyways. Maybe she would’ve, I don’t fucking know.

There was a local newscaster there playing the role of the Master of Ceremonies, and his voice was nice. He had a rich, deep baritone. 

Something had to be done about the anxious, lonely boredom that was welling up inside of me, painfully lumping behind the wall of my throat, like when you force yourself not to cry. 

You know, that feeling of there being a bird trapped inside your larynx, waiting to escape the moment you give those muscles permission to collapse. I wanted to cry there. 

It wanted me to cry.

So I took initiative, and distracted myself. I walked up to the local newscaster (which was pretty much as close to fame as I’d ever been at the time) and said to him, 

“I think you’ve told me the weather a couple of times.”

He replied,

“Yeah, I think so too.”

I nodded and said, 


You could tell I said it with an ‘X’ because I do a great impression of myself acting hip in front of strangers.

He concluded with,

“Alright.”, and smiled like he had rehearsed this awkward transaction that meant so much to me for no reason. 

That’s when I realized

he was the only friend I had there.


In a country where Nazis are spreading like wildfires, I still get caught up in making strange faces to myself in the mirror just to see how far I can go before I look socially unnaceptable. 

I’m simple.

I’m distracted.

Sometimes I like to mimic what a stroke looks like, drooping the left side of my face as if my batteries need changing, and romanticize the dread that me and my loved ones would surely experience. And then I swiftly return my face back to normal because I would begin to embarrass. That isn’t a pretty face. Like our mothers said, “Don’t make funny faces; it’ll stay that way”. You’re right, Mom. Every stroke victim was just faking a stroke, and the stroke — stuck.

Dread and dream are one letter apart.

That kinda sucks.

Maybe it’s on purpose.

I like to close my eyes and see how much I can trust my equilibrium and intuition to lead me through the house.

I can’t trust them very much. They are both the source of my anxiety, probably.



Trust and thrust are also one letter apart, but that’s just a little bit more comical.

I still didn’t laugh though.

It’s coming to my attention that most of my sentences start with ‘I’. Apologies are in order for my lack of variety. You’re just lucky I capitalize them sometimes. 

My old teachers would hate that most of my sentences start the same.

Any future therapists I might have would love it.

It does their job for them.

I’m selfish.

This is my poem.

It’s terrible,

just like ‘I’.

But I fucking love it,

and I fucking love ‘I’.

Take ‘I’ away from me.

I dare you.

I’ll still always be willing to give everybody my ‘I’, so long as it helps them through their sleepless nights. I wonder if they’d ever help ‘I’. People think ‘I’ surely have everything together.

That one time i almost passed out coming up the stairs.

I came up the stairs too fast, and i wanted to die. Quickly. My head had no time for oxygen. My vision had no time for light. My brain had no time for blood. I had no time. I grew to enjoy the pressure in my temples, and the gelid blanket that glazed over the complete of my body. But I mostly hated it. 

Wake up. 

And breathe.

And breathe.

I’m going to make a sandwich. I pulled some Wonder Bread out of the package, and I wanted to replace the contents with the complete of my skull.

And breathe.

And breathe.










And breathe.

And breathe.

With the complete of my lungs. From the diaphragm, not the chest. Work for it. For once.

Put the sauce all the way to the edges, or else you may get a dry bite. Cover the complete of the sandwich. Drop the knife, and do the dishes. 

Align the ingredients with gratuitous perfection, or with reckless abandon. It won’t make any difference. It’s just going to be poop, soon.

They say your body dies every time you sneeze. I’ve died a lot, then. I like sneezing. Does that mean I like dying? Nah.

The sandwich was alright, thanks for asking.

s h i t.

Back in the day,

the good ‘ol days,

we would actually have good field trips.

We’d go to zoos.

We’d go hiking in the mountains, and sleep in handbuilt cabins, with rustic, homemade Coloradan food.

We’d go rappelling off of rocks larger than your ego.

We’d visit replica cliff dwelling sites, honoring those before us. I guess.

We’d go to ranches, and pet animals. They were kinda stinky, but damn were they adorable.

And then, you get older,

and i shit you not,

people stop caring.

The last field trip i had before hastily dropping out of high-school with one year left to complete, was the local waste water treatment plant, on the windiest day i’ve ever witnessed.

That’s not why i dropped out, but that would be pretty funny if it were. It certainly affirmed my decision, looking back.

Oh, i almost forgot. We went to Whole Foods right before for lunch. i ordered a chai latte, with a pastry and a salad or something like that. It was probably $73. Then i got some kambutcha, and we were on our merry way.

Needless to say, i laughed in the face of irony when i realized that the entire time —

i had to shit.

When we arrived, i even cheekily asked where to shit, whilst gesturing to one of the many shit-trenches. They did not find that amusing.

i’d be lying if i said i still don’t find it fucking hilarious.

Our lips were chapped, and we wreaked of shit by the end of it.

Our neighbors shit.

Our own shit.

Your shit.

My shit.


It was freezing that day.

Nothing like shit-frost to bring out the studious nature in a bunch of fuck happy teenagers with a chip on their shoulder for anything educational.

i brought a scarf for some reason.

i had to promptly discard of it.

Guess what it smelled like?

No, not cardamom.

We pretended to be delighted to see how this rusting machine over here could filter the shit out of shit, and make shitty water.

Only to find out that it can’t filter out everything. Like narcotics, pills, and most chemicals.  

The residents later found out that the local water was in fact, harmful to consume.


There was one kid there who actually enjoyed himself. 

i envy that fella.

Anyone who can find happiness amidst a plant of our own collective fecal matter is a better man than i. 

Another kid dropped his pack of gum in one of those giant vats of shit outside. i have no idea why he would want to chew gum, with the smell of shit interupting every minty-moment he opened his mouth. The supervisor at the time had to fish it out like when there are too many leaves in the swimming pool.

Same tool.

Different job.

That made me laugh really hard. i think i almost shot a clot to my brain. It took so long. Longer than a wedding reception, or an after school anti-drug special. Highlight of my day.

At least he got paid to be there.

i got a couple of giggles out of the deal.

That’s good enough for me.