New Poems

A lot of people don’t know this about me because it isn’t true but I’m a poet. Here’s some of my new work. They will be featured in “The Stem and the Cum Quarterly” as well as “Crow Mother International” and “Sports Illustrated”.



Roses are red

Violets are blue

Give me back my fucking daughter.


You said I was a dick or a prick

or one of those ick words

and I should apologize to your roommate

The dumb bag of tits

What? Am I supposed to apologize to the toilet every time I shit?

It’s a toilet

What I mean to say is

Your roommate is a toilet


Too bored to think

too bored to stink

too bored to not be racist, ya chink

too tired to write

too tired to fight

too tired to go and do butt stuff in the night

too dead to do

too dead to be

too dead to lap up a young child’s pee

that’s all I’ve got, guys.

Black People Don’t Exist

The hetero-normative racist confusion smiddling about in the ethos of today’s giraffe community has made me question the validity of Dr. Hugh Janus and his dim-witted medical minions’ claims that include the notion that no cats have real teeth, all men named Terrence are on rogaine, and that black people don’t exist.

These egregious ideals are egregious. The most bold and filthy yuck-yuck part of Janus’ statements is the idea that we are supposed to just take this lying down, on our stomachs, without any pillows and a total lack of lube. I for one am not going to do that, Doc. I believe in freedom.

Underneath these Janus follower idiots’ rantings and ravings, however intelligent and lucid, is an insidious underbelly of being correct. No, a cats’ tooth is not comparable to that of a wonderful human’s tooth and that my friend is why I write articles.


Brief, Trite, Poop Ramblings on Depression

Imagine every morning as you wake up, someone takes a shit on your forehead.

Just as your eyes are crustily prying open and you waft into consciousness, a big wet turd greets you for the day. And instead of screaming in disgust and anger you just wipe it away routinely and proceed to the bathroom to brush your teeth. And every so often, scattered throughout the day, at random intervals, poop is flung from out of nowhere right in your face and you just have to pretend like it didn’t happen.

No one else around you is getting doody-bombed every hour so they can’t really relate. Whenever you try to confide in someone about the constant dooky-flingings, it just seems like whining to them.

turds are coming

That’s what depression is for me. An overwhelming sadness that washes over my body throughout my daily life. I could have a wonderful lunch with a friend, be feeling light-hearted and level, and suddenly without explanation the tide rolls in causing confusion and misery. Raping me in the feelings with a gangrenous dick of bitter hatred and shame.

It’s like a contradictory drill sergeant commanding me to waste my life in a toilet of angst.


I know that misery can turn into a self-righteous cycle wherein you lie in bed all day and make yourself sad again and again by embracing your depression as a kind of a character trait but please believe me when I say that I truly do not want to be a depressed person. I desperately want to be happy, or not even happy, just NOT DEPRESSED.

But I don’t have a say in the matter. Depression is like a voice-over written by somebody else. I plead and plead with the director to take out the fucking voice-over because it’s making the movie shitty. But he’s a hack who went to NYFA so he places narration over every boring scene in the annoying film of my life.

depression vo 1

depression vo 2

depression vo 3

depression vo 4

depression vo 5

Sometimes my only choice is to embrace the depression. To melt into the quicksand and lie slothful in sadness. It’s like I’m wrestling with the devil until I just can’t anymore, so I pause the match so that the two of us can lie in bed together and watch the entire “Gay & Lesbian” section on Netflix.


I often struggle with figuring out if my depression is something that happens to me that I could eventually overcome, or if it’s just how my brain is wired. I can only hope it’s the former.


David Schwimmer is a Gay Nazi

I wuz out on one of doze nights where I wuz just, like, over it. I was like, “If I meet a hot boy at da bar, we ain’t doin’ nuthin cute, we ain’t exchangin’ numbers, we gettin’ down an’ dat’s it an’ den I’m goin’ home an’ maybe hang out wit’ Mackenzie if she around. An’ I was in da right place fo that kinda thang that night cuz despite the fact that it was 1998 and errybody was real safe and ain’t nobody wuz fuckin cuz they scared  of catchin’ some crotchbug, they wuz still a place like The Arousal where you could get a nut. I wuz wearing a studded jean jacket an’ puffy-ass culottes (aladdin-looking as fuck) and I felt sizzlin’ but don’t judge me too hard, it wuz the 90’s an’ we did dat back den. Or at least I did cuz I was fierce before that wuz even a thang.

I wuz sittin’ at the bar, drinkin’ some peach-flavored shit, I wuz scopin’ it out, lookin’ round at all the men lit up by blacklight. They wasn’t that many there cuz it wuz a Tuesday an’ most of da men there wuz old and sketchy as fuck. I wuz sure I wasn’t gonna find nobody when some trick sidles up next to me and smacks a drink next to my hand. I looked up at him an’ he was so familiar, I knew I’d seen him before. He had a baseball cap on and a terrible fake mustache. I was still tryna figure out what I knew him from when he started in, “Let’s go to the back room.” I wuz like, “Is that a fake mustache?” an’ he wuz like, “Let’s go to the back room.” an’ when he said it the second time I suddenly knew who it wuz. I swear to god, it wuz dat nerdy nigga from friends, Ross. I know cuz my little cousin is half-white an make me watch dat “Friends” shit whenever I babysit.


He padded his fake-ass mustache to his lip and said it again, “Let’s go to the back room.” I wuz like, in my head, I wuz like, “Fuck yeah, let’s do dis thang!” but I like played it all cool and wuz like, “Let me finish ma drink.” He got a little pissed and sat down next to me. He wuz real impatient. An’ at the last couple sips of my drink he snatched it from my hand and chugged it back hard. Den he slammed it on da bar, grabbed my hand, and yanked me over to the back room. I wuz like, in my head, I wuz like, “Okay. Ross got a temper. Let’s see how it translates in da back room”.

Nigga, I wuz excited. I mean, I knew it wuz gonna be small but like still, he wuz a celebrity at da time. So he pull me in da back room and we the only ones in there and- Oh shit! Naw. I wuz wearin’ my pink tank top and my skinny pants. Yeah. An’ I think I had my black boots on. Or maybe it wuz my sneakers cuz I think I wuz rollerbladin’ dat day and after I rollerblade my feet all sweaty an’ I put on my sneakers. Naw, you know what, it wuz da boots. Yeah, it wuz definitely da boots cuz they went well wit da rest of dat outfit. Unless I wuz wearin’ my lavender sweater cuz it was winter.


He start rubbin’ me, gettin’ me hard and I start rubbin’ him but den he push my hands away an’ I’m like “Damn, he good.” But den he takes off my pants and his pants but I really wanted to touch him too so I try to rip off his shirt and I get it up to his neck when he shouts, “NO!” an’ he pull his shirt back over his body. He was mad angry and den he flip me around and start rubbin’ on my body wit his body and den I’m like, in my head, I wuz like, “Did I just see what I thought I saw?” Cuz let me explain, when I lifted his shirt, I saw a tattoo on da right side of his chest. An’ I swear to god, den I knew what I seen. I swear to god. Wait, naw, it wuz autumn, not winter. I mean it wuz still cold out so I coulda been wearin’ the sweater but I feel like that day wuz an anomaly cuz I think I remember it being warm. Anomaly means like different from normal. So anyway, yeah, I keep goin’ off on rants but to continue, I think I wuz definitely wearin’ dat tank top but I really don’t know about da shoes.

I wuz freakin’ cuz like, I mean, what would you do if you wuz hookin’ up wit Ross from Friends an’ you saw he got a swastika tattooed on his chest. I mean I was shocked, it was shocking. He bitin’ my neck an’ shit an’ I’m like, in my head, I wuz like, “Dis nigga got some shit to work through.” Cuz den I realized and I said to him, “Ain’t you Jewish though?” an’ he just ignored that and kept tuggin’ on his lil Jew dick.

I tried to touch him again an’ he just won’t let me so I just put my hands down thinkin, “Fine, do what ya want, ya confused mother fucka.” I guess it’s against his Nazi code to let a nigga touch on him but he apparently allowed to touch all over my black ass. Nazi hypocrisy. He pushed my head down an’ shoved ma face against his dick an’ like, at first it was hot but den it just got rude. Like I wuz givin’ him head, an’ I’m a motha fuckin’ hungry hungry hippo when it come to head, like I’ll suck the paint off a broom handle but this nazi jew fag wuz makin’ me choke an’ shit. I hate dat shit. I always fuckin’ hate dat shit, like, just let me do my thang, I’m good at it, I’ve had many years of practice, and den we both feel good about ourselves. But naw, he gotta try to irrigate my fuckin’ throat pipe with his stupid junk. I’m gaggin’ and finally I pull it out ma mouth and be like, “Calm it down, Ross.”


An’ den it blew da fuck up. He like, “What did you call me?” an’ I’m like, “What?” an’ he like, “How could you tell that I’m-” an’ I’m like, “Nigga dat’s da worst fake mustache I eva seen.” An’, oh ma god, this nazi jew nigga faggot from Friends tried to mutha fuckin’ punch me. An’ I don’t play dat shit. You wanna fight instead of fuck, I’ll break yo famous face.

So we wailin’ on each other and I start singin’ that stupid ass theme song to Friends. I be like, “I’ll be there for youuuuu!” as I bitch-slap dis asshole. And he getting all red in the face like an angry racist tomato. And den MOTHERFUCKIN’ WAIT! Here’s what happened. It was all-purple night at The Arousal so I musta been wearin’ my corduroy vest. Yeah dat was it. And one hundred percent I was wearin’ my boots cuz I had to buy new ones after I got blood on em dat night and I used da money Ross gave me to keep quiet. Nigga, I got a god damn boot forest now. Thanks, Friend!

Emilio Estevez is Barren

Entranced by the event displayed upon the television, 11 year-old Emilio felt something stir within. Was it the prurient nature of the swimsuit contest? No, he had yet to discover the possibilities of that part of his anatomy. Could it be the whiter than white gleam of the contestants’ teeth or the canned banality of their prepared answers when asked “What fruit best represents world peace?” Young Emilio held no interest in poise under pressure or musical water glasses. The beauty pageant was forced upon his eyes by his sister during tv time. It was her night to choose the channel and so young Emilio and the rest of the siblings had to endure Miss America. Little Charlie didn’t mind, despite his 8 years of age; he gazed intently with one raised eyebrow at the lurid affair. Young Emilio yawned initially. What could be enticing about this bland evening of boring women bearing false smiles?

As Miss Idaho entered from stage left to be introduced, her belly was the first thing visible and young Emilio perked up in intrigue. Idaho did her best not to waddle as she sauntered across the stage with something to prove. A smattering of applause and some boos. The first pregnant Miss America contestant. It had been scandal status and many believed it an outrage; the concept of a young, sexually active female, imbued with fetus, representing our puritanical nation. But Idaho stood proud as young Emilio’s heart leapt out from his chest.

He stared with awe and confusion but mostly a burning yearning he couldn’t understand. He cranked his head down to view his pre-teen body clad in orange-brown horizontal striped shirt and soft shorts. His belly was flat and that had never been unacceptable until now. Looking back at the television he saw a gallant warrior of pregnant glory standing in opposition to the frightening homogeneity of these tepid tit tournaments. As brother Charlie glanced over at young Emilio, he felt an immediate sense of shame and averted his widened eyes to the rug.


The famous emotional scene in the 1985 film, “The Breakfast Club”, wherein the five angst-ridden teenagers speak openly with one another regarding their motives and feelings was not scripted. John Hughes, in an effort to squeeze more potent, acned performances from the actors, instructed them to ad-lib. Emilio, perched upon a vulnerable 23 years of age, was fairly new to the “biz”, as he’d once heard his father call it, and had grown close to the other cast members with whom he felt he could lean on when the production became too overwhelming.

When it finally came time to film the scene, he felt an almost familial kinship with the others; so much so that Anthony Michael Hall would call him, “EmiliBRO”.  Anthony was oft the joker of the pack. This closeness Emilio shared with them boosted his self-esteem to the peak it needed to ascend in order for him to mask his true sensitive and wanton nature to portray the athletic and popular Andrew Clark. But this was the emotional divot point in the film, the moment when each character reveals their insecurities. Emilio pulled Anthony aside and asked him what he was going to say. Anthony told him the story he had thought out. Emilio responded, “That’s so good!” as Anthony nodded and said, “And then I’m gonna cry and punch a chair.”

Inspired. The thought of diving to such a trench of despair to actually produce tears was invigorating to Emilio. He knew now he had to pull out a heart-felt and true piece of himself if acting was truly his life’s pursuit. Clearly Anthony was bound for  life-long super-stardom with what thespian gems he had planned. The five of them sat on the floor in the staged school library’s upper deck, Emilio hunched against the railing and Hughes shouted, “Action!”.

With a pained breath and a quivering voice, Emilio revealed himself on film. He spoke of the lightning-like misery that shot through his being with every glance at his flat boy-stomach. He told them how every night he stuffs his pillow up his shirt and rubs it to sleep. He spoke of his several failed attempts to persuade a confused lamaze instructor to give him private lessons. He told them about Miss Idaho and the years of tears and longing, the constant shame, the hidden shrine of baby clothes stored in his closet. And he bawled. His emotions flushed from his soul and poured out onto the film-set floor. His face was near purple with feeling and his jaw ached like a chattering teeth toy.

As Hughes yelled, “Cut!”, the entire set was silent. Every person’s eyes, from the best boy to Judd Nelson, darted around at one another in uncomfortable bafflement. Ally Sheedy only managed to utter, “Um…” as a bewildered John Hughes crept toward Emilio contemplatively. “Well… That was definitely interesting, Em. But I’m afraid it doesn’t really make much sense in the scheme of the film”. Emilio scraped the moisture from his face and responded, “Yeah. Well. It was just a joke, you guys.” and without looking up from his feet, feigned a weak laugh. Molly Ringwald nervously chuckled in sympathy. Hughes decided to wrap shooting for the day and start anew later in the week. He wrote out a new monologue about a locker room butt-cheek brawl for Emilio to perform and nobody spoke of the pregnant outburst for the remainder of the production.


Enraged, Emilio stormed the office of his agent, Ronnie Glugman, surpassing the confused secretary who whimpered, “Mr Estevez-”, but the door had already slammed in his wake. Ronnie, slumped at his cluttered desk, headset in ear, mid-sentence, “He’s been in a daze ever since ‘Cybill’ was cancelled-” glanced up at the teeming actor and flashed the “just a minute” finger. Nostrils flared, Emilio stomped four steps toward him and smacked his index finger on the off hook, ending Ronnie’s call. Mouth agape, Ronnie asked, “What the hell is so important? That was Soleil Moon Frye’s people, she needs a new agent.” Emilio ignored this and screeched, “You cannot make decisions for me! I told you right off the bat, I will not do Mighty Ducks 4! I just received a phone call from the producer, he’s thrilled that I’m apparently coming back for it.”

Glugman sighed and replied, “Would you calm yourself, please?” Emilio took a breath, sat down, and responded, “No! I hate this chair!” Ronnie stood up and wheeled his chair around the desk, “Here, take mine.” Emilio pouted and barked, “You said whenever I come here, I get the rolly chair. You said you would sit in this stupid fold chair from now on so that whenever I stop in, I would get to sit in the rolly chair.” Ronnie placated him with a smile and responded, “I’m giving you the rolly chair! Here it is, it’s all yours.” Emilio begrudgingly transferred his buns to the periwinkle swivel mesh rolling chair as Ronnie carried the green foldable chair back behind his desk to sit down.

Ronnie feigned another smile and gently asked, “Everything better?” Emilio flew back into his actorly rage, “No! You should have TWO rolly chairs so that we never have this problem again!” Ronnie nodded, “Noted. Now can we talk about-” Emilio butted in, “I’m done with the duck movies, Ronnie!” Glugman calmly stated, “Emilio. It is 1998. It’s been two years since the third Mighty Duck film and the offers aren’t exactly rolling in.” Emilio leaned in and said, “I don’t give a shit, Ronnie, I’m not doing another one. I need to focus on MY film. You need to focus on it too.” Ronnie, a virtual sigh-factory in the presence of the demanding Estevez, once again released breath through his nose and tried, “The duck films are your saving grace, kid.” Emilio shouted, “I am 36 years old! Stop calling me ‘kid’!”

“So you refuse to do the movie? Is this what you’re telling me.”, Ronnie asked. “I will never even watch a hockey game again. Yes, I refuse to do the movie.”, Emilio said plainly. “Well then I don’t know what to do for you, kid. The only other offers are for made-for-tv movies on cable.”, Ronnie said. “Ronnie, have you even read my script?” Emilio inquired. Ronnie rolled his eyes and stated, “Yeah, Em. I read your ‘script’”.

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Ronnie, his eyes weighed down by purple bags of jaded stress from dealing with clients like Emilio, poured a cup of water and handed it to him. “I’m not thirsty.”, said Emilio. Ronnie breathed in deep and began, “You are not going to like what I’m about to say. I normally try to avoid being this blunt with talent but something needs to be explained to you, Em… You will never get that script made.” Emilio’s face jumped, “But-”, Ronnie continued, “Never! It’s not going to happen. I cannot even begin to fathom why this has been your passion project for so many years. You won’t talk about anything else! I don’t get it, Emilio. It doesn’t even make any sense.” Emilio, taking umbrage, responded, “It’s a story about a lost soul, misunderstood by the pig-headed masses within the archaic constructs of a society only able to handle a heteronormative moral stance!” Ronnie leaned back in his foldable chair and asked softly, “Em… Is this script about you?”

Emilio leapt out of his chair and forced a loud guffaw. “What?! Are you crazy?! Of course not, that’s ridiculous. It’s about someone else, someone I made up.” Ronnie lifted his hands up in defeat, “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. It will never get made. And if you don’t do the duck movie, you’ll be stuck in made-for-tv hell for the rest of your career.” Emilio stormed backwards through the door of Glugman’s office and snarled with indignation, “I’ll show you!”

barren indiegogo

A Day in the Life of Meh

Here’s what my typical day consists of:

I wake up with the sun dripping golden dewdrops of light upon my freckled brow through the silken slits of my curtain.


I greet the morning like an old friend as I leap out of bed and swim through my morning routine. After I’m bewashed and beclothed, I exit my apartment and suck a big breath of Earth’s rich and life-giving air into my grateful lungs. I embark on my day with a skip in my step and a smile warming my face. Here I come, world!


A lovely little cafe shines in the near distance. As I gleefully hop towards it, I pass a decrepit hobo, urine-soaked and emitting an infernal stench, toxic as turpentine. I stop to pity the man with a condescending smirk and hand him a dime from the depths of my khaki pocket. He looks up at me with dead downtrodden eyes and in a perfunctory and monotone fashion utters, “God bless ya.”

I flash a smile and with the skip returning to my step I continue towards the cafe knowing that there truly is a God that shines his light of peace and goodness upon all of us.


In the cafe as I nibble at my dry leaf salad, I am approached by a tall slender man in sunglasses and a beret. He is a world-famous photographer and wishes to base his new series on my perfect face and body. He calls me his muse and begs that I allow him to photograph me. I say “Okay but you’ll have to work around my schedule”. He is extremely grateful as he bows to me and exits the cafe. I am stuffed after only two bites of my food and exit shortly thereafter. A wonderful meal.


I head over to the Random House headquarters where I churn out award-winning novels for an unspeakable amount of wealth and fame and respect. Today I am working on a story about a man who finds an ancient treasure in his son’s sandbox as a metaphor for the little things in life being what truly matters.


After a rewarding day of spouting life-affirming cliches onto the page, I yawn and look at the clock. 8 p.m.! It’s time to go to bed and go to sleep! A couple of the other novelists beg me to come out and drink with them but I tell them that I don’t need outside substances to make me happy. I’m content just to be me.


I walk back into my apartment feeling a great sense of accomplishment for the day. As I lie down in bed and drift off to sleep, my mind becomes a blank canvas for all the wonderful dream-beasts and childhood memories to paint with their essence. I am one with the universe.



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