#WhoAreYou (part two)

The Interview (part two)

How do readers respond to how open and honest your writing is?

Of course, I want my writing to inspire people but I also don’t believe I have any authority to say how. The goal for me isn’t even to make the reader feel what I feel. I want them to feel anything at all. If I write a poem about masturbating and the reader feels empathy, then so be it. If I write a short story about Santa Clause and the reader feels disgusted, then so be it. My only fear is evoking no feeling what so ever.

At times, what you write can be very vulgar. Do you think this will change how you are perceived as a writer?

I don’t believe language should be (more…)

#WhoAreYou (part one)

The Interview (part one)

Why do you write?

I write because I have to and I have had to write for a long time. I started writing as a hobby in the 7th grade after my English teacher seemed very impressed by a poem I wrote. I wrote the poem “The Room” as part of an assignment and I haven’t stopped writing since then.

Do you consider yourself a poet?

If you had asked me that question (more…)

Blame it on Bad Luck

Blame it on bad luck
a double dinner date
with the guy you fuck
and his soon to be wife
is this my life
sick sick sick
i went for the kiss
got dismissed
i think i’ll be ok
you are no
mona lisa
and i’m
already gone
all alone in the crowd
turned around
seeing sound
my heart pounds
with love
for a women with
devotion and desire
with the power
to not just save me
from myself
a women who can
save her man from the
tortures of the damned
i want to love but something
will have to change
if i’ll ever love again
a call to arms

Fuck You (dear, mr english)

Dear Mr. English,

i know you dont care about what i have to say or that im even writing this or me at all. ive found another way to rebel against you. im no longer using apostrophes. lets face it theyre pointless and im a lazy typist. im not writing text books so fuck you. im sure you can figure out what im trying to say without them. honestly. why does there need to be so many damn rules to writing? and all of those rules have exceptions! why does there need to be more than periods, commas, exclamation points and question marks? also mr english, fuck you! i know said that already just wanted to make sure it was clear.

big gulps,


At The End Of Entin Road

She tries to comfort me
but i see on her face
and in her eyes
how absent she is
she lays with her head
on my chest
she tries to comfort me
i feel no comfort
just more hurt
more pain
she says
everything will be OK
she says
look at it this way
now you have someone watching over you
i will never look at it that way
he’s dead
he’s not watching over anything
this gives her what she wanted
an out
a reason
to let go
to walk away
a reason to say
i love the way you fuck
but not to me

not to me


God’s Work (1000 Victims Saved)

“I can only live this life as best I can. I am a flawed human and the world will soon know it.“


Don’t worry it’s only a good portion of the world. It’s just the majority that’s out to get you. They want to eat your flesh and dance in your blood. It’s only the sons and daughters of Mother Nature, your siblings that want you dead. They want you mutilated. They want your blood to mix with the dirt underneath their finger nails as they dismember you with their bare hands.

 Like I said, don’t worry. There is good news. You are not the lowest man on the food chain. You have brothers and sisters below you; men, women and children that you can slash and stab at with dull rusty weapons. You can open them up and remove their guts and keep them for yourself, smear their blood on your face like war paint, all while growling and hissing at the world. Go ahead and crack their skulls like hard boiled eggs, eat their intellect, consume their experiences and wash it down with the urine left in the bladder.

 Do God’s work.


Their blood is slowly seeping through the ceiling, maybe the attic was a bad choice. They need to go somewhere though and that seemed like the most logical place when this all started. Can you believe it’s been a year? Almost a year and 1000 victims saved. I know I could have done better but it’s hard to find the motivation. I’m tired all the time. I don’t sleep much anymore. It used to be the vile, putrid smell that kept me awake but I’ve grown use to that. It’s the cough that I’ve developed that keeps me awake at night now. It must be from black mold that has been flourishing on all the damp blood stains on the ceiling and down the walls. The sounds have also been keeping me awake. I can hear the maggots feasting on the rotting flesh while the bones shift and settle. The maggots are the worst part of this mission. I can’t eat potato salad anymore because the sound of the maggots is the same thick, wet, mushing sound as stirring together potato salad. Not that I have much of an appetite anymore which I think is another side effect of the mold.

I’m glad to have finally received a response; I know you were probably just busy with the mission. I must admit that I was worried that I wouldn’t hear from you. I feared that you had been captured or worse. I could not be happier to hear that you are well and in good spirits. I’m really impressed that you filled both your attic and your basement and that you’ve started filling your living room. It’s impressive but risky so please be careful. I’m going to have to cut this short, the sun is setting and I must hit the streets. As you would say “I have to go do God’s work”. I look forward to hearing from you again; this is a lonely mission we are on.

Be strong, be safe, your loyal friend and follower.


(I’m not sure where I’m going with this. It’s maybe something worth expanding on though.)



A Frozen Sunset


It’s at night I come alive but lately the nights have been trying to destroy me.

The Situation Remains Unkown

Working in the food service industry is not what I had in mind years ago when I was setting sail on the choppy seas of this life. I had giant, never ending dreams of all the amazing things I was going to do and how interesting my life would be. I was going to be a big deal. I was going to be playing sold out shows around the world and putting out books that the stores couldn’t keep stocked on the shelves.

It wasn’t about the money though; it was about mattering in the world, about making someone feel the way I felt when I first listened to those dirty and distorted power chords of Smells Like Teen Spirit or when I picked up a Henry Rollins book and didn’t put it down until I finished. I want to make other people feel that life changing mind fuck that those artists gave to me.

Even more than that though, I want to have a positive effect on their life. I want them to feel better because they see that they can feel better. Somewhere along the way I both gave up and gave into the American nightmare or I became aware of how unlikely my ability could ever get me there anyway. I can admit I’m not the best musician and I’m an even worse writer and no, don’t tell me I’m being hard on myself. All the self confidence in the world doesn’t make these facts less true. So here I am welcoming people to Chili’s, offering margaritas and bottomless chips and salsa. Will I be here forever? I don’t know. I hope not but the situation remains unknown.

However, I know that even though I lack the ability to change the world I continue to write and play music. I just can’t help myself. It’s like masturbation of the soul and I can’t quit touching myself. Why would I? It feels so damn good! At the end of day I know the situations remains unknown because I leave it that way. It’s up to me to make to make my world turn. If I do nothing, nothing happens, nothing changes and I achieve nothing. Talent and ability are the least of my problems. So for now, would you like to start with an order of boneless buffalo wings and Presidente margarita?

White Boy That Loves To Suck Big Black C***


This is the graffiti, exactly as i found it, from the left mens room stall at the A&P in West Paterson, NJ. (I know it’s Woodland Park now but I refuse to refer to is as such.) The email is accurate and I don’t know whether or not it’s real but you can email White Boy yourself to see if you get a response.

The reason I wrote down this bit of graffiti was because it gave me an idea for a story. A story about a man who contacts the people on the other side of all the bathroom wall art he comes across and all the adventures he would find himself on. No, it wouldn’t be all nasty sex stories! Get your head out of the gutter pervert.

The more I think about this idea the more I think about just contacting the people myself from the calligraphy I find on my journeys through public restrooms. Who knows maybe some of them are real or at least the contact info goes to someone even if they didn’t put it wherever i might have found it. Again, you seriously need to get your head out of the gutter. I have no intention on meeting anyone in person. How unsavory! Plus you should know how much I don’t like meeting new people. I don’t like to see the people I already know. If you want to see me you’ll have to become a regular or get a job at Chilis. Anyway…

It sounds like it would be interesting to see what people have to say about why/how their info got tagged on a mens room wall. I would be inclined to share such stories with the three of you. OK, maybe I should just write the story as the idea first developed or maybe I should do BOTH. I don’t know, I don’t know if there will be time.

Love Is Not The Cure

i wonder
does she know
that i often go
to these dark places
can she see that
not even the light
of her smile
will shine
at the depths
that i hide
in my mind

can she tell
that all her love
will not change
this hell
does she sense
that i love her too
but there’s nothing
i can do

there’s nothing
that i can change
there’s no way
for me to rearrange
what’s in my mind
there’s no cure
for me to find

can she accept
that love
is not the cure
no matter how strong
or how pure

love is not the cure