writing

here, there is a god
our idol is omnipotent.
he’s less of a person,
more like an idea,
less of an idea,
more like a feeling,
and we surround ourselves with him.
anyone who doesn’t believe in him is wrong.
anyone who believes in him,
but has questions about how or why he does what he does,
is wrong.
the only thing on television is angry voices opposing the anyones,
or happy voices validating him,
and why would we watch anything else,
when these voices lay out our values for us,
and why would we watch anyone else,
when these people look and sound like us,
and resonate with us more than anyone else.
these voices feed us instructions on how to fight socialist pigs,
communist traitors,
anyones who think that their lives matter as much as our own.
we alone are loyal to the party,
er, the nation,
and in us is a sleeper cell,
waiting for the tweet that will unlock us,
wizard’s wands locked and loaded,
ready to burn our symbolism into the lives of anyones.




The morning air hangs heavy,
last night’s fun adding ten pounds,
breaths in are thick and ragged,
temples throbbing in time with yesterday’s music.







This is the most serene place I’ve ever been. What shocked me most int hat I thought iwould be stagnant, but you can hear the bubble of the water as it trickles down, getting colder by each pool. The surrounding rocks are white and not slimy at all, the springs are the perfect temperature, hot enough to bring on aa sweat but cool enough to let you sit for hours. It’s late enough in the day that the sun ins’t hearting down, and the way it glimmers on the water is mesmeriszing. Clouds line the sky ad the pools are the only land park in an otherwise flawlessly bare yellow field. The filed is surrounded by pointed mountains, dottted by shrubs that blind beyond my understanding. Dragonflies flutter all around me and I feel at peace.

If there is a good, such a place is evidence of her kindgdom.








I’m not good at poetry because I write like an asshole
My stories are overly complex and drawn out in ways they don’t need to be
My characters are too flawed in an attempt to make them seem normal
They speak to my inability to discern what normal is
Overanalyzing and overreacting to things I think are happening, but aren’t


I hate sterile places
Hospitals, Starbucks, new cars, open houses, guest bathrooms
I hate idea that anywhere is clean or even less disgusting than the rest of the world
The false promise of antibacterial hand soap stings my ego and eradicates white blood cells
A freshly made bed implicates the impending pile of linen soaked with sweat and cum
6 in 1000 babies die before 365 days pass in the land of the american dream
I hate feeling unfortable doing mundane things in other people’s houses
because I’m scared to move a pillow out of place or use the last of their toilet paper








Gonna pull a Geno


here, there is a god
our idol is omnipotent.
he’s less of a person,
more like an idea,
less of an idea,
more like a feeling,
and we surround ourselves with him.
anyone who doesn’t believe in him is wrong.
anyone who believes in him,
but has questions about how or why he does what he does,
is wrong.
the only thing on television is angry voices opposing the anyones,
or happy voices validating him,
and why would we watch anything else,
when these voices lay out our values for us,
and why would we watch anyone else,
when these people look and sound like us,
and resonate with us more than anyone else.
these voices feed us instructions on how to fight socialist pigs,
communist traitors, build walls,
fight anyones who think that their lives matter as much as our own.
we alone are loyal to the party,
er, the nation,
and in us is a sleeper cell,
waiting for the tweet that will unlock us,
grand wizard’s wands locked and loaded,
ready to burn our ideologies into the lives of anyone who isn’t us.













This is the story of the bunny and the chainsaw factory

Once, a long long time ago, there were two bunny siblings living in the LOCATION. They ate FOOD and made warm nests out of soft NOUN and moss. One day, the bunnies were playing by the river, splashing in the current and singing ADJECTIVE songs. Down the from the sky swooped a ADJECTIVE hawk, cawing loudly as he grabbed one of the bunny siblings in his talons. “I’m taking you to the old chainsaw factory, where I’ll eat yo’u for dinner!” he cried out conveniently, as he flew into the distance. The other bunny began to cry, until an old turtle popped his head out of the river. “I heard what happened little bunny, and I’ll help you rescue your sister.” The little bunny was ADJECTIVE, and off the two of them went, skipping merrily as they ADJECTIVE. Once they arrived to the factory, they heard a faint call from inside, “Help! Help!” chimed the stolen bunny. Relieved that he was okay, the turtle and bunny crept carefully on their tip-toes into the factory. As soon as they stepped into the building, the hawk screamed from the rafters, “WHAT are you doing here?!” and VERBED towards them. The hawk grabbed a rusted old chainsaw blade in his claws and swung it in a circle, mid flight, until it gained such a momentum that when he released it, it shot at a incredible speed towards the pair. The bunny screamed, and in her hesitance, the turtle VERBED into the air- and the saw blade’s teeth bounced off her shell like in a cartoon, boomeranging like a projective missile towards the hawk, embedding itself in it’s neck. Blood gushed from the rusted steel, spewing from the hawk’s neck like a river whose dam had burst, and the hawk gasp drowning breaths in a vain attempt of survival. The hawk fluttered to the floor with a SOUND, and the bunny moved quickly to release her sister, ADJECTIVE to share the moment with the turtle. Only once her sister was free did the bunny realize the gravity of the situation. What seemed like a simple task for the turtle had resulted in grave results, for her turtle friend lay on the chainsaw factory floor, turtle-guts spewing from the ADJECTIVE hole in her shell. The bunnies, revolted and guilt-ridden, returned home, to appreciate every existential minute of their natural 3 year lifespan.









His name is Isaac Abbot.
Isaac is 32.
He likes hard bread and soft cheese.
His ideal weather is cloudy,
He hates the smell of mint.
Smoking makes him cough,
and he exaggerates it to make a point.
Isaac loves when he can see his breath.
He hates when people pronounce his last name wrong,
even though he isn’t exactly sure how it’s meant to sound.
He offers himself as “Aeh-bitt”,
and shrivels when called “Aye-bott”
He can’t stand dogs and cats never like him.

HARD PAUSE.

Isaac sits alone.
His house is cold but he’s too cheap to turn on the heat.
He sits, pretending to read the paper,
consciously aware his coffee is now lukewarm.
There is no one else in the house to impress,
but he forces himself to wake up at 6,
despite how desperate his body is to stay in bed.
His musty velvet curtains are shut,
the only light
a dull standing lamp beside his chair.
He considers opening a window for fresh air,
but at the thought of an insect entering his home,
he banishes the thought to the back of his mind.
As he rereads the first sentence on the first page for the umpteen time,
he hears a knock.

KNOCK. KNOCK.

PAUSE.

KNOCK.

His heart flutters at the disturbance,
and his anxiety prepares a plethora of reasons not to answer.

HARD PAUSE

A police officer is at the door.
He looks agitated,
Like he has somewhere better to be.
“Hello sir,” he says in a voice quieter than his demeanor,
“I’ve come bearing foul news, I’m afraid.”
Isaac can’t be bothered to muster an imaginary scenario,
And braces himself, saying nothing. 
“The old lady in the next flat over, I’m afraid she’s gone”.
Isaac releases his tension.
He had known the old woman only in passing,
Conversations began, upheld, and ended by her alone.
He knows he had ought to feel sad,
But instead he feels absolutely nothing at all,
Although his muddled brow and frown he hopes show otherwise.
“Why isn’t that  just terrible news.” 
“Indeed it is, I’m sorry to have had to bring it.
But there is a matter of her cat.”
Isaac’s concentration on his facial expressions diminishes.
“Her cat?”
The officer  nods.
“It seems Edith made plans to leave her beloved cat with you upon her passing.”
Before he can even begin to object,
The officer pulls from seemingly nowhere a small bag from the ground behind his feet.
Already Isaac can hear muffled shuffles from within,
And his heart sinks.
“But sir, I’m allergic to cats.” 
It was a lie, and not a well executed one.
“Are you sir? Should I have the animal instead put down?”
Thinking only how disappointed and disgusted this man would be if he agrees,
Isaac instead lets loose a toothy grin,
The gap between his front teeth a ravine to the eyes,
And exclaims that that is what anti inflammatory medication is for,
And how glad he will be to have something to remember her by.

HARD PAUSE

The cat is, without exaggeration, an absolute asshole.
The thing is prehistoric,
Cataracts clouding it’s eyes and judgement.
It screams day and night,
When it’s hungry, when it’s lonely, when it’s sleeping.
Isaac rests in his bed,
Covers tucked neatly around him and pulled to his chin,
Mimicking the cat’s screams from across the house.
“MRAAAAAAAAAAAA” he chides,
Fully aware the cat can’t hear him,
Too lazy to find the animal and fix it’s woes,
Too annoyed to let such actions go without response.
He wonders to himself,
As he screams,
If the cat had been raised better,
Would it be so miserable a creature?
Ultimately it doesn’t matter,
As you can’t teach an old cat new independence.

HARD PAUSE

Isaac eats kipper on toast smothered with goat cheese.
Beside him the cat eats a can of bargain value cat food from a old tea saucer.
The house is pungent with fish.
They brood over each other, separately.

HARD PAUSE

After several visits to the vet to see why his cat is such a nuisance,
Isaac learns that his cat is just bored.
He is repulsed by the suggestion of playing with the animal,
And instead opts to attempt the second proposal,
Seeing if the cat reponse well to catnip.
He is infinitely too cheap to buy individual packets which must be purchased again once empty,
And buys a large catnip plant to grow in his kitchen.
It has relatively little odor to it,
But as he read on the side of the label when he bought the plant,
It is a member of the mint family,
And knowing that there is a plant in his house which at all pertains to mint annoys him.
The cat seems to enjoy it though,
It nibbles  at the leaves and throws them up only moments after,
But naps peacefully as a result,
Which pacifies Isaac’s rage.
He would rather manage a plant than a pissy living being.

HARD PAUSE

It’s been three days since Isaac called into work,
Feigning illness for absolutely nothing in particular.
It isn’t depression, he reasons,
That makes him want to stay in bed all day,
Because he has never had depression before,
Or even ever known anyone who had.
It simply is due to his hard work and dedication to the office wearing him down.
Isaac isn’t sleeping,
He isn’t attempting to sleep,
But as he lays in his bed in the same outfit he’s been wearing since the day before yesterday,
He feels a twinge of loneliness,
Which makes him feel poorly about himself,
Because normally he doesn’t feel any way at all.
His eyes are shut and he tries not to think,
but in the distance he hears the clicking of cat’s nails on the floor,
And he imagines the cat stalking closer and closer to him,
It’s vicious instincts directed at hunting him down.
A soft thud hits the end of the bed,
The sound of the cat landing on it.
Isaac concedes himself to his death and waits patiently,
But is met instead with a warmth against his left side.
With great effort he cracks open one eye,
The huddled body of the cat pressed against him.
It is in this instance that for the first time he does not feel negatively towards the cat.
He tenderly places his hand on the cat and rubs behind it’s ears,
Lulled quickly to sleep by the soft purrs that follow.

HARD PAUSE

Isaac has been back at work for almost a week.
He is embarrassed by what happened,
And brought bagels anonymously for the break room to make up for it,
Even though he doesn’t really want anyone to know it was him who did.
He and the cat do not speak about what transpired,
Isaac can only assume the cat is as abashed by their encounter as he is.
Things are returned to normal, he resolves,
As he sits in his chair,
Pretending to read the paper,
Consciously aware his coffee is now lukewarm,
He is enjoying the morning breeze that trickles through his window,
His musty velvet curtains fluttering,
His cat batting at insects as they enter his home.
He rereads the first sentence on the first page for the umpteen time,
Distracted by how uncharacteristically good he feels