How may I help you?

If there is anyway that I can help give you validation, while serving your drinks, please let me know. Let my spirit guide your countenance. May my skin help you more fluidly express your sin. I am here for your consumption, just another pretty golden metal for you to admire. I want my time to be your private Protestant possession. My blood can provide nourishment to your offspring. Let my teeth have the honor of being pretty pearls adorning your wife’s graceful neck. I hope my conscious can satiate your ego. Let my dried carcass decompose and produce an alternative source of fertilizer. Let no part of me go to waste, otherwise it’s rape. Cherish me as I cherish you. I am your gift to the world. How may I help you?

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To my new friend; this dance is for you.

Beautiful child of the 80s, dancing in the mirror to the reflection of Whitney.

You’ll take Whitney, over Mrs. Destiny’s Love Child any day of the week.

That scarf your wearing is spun with misogynistic and feminist yarn. 

Your ADD brain frequently causes you to mix up the names of Peanut’s creator Charles

Shulz, with that of Starbucks (TM) CEO Howard Shultz. 

You’ve lost cool points for this at cocktail parties.

You’ve been waiting for the whole;

“I’m really cool because I don’t have a TV movement to fade away,

almost as long as you’ve been waiting for the fashion world to think that square-toe is “so”

modern, and all the rage again.

Your crying because your eating a hotdog from the 7-11 on St. Marks,

when you wish you were having lunch at Woolworth instead.

Seems like you just made a new friend.


I’ll probably see you at the Immigrant one of these days.


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Jack and Jill: Portrait of a happily married couple.

     For as long as Jack could remember, he had considered himself a writer. His wife, Jill, was of the opinion that writers were just insomniacs with a desperate need to be heard. Jack knew this to be true, but kept their shared. He was one of those serious writers that understood that to be a great writer, one could not simply rely on imagination and talent. Courage and self flagellation were just as important. When he was a teen, Jack read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. In his twenties he often thought; if someone as gifted as Capote was unable to finish another novel after completing that non-fiction novel, what hope would there be for him. Jack knew that he would never be a great man, not like Hemingway or Twain. If he could be a good man, a real man, maybe he could grow to be a decent writer.

     And so Jack grew up, got married and tried to live a real life. Tried to be a good American and a decent husband. As they grew older Jack and Jill gradually improved their social status. Eventually they became two or three social circles removed from Margaret Atwood. But if they had been in her social circle, they were the kind of people she’d have over for dinner. They’d smoke pot in her living room and talk about the failure of the carbon credit trade, vintage furniture and the future of science fiction. But they aren’t in Atwood’s social circle, so they eat lasagna and drink bourbon with various NYU associate English Literature professors. They understood that the beauty of routine helped sell the illusion of control, and had the pragmatic wisdom to know that this was ok.  There is no way these lovebirds could ever know that they were the happiest married couple in America, maybe even the world. A couple that proved to be more than just a portrait .      

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Jane and her cat

Jane and her cat have created their own parallel universe, a bizzaro world of sorts that allows them to get closer to their destiny. One where they are not judged for reversing the traditional pet-pet owner dichotomy.  

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The future wins again

There I am watching the world from the confines of a glorified hole in the wall. These blinding bright lights of the future have been instrumental in my quest to rationalize my own existence. My eye are watery from staring at the artificial images of the future. As I showered this morning, letters and numbers cascaded out of the faucet and landed on my imperfect celluloid vessel.  Off of my skin I peal, the vowels and integers that land on my countenance. The symbols that flooded my ear canal were welcomed. They make a great buffer between the narrative whisper of my conscious mind and the imperative velocity of informative sound. This is just another day living here in the epicenter of madness, the very vortex of a century baptized in the vanguard of technology and patriotism. Objectivity and individualism are now esthetics sold at a premium above their intrinsic value. There is no catharsis. This is the future I dreamed of last night, the future that I watch from behind garish sunglasses. The narrator is deceased, but I will continue to watch HIS vision of the future from behind this tiny hole in the wall.

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The State of our American Dream!

Wild animals posing as humans. Androids learning about civilization

from anti-semitic Disney films. Carnivorous distractions adjusted for 

inflation. Consumers mask their self loathing by defecating

on their own value systems. The writer of this poem finding comfort

in the trivial and the irrelevant, enslaved to the romantic ideals that

were preprogrammed in to his cerebral cortex before he was conceived.

This is our special brand of The American Dream. Let us starve and

stifle our creative spirit before it reaches it’s perverse adolescent

inspiration. The commoditization of the human soul should be lauded

and promptly invested in. China has already made a derivative play

on our now AA+ rated savvy. This your patriotic consciousness explicitly

beseeching you to make the right choice. Time to put the mirror down

and get to our important work, this is the state of our American Dream.             


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Untitled poem #2.

Motivated by idealism.

Blessed with the intention of altruism.

Balanced by the spirit of individualism. 


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