Friday, December 17, 2010

Numbers Poem

Today I looked at the clock
57 times

and counting

She napped for

45 minutes.

She fell on average
16 1/2
times every
60 seconds.

I taught her how to blow her nose.

I’ve not seen the sun move, only shadows.

12 2 3 5 7

My reflection’s stayed the same.

10:19 p.m

Unaffected by the winter.


6 days after I'm 23.




180 x 2

60 x 6



120 x 4

I wonder how

130 still.

Monday, November 15, 2010

Nicholas Whitaker’s 5 Words


He’s outside the bodega:

“You’re a slave to money,

then you die.”

We’ve on lived on the line between

denial and actualization for decades now.


He’s outside the subway:

“You’re a slave to the symphony of

trying to make ends meet.”

The melody the mind builds,

the songs of propaganda

in our ears

—whispers to screams—

all day.

All night.


He’s outside the restaurant:

“You’re a slave to your cravings,

always with a full plate.”

Hors d’oeuvres galore—

clothes then cars

turning into endless collateral.

We’re purging the preponderance

of debt and going back

for seconds.


He’s outside the White House:

“You’re a slave to the hegemony

in charge of your false hopes.”

Buy Low, Sell High—

War on Terror

Freedom Fries

American Built


Bail Outs

American Express

There’s no way to break



He’s knocking on your door:

“You should be a slave to enlightenment

but your eyes have adjusted to the darkness.”

We’re talking about

transforming a thought,

altering an action.

We’re talking about

the realization of individualization,

the recreation of appreciation.

"We're talking about

sparing some change.”

Thursday, October 21, 2010

BIG News!

Hey Everybody!

I have officially been published in a magazine...not an online literary journal but a real hard copy magazine. It's called Instigatorzine and it's an art and literature publication that's super funky and awesome. I have four poems on a whole spread so go to and buy a pdf copy ($2) or a REAL HARD-COPY (with shipping it's $4.30). It's so worth it because it's my words in there!

Thanks so much for keeping up with my blog!

This is the edition I'm published in, it's pretty sweet.

Thursday, September 2, 2010

Death Bed

You died in our bed,
I wrapped my arms
around your skeleton
for the rest of the night.

I watch your ghost endlessly
pace around our room.

in the early morning light
you kiss my cheek.

Our neighbors
tell me to let you go
but they can't hide
from your voice
through the walls
when we fight.

Even after death
we can't make it right.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

A silly videos

Confessional (A video rendition of the poem I wrote from Dan's words)

So bad that it's funny.

Here's another one from the words Sean gave me.

Sunday, August 22, 2010

Trevor Freedland's 5 words

pigeon, moses, shower, cage, death

Am I running that fast

or is your head shrinking?

I’m out of my cage,

but I don’t feel like a bird.

I am a man—

ignoring red lights

children, cars,

and the crazies

on each corner—

just running and running.

Am I running too fast

because every pigeon

is a tiny cannibal?

They pick away at chicken bones,

reminding me for a moment

that mine will ache tomorrow.

I want to kick the bird meat

out of their bird mouths

but that would take minutes

off my mile time.

Am I running that fast

or is death catching up?

Maybe that’s the sound

ringing in my ears

and the lights I see

when I blink my eyes.

But I keep running.

Running around the city

that never sleeps.

Am I running too fast

because you are turning into Moses

with a new set of 10 commandments?

You would join me

if I left frantic messages

on our fridge.

You would join me

if we were not

our futures,

our defenses.

You should join me.

When I run I am not

my nametag,

or my failures,

or the why and how come.

Don’t panic, don’t be paranoid,

Just run.

Am I running that fast

or have all the leaves

fallen on your head too?

The whole world climbed up a tree

and I’m running at the speed of sound.

I can see how it all began

and if you could see, you would understand.

I’m running and running

around the last corner,

off the last curb

across the last crack

up the last step

into the door.

You smile.

I shower.

Tuesday, August 17, 2010

Check out my published short story

So the outer monologue published my short story called "Sublet"

CHECK IT OUT, along with all the other fantastic short stories on the site, particularly Kia Carbone's.
Thanks for reading my works, it's extremely appreciated. Send me comments, edits, or ideas!

Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Dan Irizarry's 5 Words

magic, gathering, fetus, alchemy, porn

Are we trying to be unlovable?

So many times, it’s: “Love me

but leave me alone…

just leave and I’ll come along.”

In the realm of it all, you and I

are magic but we’re among

the many just gathering,

standing around,

flapping our arms all about.

I knew a man once

who tied whistles to his name

so I bought some bells

and made myself into an endless

stream of static sounds.

My brother is a loud song

through blown-out speakers,

my father is a whittled piece of wood

and my mother is a scream

stuck in a jar.

You’re just a stranger

entering from the west,

becoming more than a shadow.

Everybody needs someone,

and I’ll be lucky enough someday

to hold my belly for company

and talk in a voice hushed

to my belly in a mirror.

Does a fetus hear it’s mother?

Does a fetus know it’s father?

My neighbor has a honeybee

farm and I want to squash

them all, every single one,

with your bare feet.

Sorry about that time

I didn’t have a match

to light that sting

on fire.

You asked once, if

it’s a requirement

for every nun

to have the name Mary?

“I don’t have a sister,” I answered.

I remember when I learned about alchemy;

rather than thinking about how

to turn my toaster oven

into gold, I thought

about my grandfather

rebuilding engines.

Then I thought

about my tired bones

and how the ancient

assembled our future.

If we all woke up tomorrow,

undone, what would be your solution?

To just keep walking?

Just turn on the computer?

Just eat a raw tomato?

We’ve all been here before,


And it will happen again and

again and again.

We’ve all been here before,


And it will happen again and

again and again.

Maybe you would say,

“At least we have porn now.”

But what would my grandmother

say to that?

Jason Voegele's 5 Words

fuss, mess, compulsion, repulsion, compassion

Don’t worry, Mother, it will be better

than alright.

This mess will come out clean

and you will rise up just fine.

People can hear the anguish

and they lend their voices,

they join in the sound

of a life, uncommon.

People hear the hearts

cry out, but they’re not worn out.

Not yet.

Their compassion

builds a foundation for change;

it breaks the world open--

connects continents.

They’re all touching

fingertip to fingertip.

Like the clouds have a way

of blocking out the sun,

our prayers have a way

of blocking out the repulsion

that eats at some sorry souls.

Come on, all you unbelievers,

move out of the way

for those people making a fuss,

for those people armed with the will

to hold the hands of all those

in pain.

What is there to fear?

I’m not an idealist,

I’ve just got the compulsion

to carry those I love

all the way to the end.

Check me out!

I had THREE poems published by the wonderful website

Thanks for reading the first editions of my poetry and misc. on this blog, I really appreciate it and hope to hear from you soon.


P.S. Email me 5 words and I'll write a poem for you!

Scott Greskovic's 5 words

redemption, kingdom, water, remote, protection

Because the sky is blue, the water

looks deeper. I roll my pants

to my knees and walk in

to my waist.

She glares at me as I fall

backward into my new kingdom.

I float down the river

patiently kicking my feet.

And the fishes swim

through my hair

as her muffled screams

echo from the shore.

The clouds pass

in remote clusters

watching over me—

a distant protection

I’ve never felt before.

My toes ach to touch

the muddy bottom,

my head goes under

and redemption swells

up my nose and blurs

my vision.

I swim like a sea creature

and she weeps

like the willows.

The water begins

rushing me farther


Pushing and pulling.

My kingdom crashes

around me.

My body strains

with the pressure

and her fears are realized.

Friday, August 6, 2010

Sean McGurn's 5 Words

defenestrate, obfuscate, eyeball, amplifier, steak

It started with a steak.

A big raw pink steak, bare

of seasoning, sitting

on the chipped plate,


while they fought.

Having grown uneasy with the silence

they begin throwing daggers

at each other. Dull daggers

over not picking up her shoes,

over his empty beer bottles,

over their bills and cigarettes.

It started with which seasoning

to flavor the steak

and they thought “I love you anyway”

was the end of it.

Then the pan was hot.

He slid the meat into the heat

and the sizzling and popping

filled the kitchen.

She leaned against his back,

kissing his neck, softly.

Moving past the fight

moved them to the bedroom.

Their hot and steady

breath replaced the popping

and sizzle sounds.

Smoke seeped through the hallway,

into the room

up their noses

down their throats

and into their eyeballs.

Obfuscating their perceptions.

Naked, they run through the house.

The stove engulfs in fire.

Spreads quickly to the counters,

the fridge

the floor.

The bookshelf spits

a blaze of blue and red and orange.

The couch becomes an inferno.

They throw everything left out the window:

the dog

the guitar

the amplifier

the table

the chairs

the box of love letters.

The sirens echo through the streets.

They stand holding each other.

“I will throw you out the window,”

he says then kisses her.

Together, they look down

at the pile of their life.

She climbs onto the sill,

grabs his hand.

Becoming the definition of defenestrate,

they fly

with flames at their backs.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Max Garcia's 5 Words

salmon, shinola, shit, sunshine, & sacrilegious

Summer showers through the night
erased the humidity that had for so long
filled the city from the subway
to the tip-tops of buildings.
And the new day felt fresh
on his lips, fresh in his lungs.
The sunshine radiated through
the neon trimmed clouds.
As his salmon colored boots
clickity-clanked on the cracks
in the sidewalk
he thought of his daughter
raising her hand
for kindergarten roll call.
He thought of his wife
stirring the cream into her coffee.
The smell of the trees in Central Park
urged him to change his route to work.
Stepping onto the grass felt foreign,
as if he never had a childhood of his own.
With the car horns now honking behind him
he began to run.
He ran until his heart thumped
up to his temple and he stood
starring into the pond. At his reflection.
Not thinking about his boss,
not thinking
about the dog shit he slid in.
His eyes resembled his father’s
except the distain had not yet
sunk into his pupils.
The clouds darkened above him
and he didn’t know if
it was the humidity sneaking
back into the air or the echoes
of his father’s words sticking
to his skin.
“To marry this woman is sacrilegious.”
He shook the voice from his mind,
dropped a penny into the pond
and walked back toward the street.
His boots became streaked with green
as he dragged them
through the dirt and grass.
He scuffed his way to a shoe shiner.
And again his father’s words rested on his ears,
“This is sacrilegious,” the little man said
with disgraceful shoes in his face.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
Lucky for him though,
he loves the smell of shinola
because it makes him think
about his wedding day so he smiled.
It makes him think about his funeral too.
He felt drops of rain begin soaking
into his hair.
He tossed the rest of his change
in the bucket.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

Questions for my Brother

Inspired by Karl Haendel’s Questions for my Father

Why do you hate black people? Did you ever get praise from a teacher? How old were you when you found your dad’s stash of Playboy? What did you really do to go to jail? Do you still play the guitar? Do you remember the night terrors? Or putting pillows over my face? Or the knives through my mattress? What was the first drug you ever did? Did you want to hit your fiancé when the baby came out half black? Do you have any other brothers or sisters on your dad’s side of the family? Do you love them more than you love me? What made you stay and take care of the baby girl who wasn’t yours? Why did you steal from me? Did you fantasize about killing mom when we were young? Are you happy? What was it like dropping out of high school? Are you mad that I graduated college? Did you hit your fiancé when she was pregnant the second time? Where you addicted to meth the way mom said you were? Why didn’t you move back into the house when we were young? Was all that freedom at your dad’s good for you? How do you feel about the way mom raised me? How old were you when you finally got your driver’s license? Do you have any STDs? How did you feel when the second baby was born looking just like you? Did you stab a man outside that bar? Were you scared he would die? What are you most proud of? Do you sleep on a comfortable bed? In a comfortable home? What made you decide to keep your daughter after the adoption family was chosen? Would you kill the man who raped me if I told you who he was? Do you vote? Are you a Republican? Have you ever won an award? Why do you drink so much? How many times have you cheated? Are you sorry for scaring me so often? What if your daughters dated someone like you? Do you still eat the whole box of cereal in one sitting? Are your hands always dirty? What about your conscious? How many cigarettes do you smoke a day? Have you ever driven your daughters in your car after drinking? What made you stop talking to me? Do you remember what I look like?

Monday, June 7, 2010

Then she bleeds

What it is,

Is beauty

And the na, na, na.

These girls,

They’re pure

And painful.

Playing the cords

Of their hearts.

They sing good morning

And I say thank you.

They shoo away the ache

In my head

And the na, na, na.

You took me

And if you don’t stop

I won’t stop

The way I love

Because I like the way I am.

If you don’t take me, you will

Break me

Lose me.

Somehow I just

Lost the way I am.

I feel my heart--

The strumming of strings

So steady it hurts

Then she bleeds.

When will the beat

Gain strength?

Then it hits

A point of real, real

Real as the smoke in the air.

Can’t give up

What I’ve learned

Or the na, na, na.

I’ll be a stronger

Faster, fiercer, better

Me, even if only an image

Of real, real, real.

Just because I care

doesn’t mean I’m

cracked, cracked, cracked.

Or does it?

Tuesday, May 25, 2010

Rocket Strumming

Automatic relax and tantric

Oh oh oh



Treats and grace


The day and be burned

Break the buttercups

And smell the dreams

That bend with the sun

Then rise with the rockets

Dreams of babies, gone

I can crack the barrier

And the bell drum—

I can’t be happy-go-lucky

Until the rockets fly

Tickle with out a giggle

Take as much

As you can

Because it’s gone

So fast

It takes more than organic fuel

To build the blood in a being

It’s a smile and a beat and it’s


Where’s all the good?

The pretty good,

The good to go?

Where do the rockets

fly, fly, fly?

All the dreams have passed

Who couldn’t keep it safe?

I can’t be blamed

For nothing anymore

Been a long time

Since you’ve really

Been around

Thursday, May 20, 2010

Kissing in public was twice as sweet

My nerves feel like they’ve woken

from sweet dreams.

Came a long way, the wind

caught up with me.

There’s an ache in my stomach.

How long can I try

to find a sense of love—

as a verb.

I would trade these cigarettes

for peppermint breath

but I’ve been smoking since

they stopped making cassettes.

Only once I’ve hoped for

a pregnancy test to be


I had to whisper liar

until I convinced myself the word

was directed at my desire,

not the pee-drenched plastic

between my fingers.

Time gave me new sleep habits.

Throbbing moved from my stomach

up through my heart

and into my mind.

If I look in the mirror keenly enough

I can push it slowly through

my contracted pupils.

I stopped singing loudly.

I should have ran around

screaming proudly

at the top of my lungs.

Instead I cry harder—


How did my fingertips stop reaching for idealism?

My palms sweat self-deprecation

and I cannot escape the gravity

of our love’s mortality.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Love eye green morning sun

I watch my breath
on the window, like it’s an old tree
with branches swaying.
Despite the sun and
the shadows shot from
its radiance,
the air is ice
and the dirt is numb.

My feet have fallen
out of love with the floor.
Lusting for a shower, warm
like summer mornings,
I crawl down the hall
and hear the echoes of
my goosebumps following me.

Are my eyes more green in your memory
or in a mirror?

Soap suds pool around
my feet, foaming
like the ocean
through my toes.
The steam
soaks up and replaces
the salt in my skin.

So few things happen
or so I thought.

Again, my bones feel
like branches snapping
under snow.
The only way to dry
is back in bed,
curled up, away from the world.
If I calm the chatter in my teeth
I can conjure up a raft for my sea.

Are my eyes more green in the dark
or in a dream?

Friday, February 19, 2010

Water Jump Shot Burger Love

If some consider life a game
then what sport is it?

with it's jump-shot opportunities?
It's not football
because we can't change a play
after reviewing it,
we can only learn from it.
It might be soccer
because sometimes we're alone
protecting our goal.
Tennis has the term love
to explain when the opponents
are zero zero.
So, why is that the opposite in the game of life?

Wouldn't it be great if life
came with water breaks
or towel boys
or with fans who still root
for you even when you strike out?

Remember when the coach took you out
for pizza or a burger after a game
even if you lost?

Maybe life isn't a sport.
Maybe it's exercising
or running your own marathon
hoping to find a partner
to keep the pace with.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

Sleep wake iron bus desire

If you're in love and you fall asleep in an empty bed, sometimes you'll hold the pillow as if it's your lover. You'll watch the numbers on the clock, wait for them to change.

When you wake up and the one you love is not with you, you may panic right away and reach out across the cold bed.

If you’re in love and you sleep in a bed with your lover, you will feel the warmth of their skin on your fingertips.

When you wake up and the one you love is next to you, you won’t even have to ask them to pull you closer.

Most mornings, you'll know you have a bus to catch so you’ll pick out your clothes and let the iron heat. Cozy in bed, they’ll beckon you with their eyes to come back. The room will fill with desire and you’ll unplug the iron as they lift the covers back.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Begin jump lust kiss cab

When things begin, the road ahead

is open.

You can’t even read the signs:





Sometimes you turn left

when you meant to take a right

Sometimes you run that red light

and get pulled over.

But now you’ve traveled this road

you know where the curve gets sharper

where you can take a short cut and jump ahead

but then out of no where

you’ve ran over a nail and slowly

your tire is losing air without you knowing.

You can be driving along

looking in the rearview mirror

or looking at the broken white lines ahead.

You have lust on your mind:

that long blonde-haired girl

or that guy with crystal blue eyes

then you feel the road kissing your tire rims.

So you pull over and sit for a while.

The sun is setting so you take it in.

You eat that left over sandwich then you call a cab.

It comes and you remember

that this journey isn’t supposed to be

what you expect but

you get there finally and you ring the doorbell.

You wait.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Great News!

I just received notice from Imitation Fruit and Language and Culture online magazines that my pieces Scrabble (or Nietzsche) and On Their Skin will be published in their next issues. I'll send out another notice when the pieces are officially up. I'm waiting to hear back from 2 other magazines about pieces I submitted for money and publication. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Friday, January 22, 2010

(Satirical Aristotle Imitation)

Blondeness: A State of Being

Chapter I


I wish to address the infamous and celebrated subject of being blonde itself, its nature and image. In order to convey this nature and image, blonde idols and stereotypes must be discussed, the truth (or lack there of) in blonde jokes must be dissected and the validity of the statements “blondes have more fun” and “blondes are dumb air heads” will be determined.


1. The fair-haired breed

When embarking on the journey that leads to understanding the concept of blonde, certain things precede, such as, the definition. Blonde, according to the Webster’s New Collegiate Dictionary, is to be of fair color; light colored; having yellowish-brown, flaxen, or light auburn hair, blue or grey eyes, and pale or rosy-white skin.

There are respectively six conceptions of blonde; male, female, natural, dyed, intelligent, and ignorant.

2. The fair-haired breed, divided


The separation of blondes is simple in the linguistics position. “Blond” without the ‘e’ is typically masculine and “blonde” with an ‘e’ is considered feminine; however, the words can be used interchangeable. The separation of blondes is less simple in any other term. Except it is common is society for female blondes to be made a mockery of and male blonds are generally out of the spotlight.


Contrary to popular belief, a blonde at birth can transform naturally into a fair-haired brunette later in life. The opposite, in actuality, is impossible; however, peroxide makes it accessible for the entire world to become blonde. Blonde imitators are distinct in the respect to:

(i) dark roots that appear without subtlety

(ii) the use of the statement, “I’m not naturally blonde, so that joke does not apply to me.” Contrary opinion if the joke is: “When does a brunette have half a brain? After a blonde dye job.”


To inquire a blonde’s intelligence (distinct from the blonde airheads) is copiously subjective when based on appearance itself. At any rate, the abundance of stereotypes hinders authentic opinions about the issue. The prevalent idea that if one is blonde then she must be stupid is supported only by dumb blonde jokes. The joke, “How do you measure a blonde’s intelligence? By sticking a tire pressure gauge in her ear” implies that blondes are airheads but the statement (or any joke for that matter) lacks validity. Therefore, the opinion that blondes are less intelligent that people with hair of other hues is absolved.


Blonde, I believe has two distinguishable elements, that of nature (blondes have more fun) and image (universal idea regarding the appearance of blondes).

1. The origins of the universal blonde

Let us examine some representations of blonde.

(i) The Birth of Venus illustrates the first attitude of blondes. Venus is presented to the world as a sex goddess, this view of blondes as promiscuous has transcended to reveal the idea of the blonde bombshell.

(ii) Marilyn Monroe is the eminent blonde bombshell; popularized the abstraction that gentlemen prefer blondes. She established credentials that blondes have more fun with each film she made.

(iii) Pamela Anderson is the current day depiction of “the blonde.” She is a worldwide sex symbol (body) and a woman in charge of her career (mind). She is evaluated as, “easy.”

(iv) Hillary Clinton is a blonde idol who is not considered sexy to the masses. She broke the barrier between blonde and brains; she is viewed as an intelligent blonde, which may intimidate.

2. Concluding blonde as a state of being

Blonde is not only a hair color, but a state of mind and being. Blonde is cliché yet unparalleled in this world of first impressions. Any true blonde will defy the mold and define him or herself in order to surmount.

Thursday, January 21, 2010


Hey readers,

My art/charity organization, REPUBLIC Worldwide just launched a new and improved website. Check it out!