every poem is a tiny cut while a novel is full organ removal both an offering from the fool to the universe neither enough to justify the pain. slicing chunks of reticent flesh to grill in front of curious onlookers looking for the next big thing. keep walking. nothing of substance to be here.


he sees stories in every new vista yet only has so much time to scribble them it doesn’t matter though as no one seems to ever read the things he spills across the page yet on he writes imagining he is leaving a legacy to be found one day long after he has died

on writing II

sometimes it feels like speeding downhill with the brakes engaged sometimes like pulling your own teeth with no anesthesia at others it is a waterfall naturally going along a predetermined path by currents just below the surface but it cannot be forced poked or prodded without falling apart in the hands feebly grasping for it


some days writing is like catching rain in a collander some days the bucket is overflowing others they just trickle to the dirt i have been drowning as of late but know the arid days too well

on writing

it’s dark in here but as the spark strikes the fuse flares into action a white star racing across the floor under the chair up over the coffee table leaving an afterglow of char on the carpet i lean forward seeing the pile of dynamite resting haphazardly against the door time slows as the small […]

intent is four fifths of a poem

i had every intention of writing a poem for you to expound upon your exquisite beauty then i ended up reading and realized all the good stuff had most likely already been written how could this compete with all of that when i cannot hope to write half as well as the other poets so […]

week off

i have taken the week off of writing long form stories too many ideas rattle around insufferable suffocating sensual sin drenched words poetry will have to suffice the need to spill all over the sheets of blank desire how did i live before this outlet before you a half life nothing more nothing i will […]


i change my cadence to fit my mood, my style to cover a lack of substance, my metaphors to fill the cracks sometimes the words drip like hallucinogenic honey tangential madness in small clusters or rapid fire brain sparks, dark marks, as i forget where it was going but the word play seems to ixnay […]

always scribbling

i tend to write my insipid odes any and every where in the car on the highway going too fast empty park benches waiting rooms offices churches today i was in the middle of a repair and stopped and wrote one the lady seemed confused asked what was wrong i smiled sadly it never stops […]

no returns

one day long after i am dead and gone someone will say i am their favorite poet even if no one ever will while i am steadily spitting into the wind everyday or so i tell myself as the constant introspection reflection and diction of spilling into nothing unsurprisingly yields no returns

like poetry

i would make love to you like words down upon the vellum, begin with frantic scratchings of the quill, but finding the circadian rhythm of the lines you deserve to be ravaged like poetry from the lips of the classics, taken like the modern greats, expounded like the epics of the formative firsts imagine these […]


i wanted to write you a poem one where i told the world how much you mean to me where i expounded upon your virtues where i shouted out my love where i gave in to all the softer things but that isn’t the type of thing you would want need or care for just […]

fictional facts

writing of love and need in poetry facilitates the desperation emptiness pit within from so long without writing of love and need in fiction reminds me of why so many of these pathetic odes return to it i may sit on the outside and watch in wonder as it flits past my open chest cavity […]


spinning a tale makes me appreciate the work spiders put into a web i wonder if they ever finish and look back in surprise at the beauty they weave or is that type of conceited reserved for humans normally once something is written i leave it as is move to the next new idea but […]

dream words

i read somewhere that poems aren’t worth the paper they are scribbled on maybe it was me in a dream one of those dreams the kind where i do nothing but write the vacantness of it i never recall what i wrote in those dreams i dream of writing probably just blank sheets maybe dream […]

take as needed

another day where everything is wrong and the skies are gray and my heart is empty and brain feels numb another instance of wondering why why did i bother to wake up why am i pretending to live why is this ache so deeply cracked into my flawed facade of a human desperately trying at […]

tomorrow, probably

today’s the day i tell myself, gonna write that poem that sets hearts on fire, minds ablaze just need to sit down and let the images flow after coffee now to just let the words pour out maybe eat lunch well, now i’m awfully full and the words prefer a little hunger so i’ll take […]


when i write about you i always write it twice one in words you can read one in braille as painstakingly difficult as it is to put myself onto the page and bare my inner thoughts to you to take the time to raise the little bunps on the sheets of paper you’ll never see […]


a poem is a fun house mirror reflection of secret things elongated shadows trick photography sometimes Vaseline on the lens to smooth out the wrinkles other times no filter just ragged bloody claw marks and desperate screams, empty rooms and crowded elevator cars of filth and anguish happy little scenes and grotesque menageries of wounded […]


back in the day if you were talented some rich fool would give you housing pay your habits all in the name of art you could have sex with the servants the daughters wine soaked debauchery as long as you put out consistent pieces nowadays we scramble and write and pour our souls out and […]


it’s dead it’s dead they came in screaming tears falling down their cheeks what’s dead i asked sure i didn’t care but feigning interest is polite they slobbered onto one another’s shoulders weeping like howling tempests creativity they shout it’s dead i sat back tapped out a cigarette from the crinkled pack and lit it […]

open sign

it takes one of two things to be a poet you are either broken or talented it’s rare to see both at the manic word depot it’s about broken but i read others and the beauty it permeates the words i wish with all my soul i could do that but my broken always colors […]

baking bread

my first instinct is alliteration whenever a new mental hiccup begins to ferment there is always an alliterative gasp like mental gymnastics keeping the tip of the tongue limber most of the time it is erased some days i will write using every letter and forcing five word lines of similar sounds they are meaningless […]

thanks for lunch

my friend asked me what would i have if i didn’t have writing i looked at her and thought about it for a long minute well i’d have the sickness in my head still a million tales of heartache dancing in my chest anxiety and pain odes of love and pretty words of missed opportunities […]


i put on some jazz as background music and decided to ight was as good as any to write and i stared at my phone the bass plucked by righteous hands, and the brass sounding like an angels chorus and i stared at the screen of the damned phone bill evans hit the keys and […]