Sunday, December 30, 2012


Nothing is safe from your unwashed, profaned privates, nothing.
You once humped a no-legged woman named
Happy. You spun her. Now
Happy only plays sad songs on her harmonica.
Then you shanghaied a German girl, followed by a German boy
then, for fun, the whole of Germany.
Your bedsheets have received so many
ministrations and ejaculations
that when the sheets became sentient
they ran away and fathered 84 children.
Deep down, in the shuttered and padlocked closet
where your light-deprived infantile mushroom of a soul
resides, you must know that all this senseless humping
will do you no good.
But don’t come home…
Grandma hasn’t forgive you for humping her dentures
while they sat on the nightstand. And the nightstand
wasn’t appreciative either. 

The Pill to Swallow

“Strongest of all these is love”,
a sentiment held by the young,
who have yet to meet the perfect storm
of failed expectations and jealousy;
and surprisingly the old,
who seek a dinner partner as they
candles slowly sputter out.
For those in between, burnt by proximity
to the nuclear blast
or frozen on a footpath through
an Arctic wasteland
realize a bitter truth:
Love is the strongest reason
for an early grave.
For those who endure,
 we might get a dinner date
or two before the check is due.

Sunday, December 16, 2012

Bundle of Joy

The baby mewls like a wounded lamb,
shrieks echoing/bouncing off walls
like a sonic pinball before the game goes

A hand reaches for the infant waddled
in dirty white cloth, and the fingers
are grungy, like a sewer grate
after a rainstorm
during a riot.

A second hand appears, and the mewling continues.

The parent’s sour milk eyes see flesh
and the teeth chatter like shingles during
a hurricane.
Soon the mewling stops…
because dinner has been served.

The Evolution

Diving, rolling, under a checkerboard
canopy, we find true pieces of ourselves,
covered in sweat, like a blanket
in the middle of summer. We suffocate,
terrible, dangerous visisons
masterminded by a polemic Hebrew
and delving deeply into the subconscious
wetwork, bloody murder, assassination
of character on the altar of critical
mass acceptance. Smile for the awards,
do the evolution dance around the fire
like our ancestors, though we’re no less
primitive, stones evolved to bullets and biology
turned outward like synthetic boils
bursting, releasing corrupted code, the virus
that consumes all. 

Sunday, December 9, 2012


She called me a parasite, left overs from
life’s petri dish that refuses to die.
There’s no remedy, no penicillin
she can take to remove me.
Like any good virus, I’ve found a
suitable host and I will adapt
to overcome her homicidal urges.
Why must she hate me so much?
Does anyone really hate Love that much?
I’m the necessary infection that allows for
efficient digestion
of the bullshit shoveled by the guys at the bar.

Break In Routine

Running in place,
foot slams on the tread mill,
staring at your soft lilac wall paint,
waiting for the next stage in the pyramid,
the highest point, the apex of today’s cardio
routine but you won’t reach
that peak.
Heart attacks are so sudden
like a car
into oncoming traffic.

Sunday, November 4, 2012

Ten Counter-Proposititions from One Atheist to Christians

     A recent article by Greg Clarke entitled “Ten Key Propositions for Atheists and Christians Today” grabbed my attention. As an atheist, I find myself drawn to the writings of Christian apologists as a matter of curiosity. I read many works by men such as Hal Lindsey, Norman Vincent Peale, and Lee Strobel when I was a believer. Revisiting those works now that I have switched positions brings a different perspective. Clarke’s ten propositions are directed at the faithful (evidenced by the article being posted on This article has less to do with pointing out proposals for interactions between atheists and theists but rather to reaffirm the faith theists already possess, should the readers of the site begin have moments of free thought. As such, these are my counterpropositions to Clarke’s ten proposals.

Sunday, October 28, 2012


The only thing that
could come between a
fat man and a donut is
the donut’s suicide note.

The donut allows the wind to carry
it into traffic like the brushing sweep
of a broom clears a porch. The
tragic bit is the note, written in
flakes of sugary white clumps. It reads

             He touches me.


Use your words, I tell him
but he refuses,
stubborn as granite under a

His silence is more disturbing
than his commands,
then the thunderclap of the spanking
after the lightning strike of the paddle.

But this silence
is a funeral dirge
and the coffin is soon covered
in dirt.
He even brought flowers
to pretty up the gravestone. 

Saturday, October 20, 2012

The End Myth

One weekend is all it takes;
One weekend and a big fight,
the Armageddon fight
where the two adults become
Gog and Magog,
Antichrist and Christ.
And just like that end times myth,
this fight is not fair.
All that remains is a rented room
with one lightbulb (burnt out)
and a bed as empty and lonely
as a crowded funeral march.