Strawberry Milk-Stake

Count Dracula, on his morning stroll,
debates not whom, but what to eat.

A teenage defiance of an ancient bloodlust,
a moral rebellion against human pleasantry.

Grazing in the fields, he spots a cow –
he holds back a gag and tells himself the smell is just the same.

Sinking teeth into the motherly udder,
he is unsure whether to suck blood or milk.

I Hear America Tweeting

after Walt Whitman

I hear America tweeting, the buzzes and beeps that keep me awake at night,

those of the politician, screaming at the opposition with presidentially uninformed nonsense.

The blue collared worker groans in agony, soon to be replaced with adaptive automation, the paycheck shrinks as the bills tighten their restrictive grasp.

The protester pushes against phantasmal barriers, fighting desperately for rights he already has, pledging himself to a cause unwanting of his aid.

The organizations organize plans, raising funds to save the Earth from themselves, hosting galas to remind the poor of their damaging status on the nation.

The woodcutter’s work publicly exiled by the forest, the farmer’s yield lost in the advertising voice of super marketing.

The factory worker perspires for long hours and hollow pay, each stitch he threads worth more than his life.

Our once esteemed poets write with empty pens and broken pencils, unappreciated by all, deemed having less value than the Macbooks onto which they transcribe empty thoughts.

The drip of sweat from the brow of the single mother, a rhythmic tapping of unappreciated hardship.

Each tweeting what belongs to none other than him, her, or whatever pronoun they so choose.

The days spent longing for the night – and at night, the communal solitude of young minds, restless, hard at play, unable to quit.

Typing away with tired eyes their socially approved viewpoints.


Before that moment by the lake,
sitting on a wet bench,
staring at the black reflections
outlined by hidden stars
which shone through the gloom
of the rainy day,
I wouldn’t have thought much
about an oak log
protruding from the water.
Drowning, rotting, out of place.

There however, I felt a rush of empathy
followed by my usual apathy.
My antipathy to the idea of meaninglessness
led me to feel sympathy for the thing.

It whispered to me in anguish:
I was the only one who listened to its screams.
Spending dark nights alone with
substance induced hallucinations.

Of the red flannelled men,
the ones with of rape and removal,
I found it impossible that
cruelty came with such a holy shine:
the sun’s brilliance gleaming
off of a lumber axe.

Now I recognize the dark mirage,
because any reflection
is fundamentally demented.
And a log which chooses to reside
between two worlds
is not out of place.


The asses of organized masses
force themselves into uncomfortable pews.

Unknowing of why they sit,
yet knowing that they are not happy.

The music, promoting complacency and donation,
rather than faith and belief.

A single mother yells at her child for dancing.


Across the room, with a literally fake smile,
sat a pale figure with eyes of an ironically similar shade
to the semen sample I had given up just this morning.

Across the room, with a critically pretentious smile,
sat a tan figure with eyes of an unironically similar shade
to the shit I had taken just this morning.

new times roman.

Trying wearily to find his voice,
a closed mouth and empty mind
set the perfect scene:
candlelight dances around the walls
playing with the steam which rises
from the coffee-filled paper cup,
a laptop sits open, non-inviting.

Displayed, a blank document curses his thoughts,
the virtual flickering of the cursor
steals the spotlight,
aromatic vapors disappear
as the room chills and steeps.

Whiteness pours through the lenses
of horn rimmed glasses,
frustration overwhelms the mind of the
modern poet.


I awoke cold and feverish,
surrounded by blindness.
My half wool, half cotton, half companion gone.

As I panicked in search of lost thread,
stitched together to keep me warm and solaced,
my stomach lurched to a conclusion.

And I remembered what I had given up,
I remembered to what extent
my avarice had driven me,
that painfully tranquil night.

Where gluttony became indulgence,
friendship twisted into parasitic abuse,
and comfort became a three dollar pawn,
devoured for scraps of food.

I now lay mind awake, body asleep.
Pondering on the whereabouts
of my warmth.

to read.

A pretty girl is never the full story.
She is the mystery hidden between the lines
that makes you ponder unnecessarily
on the meaning behind simplicity;
placing words and ideas and thoughts
into text which denies it.
The rapist of design,
you try and try your luck
in hope that your unsystematic analysis
provides you with insight on a golden platter.

You sit there, hand under chin and eyes to the sky,
marveling at the ambiguity and deception
of the mascara of falsehood.
She casts herself away on a boat
filled with harlotry and absinthe,
as your shadow grows longer.

Her cigarette holder holding her cigarette holder,
she wildly waves in the wind,
protruding into the prospect of your perspective,
staring down from her stoops, smirking slyly.
Conning the casual casualties of her calamity
who kneel in desperation.

Blowing bubbles
out of her bubblegum flavored bubblegum,
like a form of narcotic;
wrapping wickedly around the cold, dirty
railing that leads down to the subway.
There, it smells of piss and beer,
and you run to escape from both yourself and the homeless man
to whom you refuse to spare change.
You consider jumping,
knowing that the last train left with her.
If she were a loaf of bread,
you’d eat her hastily.
The whole grains would fill the holes in your heart wholly,
piercing the gaps between your teeth.
Leaving you to your own despair, unable to rid yourself of the torturous seed.
Like an attempt at escaping a buried coffin,
your nails would break and fall off,
and the farm animals would wonder why you didn’t help
bake the bread which you so greedily ate.

You now crave an escape
to wash down what you stole.
Inauthentic conclusions tear at your throat,
a flawed thesis is the end.

Heartlessly, you heat your milk
to soothe the damage you have done,
and separate yourself from her.

Knowing that guilt will overwhelm you,
you keep her anyway because you’re running out of time.
And telling a false story of a pretty girl
for attention and nothing more,
is better than taking the time to see
what she really looks like without the bag
you put over her head.

Why are you so desperate to love her,
when you can’t even see past what you
want to see?
Your selfish eyes are tired and sore,
in need of a break from the text
that you demented.


The smoke from my candle fills me as it fills my room.

Thin gray lines of age
wearing down the smell that haunts me.

The honey bee’s wax masking the aroma
from my honey bee’s past presence like
putting a tissue over a shit taken in the woods.

Cloaked, but not fully covered.
Known to all but especially to me;
a more careful whiff can reveal
the waste you left behind.

I can no longer stand
using either side of my pillow.
Even though my flower scented
candle burns brightly,
it’s your blossomed, withering aroma that I try to hide.