A few years ago, I created a tumblr account, today I created a blog. This is for the small victories in life and the small failures.

Category: Poem-A-Day

Poem-A-Day: Haikus!

Cycles of Nature

a series of haikus


Fields—dry and barren—

warmed by hot waves from the sun—

a wild fire waiting.


Raindrops dripping down

onto leaves of all colors—

leaving the air crisp.


Glistening branches—

wet and white, covered but bare—

seem almost lifeless.


Buds burst into bloom—

a phoenix from the ashes

ascending to life.



The blood of artists.

Artist Blood


Like Shelley’s water

boating phobia.


Like Keats’ blood—

speckling cough.


Like Van Gogh’s ear

clipping razor.


Like Plath’s oven

burning flesh.


Like Cobain’s little

drug addiction.


Like Ledger’s alcohol

chased prescription.


Like heroin in the addict’s system,

sorrow laces the blood of artists.


When I was younger,

I mistook my blood for melancholy.


The greats all die young

my professor once told me.


P.S. This is one of my personal favorites.

Newspapers and Van Gogh

Syria Assists U.S. in Strikes Against ISIS

I am a wilting flower.
My brothers and sisters shine.

Why am I not sun
as I am flower?

I am America’s ally

in the strikes against
brothers—my own brothers.

A dozen sunflowers
sit in a bicolored vase and
one is wilting—

I wilt, because
I am America’s ally.


P.S. I mixed two poems together. One on a newspaper article and the other on Van Gogh’s Sunflowers. 

Modeled after Jennifer L. Knox’s “The Opposite of Crunchberries”

From Fuck to Fuck


The opposite of fuck is love.

The opposite of love is, likely, racism.

The opposite of racism

is watching your white son marry someone not white


and crying tears of joy.

The opposite of tears is tears

in your favorite sweater

that you try to fix in desperate desperation.


The opposite of desperate

desperation is thinking optimistically.

The optimism opposite

is a mental illness that was cool before it was cool.


The opposite of hipsters is

hippies with bell bottom jeans and a tie dye shirt.

The opposite of adults

is a single child with no fucks to give.


P.S. This was a poem for an assignment that changed drastically. It used to make more sense.

Poem-A-Day: Day 2

1980 Subaru Forester

In response to “The Righteous Dopefiend” exhibit. 

Car lights aim for me,

terror clenches my throat with

needles popping out my arms.



Wife screaming,

Me leaving,

Drugs calling.


The bank reclaims our house.

I squeeze more fluid straight

into my blood stream.


Walking into the doctor’s office,

watching his lips move,

“Your daughter will be born,


but she will be born dead.”

Stillborn they call it.

My marriage ending:


my wife sobbing,

my needles healing,

my wife screaming.


Packing a bag with

one change of clothes

and all my needles.


Ending my marriage

because I could only feel

by plunging a syringe at my elbow.


Starting my 1980 Subaru

Forester needle in hand

route unplanned.



I weep.

I deserve to die, but

I don’t want to.


I brace for impact,

street lights stare blindly at me.


P.S. Here’s the image:


BAM. POETRY. It’s the start of something new.


I have made the executive decision to start posting a poem a day. Because it will force me to edit old poems and eventually write new ones. Since my long term goal is to study poetry at Iowa State University, this seems like a good plan. Today, I’m going to start with a collage poem I wrote in an advanced poetry class.





P.S. It probably needs a better title. I’m open to suggestions.