Table of contents (in chronological order, the most recently written piece being at the top):


The young man in a stir called with his mobile twiceFirstly in a panic and He wasn’t there to answer itSecondly to attempt again, to hear That Man’sweathered voice, only to hang upand answer when He called right back againhe said I’m trying to quit and I need someone to talk tohe said I don’t know what to do and you have theknow-how;rain came in words and he didn’t want an umbrellaThunder, lightning barreling through the air via thecell towersDo you just go cold-turkey? Do you say one now andthen I’m done? Orone with my coffee and one with my drink at nightNo–one no–two no–three no–four no–five no–six no–seven n–o; by eightit is easier andWhy lie to oneself,You say this is my last pack, leave it at that, and go on with your daythen finding yourself with one last flimsy white paper rod saying bye-byedeath (for now) and Saying hello to lifeHe said you’re helping mesucceedbecause I want to be aroundFor I want to seewhat you make of yourself,and go to a wedding; hold aGrand kiddy,see it all before I gohe wanted to cry but he had noemotionSo instead he thanked his Father, hung upand then smoked another

I swallowed a butterfly

Where can I can I can I findthe realm that holds what I loveToday tomorrow yesterday and Getting to the point is abstractedAs if I am attempting to swallow a butterflyI run in a yellow-colored field of tall cropI jump I jump I jump and and Yet the insect makes a series of great escapesfrom under my noseevery single time time time to run some moreMoreover I am tired of all this gamewish to lay amongst the greenwaitingFor the next winged creature to come to meinsteadThe realm I searched for is beneath me withworms crickets grasshoppers and and I am nearlyAsleepwhen it lands on my noseI brush the itch with a fingereyes closedToday tomorrow yesterday are one in the dark and As I attempt to recall the situation laterI have begunTo sit think and dream of all the possible wordsWhere I can I can I can findthe realm that holds what I love;all right within me where that crop tends to growinsects live next to one another here more sowhere they land on my nose toe hand there there there over againWhere I learn to swallow them whole andBreathknowing that writing a poem is not different but the same.

Atheist's Plight

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The Rain

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it will all be okay

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They Fear Us

Party, Party, Party, Party

She Her Her She


the big man and the little man

Once upon a time, there was a big man and a little man. The only thing they had in common was that they loved to watch twigs flow down the gutters. The little man did not enjoy this until he became the big man and the big man only enjoyed this if he pretended to be the little man. The two men loved more than the act the waiting up to. Cloud would thunder and stars would hide when the little man walked outside with the big man. The earth loved to cry on them because only she knew the impotence of their relations to one another. One evening after another the big man would venture outside and stand, waiting, wishing for the earth to cry. One evening after another the little man would cry for himself. The big man would never come to realize the little man knew more than he, but the little man and the big man still became friends again. On an evening so cold and so smelling of tear, the big man walked out the front door, puffing on his cigar in hand thrice times before vanishing; forever. The little man followed the big man out of the giant’s door and wanted to see the rain and feel the rain as the big man once did, but the big man was never there again. Down the concrete path, the big man and the little man walked. The big man showed the little man how to watch twigs flow down the gutter. The little man did not see twigs, he watched sailboats soar down the little winding river, what one little man called, “the river of life.” The big man and the little man were always prepared for their walks along the river. Boots—check. Umbrella—check. Whiskey glass—check. Cigar (cheap)—check. As they walked they would talk in an ancient slang, for the big man and the little man were the oldest men alive. When the light began to fade they would start their journey home, and when the light of the day was gone they would warm themselves next to their woman; whom they called queen, whom they loved very much, for without her they would have both lost their place. Folks say the big man and the little man still watch twigs sail down the stream of the river gutter and folks say they still found a way to walk with one another.

Reflections of Her

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Note: The artist started writing fiction as a child in elementary school before writing "Reflections of Her" in a high school creative writing class years later, however, he wishes to not share the works written before that time.