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< petty


endings are hard – i miss
the interaction but not the person,
never the one who thought
he could take it all from me
and make me a typical
Disney villain. in spite
of my hardships, i’m learning,
i’m loving with abandon
and the shit on the fan?
you might just up and leave
but i’ve got a mop
and i know how to clean.

i am well, healthy here in
this space, tugging
corners of my lips into
a true smile, eyes bright
with promise on the horizon.
i’m supported by others without
naming names, blaming games,
screenshots and lies to seem
profound. all these claims
that you made that came back around?
you should be ashamed.
my ship isn’t listing
in a shallow whirlpool,
i just want to be honest –
is that a thing you can do?
i am small on this high road
but still taller than you.

For the most part, I try to keep my poetry and my professional work on Twitch separate, unless I do, in fact, read my poetry on a live stream. But today marks a huge step forward for me, and I felt the need to share it somewhere, even if I was the only one who would really see it here.

Today I launched my professional website at, as well as my Patreon and a small online shop (separate from my Etsy). Holy crap, that’s a lot of links! And it was a lot of work that I’ve done in the past week to make that all culminate in today. And hey, maybe no one will ever go to those pages, but I still stuck my neck out to make it possible and I’m actually a little bit proud of that.

I want this year to be full of creative pursuits, whether that’s in content creation on Twitch, or making these two new podcasts, or working hard on my Patreon rewards, and that definitely includes working hard here to continue writing poetry for myself and the occasional person who comes to visit.

If you’ve seen this page, thank you for reading. Thanks for letting me have a little bit of pride in my work today.

two degrees.
it is dropping
and snow slopes up the banks,
shore up to the house,
a blanket, a frozen wave.
it is ignorant to consider
your own wisdom but wise
to admit the unknown dark,
the naught of the future –
and yet i want to know, i beg
to hear the forecast from your lips,
raining, with a chance of hailing
a cab to the nearest airport.
sunny, no clouds in the sky,
and a high of whatever the fuck
it is that i feel when i
hear you talk at night
in the hushed tones, the sweet glance,
the way you look away.

i know what time it is there:
how cold is it?
can i curl beneath another blanket?
i know things i never thought
would matter about a place i never
wanted to be and there it is,
in the middle state between
a dream and a goal and i want
that reassurance, that conversion
of the ephemeral to the concrete.
i ache down to my feet,
my boots crusted with snow.
when will they slick themselves with rain?
and when they do, can they
return to snow again?

kick the dirt


asphalt hums on oil leaks
streets quiet – showing streaks
vomit stains on dirty sheets
hit the wind on water flowing
where we’re going there’s no knowing
blowing air in my direction
dirty words and tooth-rot glaring
you swear and question ticket fares –
i hate you but can’t stop staring.

saddle up behind the rider
cold shoulder boulder driver
storms rattle dust up in my
mind – underneath is only rust
as metal scrapes the earthborn sky
briar patch of thorns and whistles
sing it to me through snake hisses
kiss me silent spit sour dry –
submission tastes a lot like this.

the form


i have never known myself.
a stranger lying in wait within
my scrambling flesh. when
it sings, sinks in the singe of
match burns and quiet lies,
calling out – like to like,
sinew and muscle vibrato,
the skeleton hums in climaxing
stasis, the never-ever-getter
getting something in the end,
the finality of crying
in a quiet bed.

it is not enough.
it will never be right or
good or whole enough for you,
take and take and do not
give a shit or second
thought – you seam up the hole
but leave the inside bleeding.

shadow of the counter-part;
everything in this mouth tastes
like cardboard, bile, some latex
foreign object – square
hole, round peg. and in
the middle of this tandem mess…
the form, the screaming words
caught in shirtsleeves, bedspreads.

straining ears catch no pentameter.
words wrap like thistles round
my thighs, mouth soundless and
torn as a stuffed doll. trip and stop.

i have
no idea what i’m doing anymore.



the moon hangs, lazy,
softly, over the snow caps
and your breath makes mist.

cool vapor changes
into harsher words; frostbite
full of vitriol.

rip the rib cage, force
it open like an icebox-
icicles of red.

ruby-coated grief,
veiled soft by lips
that smile trenchant.

what hangs between us?
hands that never meet, gestures
devoid of substance.

courage slips through like
water in a broken cup;
drip, drop-drip-drop. stop.

you do not see me.
what am i to your cold eyes?

it drives me crazy.



what’s a bloodstream but a map;
roads connecting a person
to themselves, suburbs of arteries
forever circling back to the
cardiac metropolis.

there are routes that dead-end,
streets that fork and split
when you stick the knife in –
flooding engines with puddles
of standing red.

it is not so easy to maneuver here.
the brake line is cut, the wipers
stutter and smear dirt, all of
this shithole heap running on fumes
and false hope.

there is nothing for it but to crash.
bits of burning wreckage amassing
along the street signs, cacophony
of flaming garbage and metal whining.
do not enter.

there have been times…times i wished
it would work, click back into a picture
of health. spark plugs snapping at
attention when the key turns over.
the happy growl.

lately i wish it would go off
to rust in a silent wood, battery dead.
shuddering throttle as it comes to
rest between two shady trees.
a peaceful vanishing.

i don’t know. i don’t care.
it can be the cessation or the impact,
the streets caving in on themselves.
heart, chart, compass ruined;

the geography’s fucked.

untitled, 1


i might be an open book. that’s a fair assessment. but not everyone reads between those lines, the handwriting petering out with an ever-dying pen. not everyone sees the notes at the bottom of the page, the cross-outs and the things that never made it to the finished copy. some people don’t even read at all.

“it’s hard.” i want to shout that sometimes at people that i feel a spark just speaking to, who ad nauseaum let chances for something amazing fly by. do you not see? “it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard!” – to make that genuine connection, not everyone is an exception but then, there shouldn’t be a rule. and i empathize, i understand, the want for love but the wariness of the affection – is it true? will it last? will it simply suffocate with memories of past sparks, flames that engulf, or will it withstand and make a showering firework, or will it go off in your hands? what can you do in this age when it’s easy to forget someone behind a veil? a pixel screen is the fail-safe for these things, you can break it open but no one is there. touch the static electricity. the optics are clear, and if not you can shade to simplicity so easily. we are harmless but still you fail to see the contrivances you’ve put in the middle, red tape of shades darker than i can passably cut underneath.

what do you have to lose in sharing yourself fully? i am not some monster lurking beneath your bed. i have not come with promises to fill a head with nonsense, but there’s something. does that mean nothing, now? i need a place to put my hands. the keyboard does the trick but it sticks like my voice when you won’t even talk, even try for a thing that stands a tiny chance of hurting. pain, huh, new concept, will it ruin you? straining to hear the voice of another above the work work work you have to do. i know, we’re all busy, but do you want to look back in a year and have regrets? i do not want to play a game. i prefer good conversation, and i will always know where i stand. i am still an open book, and you may have a story to tell. pick up the pen and write in me, and you may be surprised that you find it is as familiar and welcome as the one inside your head. i am the journal you never knew you could keep and you can consider yourself well read.

tiny cuts


snowdrops dancing on wind
whipped like custard, floating
down ever-spiraling to
frozen earth.
don’t worry, it melts
in your palms, your hair,
the tip of your nose as you
wait for the bus.
warm hands in pockets. headphones
tangled up and ugly,
cold-tinted windows and fog breath.

pages of dense subtext loose
long breaths of satisfaction
under the microscope. a papercut
quietly draws a single drop
of smearing red.
sublimation has come.
under examination, these tiny
cuts show themselves;
a million scars to match your own.
fissures already existing
to join skin in strange patterns
unique, but unwholesomely so.

knowledge and love, and mistakes.
new slices into the husk of me
sent off to meathouses
you no longer eat at.
i see you – changing like a tide
when there’s no moon to turn it.
now a thing you swore you hate.

i am to become a body grotesque.
trying to remain subsurface
proves only the incompetence
of the procedure
and the subject;
change was imminent and immense.
it did not matter in the slightest.

in this small space i find myself
glad you are well, glad for anything
that no longer involves me
feeling, no vitriol spat
against my tearing flesh.
if any fault was yours i’ve
long ago forgot it.

a snap is probably the way to do it.
when we dead wake it is
with a mourning manipulation
and several broken capillaries
around the eyes and mouth.
it could be gutted out yet;
wounds reopened and bled anew
because i’d still apologize, forgive,
love with this sinewy corpse –
but as i am terra-formed forgettable
you were richness removed and
myself the eluvium.

snow still spins downward
coating me in blameless white,
some devil’s flames come
to freeze me over,
palms of sawdust and
hair growing snakelike,
tip of my nose forever
brushing some feathered interior.
hands embrace the ruptured
scars. headphones splayed
across my desk,
no needless window, no breath.