Writing your NYR’s for You

my New Year’s resolution

is to give you some


don’t give a fuck about

another’s opinion,

love your decisions;

stop trying to please

other people,

love yourself first;

feel what you feel

and love it;

love who you love

and love them;

live your life for you

and love it;

all that stress

you think you have

doesn’t really exist,

let it go;

remember that

someone else always

has it worse than you,

love your problems;

stop wishing for a

better New Year,

love your experiences;

those negative

people in your life,

let them go,

love your existence;

embrace your uniqueness,

you’re different,

love it;

and for all the

mutha fuckin’ haters

in life,

go fuck yourself,

love the motivation

you provide

for others.


contemporary dating poem #21

contemporary dating

waiting on the Uber


who doesn’t understand

the importance of

getting where I needed to be

a few minutes ago

so I’m sending messages

through a myriad

communicative mediums

because I can’t remember

if she’s international

or domestic

or other worldly

but I’m in a maroon suit

waiting and waiting

listening to ESL tests

and Kanye West

with the air-con

blowing on me

like you will be


making you forget

about those

in the past

to give you a present

of the present

as the rest

of the world

burns down

as we orally

exchange smoke

choke, choke.

it’s all burnt down

as we fall asleep


stained soaked sheets.


distractions and reminders

blinking lights everywhere,


flood my devices

like a 10.0 magnitude


in the Pacific Ocean,

tidal wave sweeping

me away

into an abyss

of loneliness,

but i keep my head above water

looking for the next blinking light,

the one that is there to save me

from myself,

reflecting upon the last shot

of absinthe that took me to this spot

fortified by my hedonistic ways

and the security guard who is always there

to argue with the McDonald’s delivery guy

about the toppings on my Big Mac

and the sides I requested,

which she did without request.

lips and tongue

in spots

that are lovely

and fun.

i’ll just lay here on the patio,

smoking a cigarette

contemplating my next move;

living next to the homeless guy

sharing stories of a storied past,

with fancy socks, but

without fancy shoes.

we’ve been laced up

and tied together with ripped cloth

to remind us

of a life once lived.


street vendor love

i’m just gonna stare

at you like a

street vendor selling

boiled peanuts,

mango slices,

folded hand fans,

lucky wristbands,

and poisonous cobra glands,

as you keep waving me off

but i’ll just keep standing


dead stare,

look of


as if my life

and next meal

depends on

you buying my product

but instead of a purchase,


going out with me

that i really want…

and need.  



the crowded room


when we started



conversation so easy,

it felt like breathing,

where i didn’t even

think about any of it –

it just happened.

i want that again.

it should be a crime

not to explore it


if it was only a brief moment;

you still owe me

that glass of wine,

and that plate of pasta,

after an oyster appetizer,


after the oyster-shot aperitif;

lest i forget,

you promised we’d meet.



looking in all the wrong spots

i was looking for inspiration

everywhere –

the corner of the wall,

the random mucus on the sidewalk,

the guy pissing on the side of the road,

the fake plants that are somehow dying,

the handles on the laundry basket,

random figurines,

numbers on foreign currency,

the window washer,

the window washer’s chemicals,

the window washer’s death,

social media posts,

memories of old flames,

right and left swipes,

marijuana pipes,

but i found it where i usually do –

nowhere and everywhere

and in your eyes

and in the girl’s eyes behind you,

because one is not enough

and two is barely doing the trick,

but it’s better than the mucus

on the street …

unless that wasn’t mucus.