On My Way To Work Princess Grace

When I walk out the door
in the morning on my way
to work and no one is around, I’m free.

At the idea that someone
might be out and about
pretenses begin to be formed.
Speaking of pretenses; I was
at the library the other day checking out
nearly a dozen children’s books
for my daughter when the librarian
uncovered a book my wife must’ve
thrown in, Princess Grace or something
like that, Grace is black. So too
is the librarian. See so we’re
good people, right. . .
On my way to work
and I see a dead raccoon
on the side of the street,
mangled and stiff, teeth bared,
brushed to the curb with the piled leaves. And I think
what does that have to do
with my desire to be in print?
We’re putting our kids on display.
We always wanted to be on
the big screen, now we’re always
on the screen.
Why do we call it race anyway?
It matters, but
also, it doesn’t matter. Right?
I’m just waiting
for someone to tell me
it’s going to be OK.
I think maybe my daughter
saw the book and just
loved the picture and wanted it.
Her white privilege is showing.
‘Cause now I’m thinking that maybe
the librarian is thinking
that book is supposed to empower a
little black girl, or boy, ’cause
boys are princesses too. And now
I’m taking that opportunity away
from some ethnically diverse
young mind, who’ll only have little
Red Riding Hood, or Goldilocks to attain to.
Fuck my white privilege.
It should be spelled priviledge,
’cause I’m thinking about jumping
off a ledge. Where do we go from here?
She checks the book out anyway,
and smiles.
I tuck my tail
and run.

Too Many Mistakes (A Poem)

Well, i was laying on my side, melting into the mattress,

liquid layers of vibrations, carrying me away.

i was listening to my aura, as subatomic

particles in mid flight; like a helicopter above and

around my head. i felt the energy created through a lifetime

my heart beats like a time bomb, everything whirring

into a directionless direction.

I could feel the anger and resentment

built up in adolescence, aimed at the world

-which didn’t care either way.

I could feel the weight of the damage done over the years

trying to punish this body

that caused so much pain

-and it turns out this body doesn’t care either.

corroded stomach lining,

eaten away by battery acid.

weakened bladder, what does it matter?

if i’d had the resolve

and the right concentration

i could’ve continued my transcendence

back into the subatomic Original vibrations

but i was distracted,


by the fear of having made

too many irreversible mistakes.


Resigned to a reality where everything and everyone is story

A lesson to be learned around every corner. Social circles. YouTube drama. Science fiction, reality TV.

My ego is my project, projected through the screen. You know what I mean?

Reflecting on a reflection of the actor acting the way I’ve seen

Kristen Bell pens the absolute sweetest note for Dax Shepard’s sobriety birthday

Is this how I’m supposed to be?

Compare, rank, evaluate.

I almost like the glow of the screen, in front of my face, tablet on belly

While I nod off to sleep, cooking my inner intestines.

Sometimes I think, I think about my self too much. I watch. I’d like to say that’s not true. But it is.

My favorite philosopher is Heraclitus.

Salted blatter on a frying pan, sizzle sizzle splatter.

I used to say the TV was how Society wants you to behave,

Now I say everyone’s glued to their screens, as I …

Kidneys stewing in a three-bean chili

I think maybe I’m not watching my own story enough. What about you?

I’d like to die laying on my side, propped up by my arm, with a compassionate deep gaze on my face.