<![CDATA[“You should change your blog name to ‘Clantily Sad'”]]>I’m still alive, sort of. Still lacking in motivation to produce any form of original content. My blog is like the stepchild in a broken home that I give inconsistent amounts of attention to and can’t decide if I like or not.

Filler post for December.

I’m running out filler material for this place actually; most of the poetry I wrote in high school does not stand the test of time. (Oh, the angst. Never quite The Pain Tree bad, but still cringe-worthy enough to never be shared.) But there was some clever enjambment in here that I still like.

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Nerdy, Angry, Fuck

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I think it’s hot when strippers cry on their master’s
degrees, when meteorologists make innuendos
when your mother pretends to be Jewish.

Sometimes I wish I had synesthesia
so I could palpate youtube’s
myriad turtle sex clips with my retinas
though I wish there was more to do
on a Friday night than watching
ugly animals fuck online.

I have a Dukakis sticker on my teenage
mutant ninja turtles lunchbox from 88′
It’s currently filled with positive
pregnancy tests, disposable cell phones
and a picture of your mother.

Love insurance premiums:  $99.99 a month!
Good student discounts. Press 1 for more options.

It’s like that time I asked why she didn’t
love me anymore and she replied
“supply side economics.”

I told her her metaphor sucked;
our relationship had too many uncertainty principles
to be graphed criss-cross on an X and Y axis,

We were more like 2 out-of-sync sine waves reaching for infinity
until the tequila ran out.

Para continuar en las lenguas románticas
oprime el número dos.

I sent a letter of complaint to her new
PO Box in MN, asking her to return my soul
for the full amount, in the payment method
in which it was received.

She doesn’t know it, but she’s still
the spaces between my fingers
when I’m clawing for sanity in my sleep
and the moment mid-clasp, when I stop.
Go limp.
Lips.
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