I Wrote a Poem but Who Gives a Shit: Linguistics

It is 10PM here. My boys (children, not frat house friends) are asleep. This is a poem about words, as can be presumed by the title, and maybe the way that our decisions are rendered comes bathed in the light of words contextualized by our own cluttered and confused noodles. It is all very Chomsky and boring but it is a poem. As promised.


Avarice spiced like licorice, I told her.

And she explained that I only say that

Cause they look the same.

Others may compare it to an orange rind.

And even others the smell after rain.

But when I think of avarice I think of licorice.

But also birds.


But maybe I like you cause your name

Can be beautifully transfixed into,


an impression in the back of darkened Polaroid,

the word nude.

You drip of sexuality but only because we think

Of sexuality in a dripping manner.

The mixture of fluids and gravity

And she smiled saying, yes,

Yes, that is sex.



And she reveled in my name

And how it can be jumbled into rice.

Like the ending of avarice and licorice, I say.

She loves rice, white rice, the boring rice.

And she loves me.

And somehow the world comes together

With linguistics being the common bond,

the glue

That forges villagers to villainy,

Lunatics to sublunary fools like us.

A quaint quantum atom to its ever-faithful brother.

And oh the world we would have if we’d spoke another language.

Can you even imagine that?

I cannot, I said.



I Wrote a Poem but Who Gives A Shit: Winter Storms

I don’t understand anything really.  But it isn’t in that guru way, like “true knowledge comes from realizing you know nothing.”  I just don’t get it. The world is chock full of wrong answers that sound great.  This is a poem about that, I guess.

Winter Storms

I have heard it said
That real love involves delicately
filing one’s fetters,
Like shuffling papers in loose hands
And sliding them effortlessly
Under the ribs of another.
It is supposed to feel like ejaculation.
It is supposed to feel like entering
A new fish, something like an Oscar,
Into a new bowl.

There are also those
Who compare it to a trumpet soloist,
Dipping softly into a song,
Wailing, as they say,
Putting one’s elbows outward;
Addressing one’s presence.
And having the song become lax,
flaccid in your arms,
A sleeping child brought in from the car.

Like constructing an orange
Without the use of a caliper.
Or a compass.

Anything related to circles,
Let’s say,
Is comparable to true love.
The kind with the coolness
Sunglasses that never go out of style.
Jagged toes cut across a skyline.
A mispronounced Thank You that gets a coy “You’re welcome”.

But then again, who knows?