Being a self-proclaimed writer is so goofy.       I tell people that I am ‘going to work for a bit’,          when really,             I just sit alone, with my headphones in,             drinking beer or whiskey,       bleeding out everything that is inside me. So  goofy. I read a quote yesterday from a famous poet who was asked by a friend what he had worked on the previous day. The poet said he had spent all of yesterday taking out one single coma from a poem. And he told

His dog and he came to live with her and I.  We had just moved into a tiny one bedroom apartment a few months ago.          There was no room for them. I tried to tell her there was no room for them. She wouldn’t listen to me, though. She never listens to me.        I was so  ready to hate him.        I was ready to bark in his face constantly.       He has a pit-bull and I was ready to rumble with him.  My job has been to protect her.        My job has been to love her uncon

They don’t tell you what Icarus saw as he fell from the sky.              But I just visited him in the underworld, and I asked him about it.  He said the view from above the clouds was magical. The horizon stretched out forever. The sun danced on his skin. The air tasted sweet, he said. The mountains sang. The wind held him up.       Then came the fall.  He knew he was going to die. He knew he had flown too high. So he took a breath and closed his eyes.        It wasn’t his

“Will you fight for me?” God asked him confidently  “Fight for you? I barely know you,” The Fighter said quietly.  “I know you, though,” God said. “No, you don’t.” “Yes, I do.” “What am I, then?” “You’re someone to believe in,” God said, with a smile, more warmth coming off of him.  “You’re wrong. I’m not  that. I’m a degenerate. My body is broken . I don't have anything left inside of me. The fire is out. The drive is gone. It died. I killed it. And you . . . you kill

Chapter 5 The Fighter was drunk when they finally found him. Very drunk . Not the fun kind of drunk, but the type of drunk that only miserable people can attain. He was poisoning himself with alcohol, but it was obvious that his tolerance to alcohol was so high that a normal amount of drinking for a man his size wasn’t enough poison for him to reach his goal.  No matter how much he drank, he never got as drunk as he used to get. That didn’t stop him from trying, though. H

The river runs the wrong direction. “The afterlife is postponed,” said Heaven.        “I am the king of everything!” said the homeless man outside of the 7/11. “I need you to lead me!” pleaded the poet’s girlfriend.      “I need you to bleed me dry while I get high,” said the poet to his girlfriend.  “I need you to love me even when I push you away,” said the poet’s wife.      “I need another drink,” said the extremely handsome poet.  “I need you to make love to me again,” sa

Chapter 4 Coming down to Earth had a strange effect on God. Rubbing his eyes, and fighting off a headache, God felt disoriented. “Where is he?” God asked.  “He was around here last year,” Trevor stated, looking around in confusion. “Last  year ?” God asked. “That’s a long time for them, isn’t it?” “Time works differently for them down here,” Trevor answered him, patiently.  “How different?” “Let’s see,” Trevor said, tapping his chin, “1 year for them is .2341 seconds fo

Chapter 3 Trevor was sitting out in the rain, his head in his hands. His eyes were bloodshot; his body was shaking; his heart was in his stomach—God could feel it. He felt it all.  Today was supposed to be the day that went down to Earth—777, but God had woken up from a dream knowing that something was wrong. Something unknown was stirring. It was more than just Trevor’s pain, that much God could tell.  God decided not to sleep in. No, this morning God jumped out of bed, k

Chapter 2 God was leaning up against a wall in a long hallway, talking to Julie from accounting. It was a Wednesday morning at the office, and God's hair was still a mess from the previous night's sleep. Steam floated off his mug of hot coffee, while Julie played with her hair, listening to him intently. “. . . Yeah, I’ve been there before,” God said to her. “You think someone is your friend, you trust them, and then they betray you. Lucifer did that to me, and Jud

Chapter 1 God was napping again. It was 10:52 in the morning—in ‘Heaven Time’—and God was already back asleep. God had given up on all of the timelines a long, long time ago, and now God was waiting for the few remaining timelines to fizzle out.  In every single universe God created for ‘life’, ‘life’ found a way to cause its own extinction. If God gave ‘life’ the opportunity for free-will—somehow, in some unfathomable way—’life’ chose poison. Sometimes, it was a slow dea

All the Dragonflies died.  They die every winter.  They spend years underwater as little tadpole looking things, before crawling out of the water, sprouting wings, just to fly for a few weeks, before they die.  So, when a Dragonfly approached him, saying, “Imagine her as happy,” he thought he had gone mad.  He rubbed his eyes to double check he wasn’t seeing things, before taking his finger and clearing out the wax in his ears.  The Dragonfly hoovered in front of his eyes.  H

“The version in my head of her is a masterpiece of selective memory.”  Whoa, who said that? . . . “I did.” Whoa. Who are you? “I am you.” No. I am me. “You are also you.” What? Dude, WHAT is going on? Why is your voice in my head? “I am you.” Stop saying that!  “ You  are the voice inside of my  head.” No, no, no. That’s not right. Switch back with me!  “The version in my head of her is a masterpiece of selective memory.”  Stop saying that, too! Who the hell are you?? “I am–”

75 years, if we are lucky. 75 summers. 75 Christmases. 75 birthdays. 75 springs. That's all we get. It's not much time. This earth is 14.2 billion years old, And we get blessed with just 75 years on it.  Don't waste a second. Become present. Bring yourself right here, right now. Don't waste it. Embrace it. This is all we get. The present is all there is. We only get 75 summers.  The only way out is through. It’s your job to make the best out of the time you’ve been blessed wi

The lady told him about ‘Psychic Sex’,     after she told him how that morning she sent her ex a risky text,    promising to stay celibate until he was ready for her. She told him that her ex enters her dreams at night   just to fuck her. She told him that she knows  her ex is thinking about her     when he has sex with someone else.         She can feel  it, she said. And she told him that she can enter her ex’s unconscious,     and have ‘Psychic Sex’ with him whenever she w

A genuine apology, the strength to forgive the unforgivable,  combined with the acceptance of the things that are out of our control, mixed with letting it all go, And, Poof! everything feels like it'll be alright. All of a sudden, there's light again.  There’s life again.  The weight is gone. The pressure has faded. The clouds look like paintings again. The mountains speak. The trees breathe. The sun shines. Smiles feel real. Nothing is forced. Nothing is faked.  From the da

We used to stay on the phone  talking to each other for hours. And when I would get too tired,  despite the two hour time difference between us,  and try to get off the phone to get some sleep,  she’d shout, “sleep strike!”, keeping me awake  to talk for a few minutes longer.  I love my sleep,  but those two words ended up becoming my favorite two words a person could piece together. “Sleep strike!” Over and over again, every night, “Sleep strike!”  I’d fall asleep so content

The transmutation of someone else’s pain into:  light,     Into love,       Into art, It is a new concept for me.     To love unconditionally; To– . . . I don’t have this in me anymore.     I am not a poet any longer.  I am not a writer.     I am not a fighter.  I am not a father.      I am not a lover.  I am barely a friend.      I am hardly an Uncle.  And I am a terrible son.      I don’t know what I am.     I don’t know who I am.  I don’t have a plan.      The transmutatio

The little girl asked me if I was sad.    “Why do you ask?” I asked her back. “Because you never smile or laugh. You seem so sad.”     I took a moment, realized she was right, and said, “Yes, I am sad.” “How come?” she asked, looking up at me sincerely, like only kids do.       “Because I lost someone I love,” I said, feeling as if I had no choice but to be honest with the six year old.       She hugged me. “I’m sorry,” she said.  “I’ll be okay some day.”                A you

“Hello, Owen. I’m sorry it has taken me so long to get back to you. Dying takes up most of my time these days. I am only kidding. Dying isn’t so bad. It is actually extremely boring. Once you realize all the mistakes you’ve made in your life, dying gets incredibly dull. I am just waiting for the big day now. Ever since I’ve gotten my diagnosis, I have felt pulled to put space between us. You do not need to grieve anyone else. Forget about me, Owen. That’s the best thing you c

“Hey, Doc, it’s me, Owen. Just checking in again. It’s been awhile since we last spoke. Listen, I have to talk to someone. It happened again, Doc. I fell in love. I really thought she was the one. I felt it in my soul. She still lives in my mind and bones. You know how it goes . . . But it really did happen again. And I fucked it all up. I am unlovable. I am not capable of being in a relationship. I am so shit at loving someone. I am terrible at trusting someone. I love from