The Shoes

The laces are tied
The shoes are shined,
But no feet inside–
I stand below.
The laces are tied.
Birds all chirp
Cackle, flutter, spurt,
And ignore the warp
The laces are tied.
Now the rain won’t stop
Now the shoes have filled
With water–
Now it overflows,
And pours, and pours,
Brimming with the discharge of the

Cloud. It burst.
The birds pause…

But continue the uproar.
The shoes, emptied,
Sit on top of me
As I sink beneath.
The laces are tied.


Paint Drying: Ignore Temporarily

“I like writing.  Writing is fun.  Writing makes me happy.  I want to write all day and dance all night.  Pie is good.  Honey Buns.” –Awesomely Anonymous Wombat

            Alright—enough ships and giggles.  Even though my writing has many ships, a few chips, and (hopefully) plenty of giggles, I hope I still come across as a Communist cow.  Wait, that’s not right—I try to be more like a deep, insightful person that thrives on the battlefield of words.  Who may also be a cow sometimes.  But this, for me, is an ongoing struggle—a stalemate on the wastelands of introspective war.  A hurricane hit my head while a hellish fire of meteors was raining down from the sky.  Before I go on a tangent, though, of how insanely sane I am, I’d best rack up this paper’s word count by talking about writing stuff.

            I can’t write about one thing for too long or I get bored—it’s just how my ADHD brain works.  Thoughts spin around in spiraling terrors and only a few are funneled into words that just might be written down.  This gives me a certain disorganized style—everything just sort of blended, shaken (not stirred), saturated, and vomited onto whatever impressionable surface may be nearby.  But, I discover, as my flow of sentences and subjects change throughout a paper, I can find a certain harmony.   I don’t make what is different the same.  I create coexistence between my ramblings—a word rainbow spilling out from a cerebral golden-toilet.  And yes, there is a leprechaun.  His name is Farcey McFartson, and he’s high on Lucky Charms.Image

What to Tell Tyler: Working Towards Imperfection
I hate how much I love to create. Yet I still love to create–it’s all I ever want to do. So why do I hate it too? I think I just can’t stand the fact that the human brain cannot be constantly creating something of substance. It’s the fact that I continuously push for that perfect streak of creation and find that such perfection does not exist in this reality. It’s like I have an ocean of ideas within my mind but my body (specifically my hands and mouth) can only translate it into a water-bottle overflowing with multi-colored seawater. I always imagine my mind as a reservoir cascading rainbow waterfalls that either evaporate before they reach my hands or turn gray as they mix together for energy to be used for banal distractions. Such distractions are: Internet, school, work, friends and family, and, most of all, food. But not just stuff you put in your mouth–I’m talking about whatever desires my body craves (e.g. Nourishment, sex, exercise, sleep). These distractions from my main passion are any activities that is not writing, drawing, acting, etc. It all keeps me from doing the one thing that I burn to do: make.
I have realized, though, that no matter how much my passion resents my distractions, I still love them so. They are, in fact, younger passions that have sprouted in the shadow of my central passion. They are saplings struggling to grow as tall as their ancient mother. I have, at first, had neglected these saplings. Now I cultivate them to support the garden of my soul. I am soon to realize that they will grow into a vast forest intertwined at the roots and branches as they form one super-organism headed by that Elder tree of passion. Sort of like the planet Pandora from the “Avatar” movie. My mind’s Gaia, if you will. So, do I hate anything at all? Yes: the fact that my garden has hardly left my front yard. I want to be in that forest at the end of my road to growing up. The thing is, though, I’m still growing up, and I can’t stand that I’m not as tall as my Elder tree. Yet.
Qué sera, sera, for c’est la vie.


Yes, I know I used the godforsaken hashtag outside of Twitter, and I’m sure the Internet gods will punish me accordingly, but I am trying out this area of poetry.  Well, it was assigned to me also by my teacher, but I still have legitimate interest in the art of rap.  SO– sit back, relax, and get ready for my verbal attacks.


Thrown into this world, no signs to lead me,

No paths right for me, striving to be free.

Wake up or dream up:  I pick and choose

Doesn’t matter, though, ’cause I will never snooze.



ttake mushrooms!

The Squeeze

“So…do you have, ya know…the stuff?” Billy G. whispers, bowing his head behind the stop sign at the corner of our street.

“At the right price,” I cooly answer.  I lead him into my backyard, and into a rotted tree fort.

“You have got to be trippin’, Mikey J.!  This cannot be yo’ location of operation!” he twists his blonde dreads tighter into his bandana.

“Boy, ya ain’t seen nothin’!” I punch a knot in the tree and a fake plate of bark slides down to reveal the hollowed out trunk that serves as a tunnel.

“And you said I was trippin’– follow me, fool!”  I slide down the chute and into the dimly lit bunker underground where our… operations are headed.

“This,” I announce, once Billy has tumbled down next to me, “is where the magic happens.”

Two rows of tables are set with numerous glasses and beakers, exuding excessive amounts of steam.  It clings to surfaces and crawls lethargically across the floor; a shallow pond of smoke that we wade through.

“Ah!  It’s burning my eyes!” Billy exclaims.

“You’ll get used to it.  Ain’t nothin’ stronger than this stuff,”  I take a deep breath of the lemon air, and exhale, “Best lemonade in all da hood.”

*click* “And it’s about to be the first one to go bust, Mikey J., ” Billy growls, his words startling me.  I feel the barrel of a Crossfire press against my skull– the standard Nerf dart pistol of the Suburban Police Department.  “SPD!  Down on the ground!”

“But I trusted you, Billy!  We stuck gum in Susie’s hair together!”  He prods me with the gun, “You know the sacred Squarepants EVIL commandment:  Every Villain Is Lemons!”

“Alright, alright!” I seethe,  clenching my eyes shut while kneel on the ground.  I drop the street-talk act.  “Look.  I really like you Billy.  And I don’t want to go to time-out, so why don’t we… compromise?”

There is a stillness in the air as Billy contemplates.  He paces around me so we can see each other face to face.  The gun is still raised.

“What kind of compromise?”

“Well,”  I smirk, “Lemonade sells big on the market, and there is a lot of revenue– especially for a single profiteer.  So, why don’t you pretend to be Billy G. again, and continue to make the 50/50 deal we had before?”

He pauses.  “I thought you said we would split 60/40, your side heavy?”

“With the current circumstances of my situation, I believe I have to bargain a little.”

The officer sighs.  “Alright– but off the record.  I don’t want my mama finding out.”

“That’s just perfect.  Know what else would be perfect?  If you could take that Crossfire out of my face.”

“Oh, sorry,” he says as he holsters the weapon.  Seeing my opportunity open, I seize it.

“Freeze, dillweed!” I command, my own trusty Maverick REV-6 aimed right between the dirty-cop’s eyes.  I raise my own badge emblazoned with FBK.  “Federal Bureau of Kids has been investigating your department for corruption, and you have just confirmed our suspicions.  I have more than enough evidence to book you.”

“Gosh darn it!” Billy spits as I swing his arms around to cuff them.  Once the plastic rings click onto his wrists, I forcibly shove him up the chute we came through.  He starts to cry.

“You most definitely are going tell my mama now, aren’t you?” he sobs.

“It is the law.  And quit crying, or you’ll get me in trouble too!”

“But– I– I– can’t– st-st-stop!” he stutters.

“Of course you can!  It’s not like you’ve made a previous offense to get you grounded.”

Billy gives me a telltale look.

“Oh come on!  What was it then?  Crayon graffiti?  Not eating your peas?”


“Ah!  By Barney and Spongebob above, what has child-law enforcement come to these days?”

Through reddened eyes, Billy says “We’re only kids– immature is what we do.”