factory installed

I used to think
I was a good person.
Even when I would do something wrong,
I could always convince myself
that I was doing it
for all the right reasons.
It took a while to figure out
that the evil that men do
comes factory installed.
The men and women
that suppress these urges
deny everything that makes them human
in the first place,
so one could reasonably suggest
that the good ones
are broken.

distill life, poetry

all for naught

And after the latest unilateral decision,

an executive order

striking down a previous victory

for civil rights,

Manos decided

that he was called upon

by the good Lord above

to strike down this scourge,

the Governor of his home state.

He went into seclusion,

and began meticulously studying

every possible detail,

every nuance,

every outcome that could diverge

from his endgame.

He put himself

through rigorous physical training,

forging and honing

his body into a living sword.

After planning and obsessing

over all details

spanning a two year period,

the report came over the wire.

The governor had passed away

peacefully in the night,

surrounded by loved ones,

likely natural causes.


breaking the fourth wall

This is the template
for all the writing
I have done,
all the writing
that will come.

This is the part
where I set the location,
through stating the time of day,
(or rather, night.)
and what I’m drinking.

This is when I say something
gritty and real-sounding,
perhaps blasphemous,
and you feel the need
to brush your teeth.

This is the part
where I say something negative
about something beautiful,
(or perhaps,
the opposite.)

This is where
I break your heart.

This concludes our broadcast day.

cosmos, distill life, life, love, poetry, universe

swiss precision

I hear the cricket’s fiddle.

I hear the yawn

the coyotes make

between howls,

when it’s almost time

to bed down for the day.

I listen closely,

as the freezing trees crackle

in the January wind.

I stretch my back,

and empathize.

I can hear the tick-tock-tick

of the universe,

as everything moves together

with Swiss precision.

I put my finger to my lips,

and shush them all,

so they can hear me

crack the first beer

of a perfect morning,

and whisper,

ever so slightly

into the right ear of the Sun,

telling her it’s okay to sleep in.

I’ve got this all

under control.


scattered, smothered, covered, peppered, and diced.

I’m in the diner again,
third time this week.
two eggs, over medium.
The waitress asks
if I have a crush on her,
but she wouldn’t like the answer.
I simply can’t be bothered
to fry my own bacon and eggs
in the morning,
It’s just too early.
I ask her out anyway,
I wouldn’t want to
hurt her feelings.
A sense of dread
washes o’er me,
as she agrees.
When this doesn’t work out,
and it won’t,
I may have to
fry my own eggs,
fry my own bacon.
What the fuck is a grits?
I hear Dad’s voice
in the back of my head,
“Don’t shit where you eat.”


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