Prose Before Hoes

All the mom-sters tried to

lure me into their

suburban web, with

steaming lattes and

comfy pants.

Yet, they whisper,

I have the gall to

walk away. An

artistic Rumspringa,

where the stories

of my life remind

me of those languid

days we spent by

the beach, combing

my fingers in the sand,

and squinting at the sun.

The waves lapping

like our hearts beating

in the heat.

There’s just no time

for the unjust coaching

in so-and-so’s

gymnastics or how

we wish he’d pick

up his dirty socks.

I’m simply busy

bleeding those stories,


after night,

onto this page.



this week has been the

ten plagues. Except locusts,

thank god.

Even the animals

are petulant.

And right now I’m

hoping, if I take

my blood and tears,

and display them


then somehow I’ll

be spared this

agony, and sent

instead with those

who have roamed

the desert of

obligation and

normalcy for

these next

forty years.





Please, Try to Be Fucking Interesting

Be fucking interesting.

Have a story to tell

and an anecdote handy, goddamnit.

Be ready to jump into the soul

of the person across from you

and share something more

intriguing than the weather

or gossip or the latest

spirit killer from popular culture.

Read a bloody book.

Take a hike.

Commune with the ocean.

Watch the poor teenager

at the discount store roll her eyes

at her grandmother, who is trying on

all the purple dresses.

Think about how your grandmother

made you comb your cowlick

or dress for church

and then there was her famous

albondigas after.

Remember how her house smelled like

roast and White Shoulders

and how teenage missy

will wish she had those loving

arms again some day.

Try to act refreshing.

Not because you know all the cool things

or because you’re just nice,

but because you walk arm and arm

with adventure and observation.

Life is a cabaret, old chum.

Did you notice?

Would you have noticed,

if your face weren’t glued into

that personality-ruining screen?