Martin Luther King Day. They sing, they
Write with the tip of a sting ray
A wing of clay suddenly grew feathery
Peeping the lettering
The phone’s connection
Wireless tethering

Martin Luther King Day, they sing, they
Fling faith at apostles like feces
The monkey’s paw
The donkey saw
The monkey in awe
And from the height of Earth’s atmosphere
A crow did caw

Martin Luther King Day, they sing, they
Holler propaganda out a think tank
Think blank. Sink. Sank.
A Chink. Che
Guevara kissed Martin
Across the room I was darting
And told no one
I was departing


A True Patriot

I feel like Mitch Trubisky
When he played Tampa
Imagine a football player
Taking a shit on the flag
During the national anthem

I criticize my country
Because I love it, I really do
I bleed red

You can’t doubt my love for the nation
(You really can’t)
I am the product of playing Spyro on the PlayStation
(I really am)

Adlibs. Adlibs in poetry. This is a first
Rolling up Barney
I’m smoking purp
I try a lot of things
To see what works
I feel like a guy named Dirk
Dirk Naverk

So what else? What have I not spoken
Oops I mean written
Cold hand smokes a cigarette
Da fuck is a mitten?
Remember Thanksgiving
Nah actually don’t



I don’t like people knowing my plans.
I like people knowing my plans…
And then changing my plans without them knowing

I like letting people predict wrongly my plans

I like not having a plan
And improvising a whole damn plan

I like planning like an architect
And executing like a ninja

I like planning at the beginning and the end
But never in the center

I like planning

I like plans

I looked in the mirror and said,

Goddamn! That’s quite a plan!

Novel Excerpt

Student Loan Debt

Numerous student loans

No intention of reimbursing lenders

Big time spender

Living lavishly

Used to be hood rich but now?

Student loan rich

Throwing mail away

Chuckling like:

“Do they really think I’ll pay?”

No way Jose

Source: RevitalizedPoetry


Timothy Stevens entered the kitchen. His ambition was to prepare a sandwich from oxygen, that means from scratch. He put one slice of bread on another and ate it like encrusted delight. He looked at the clock as he chewed and made faces. He nibbled on it to prolong the pleasure of his immediate snacking. “Timothy,” chimed and bellowed, the source being Patricia, Tim’s roommate who never put out.

“She’s bangable,” Tim would oft-tell his comrades at the deli. And he showed them pictures. They would hesitate to agree but Tim’s pleading face in the end made them say yeah, they would hit it.

“Wha-” started Tim but swallowed quickly and repeated “What!?”

“Are you eating the last of the bread?”

“No, why?”

“I want you to eat my pussy,” Patricia announced. “That’s why.” She planted her feet at the head of the kitchen, skimpy white towel covering her passable body. And a towel on her head too. A small piece of it hung like suicide over her passable face.

“Seriously?” marveled Tim. His back was to the sink. The sink had his back. One hand held the sandwich like a Gameboy behind his back. The Gameboy had his back.

“No. Just fucking with you, dumbass.”

The doorbell rang.

“Go get it, dumbass.”

Timothy concurred that he should get it and went to the door he did. A box from Amazon had been left. “My push-up bras!” yelled Patricia.

Tim picked up a pack of letters. Some credit card related, some not. He got to the one in the back and paused. His ears rang as all else became inaudible. It was like a Twilight Zone moment mixed with the mind of R.L. Stine. He opened the letter and exploded.

He owed $30,000. He was a psychologist. But not even professionally.

“Dumbass,” chimed her.


*Later in the novel, it is discovered that Timothy literally exploded.