Lazyboy Narnia

Not the best poetry I’ve ever written at all. Just an angry word vomit.


They say there are couch potatoes,
but man…. you’re more like couch garlic.
You leave a bad taste in my mouth.

While you sit, melting into your chair
like Lazyboy Narnia is through the cushion
and you’re just pushin’ and pushin’
trying to get there……

I believe in setting goals,
I believe in scrabbling and floundering
and fighting to fill in the holes
left from people who said that I can’t.

But you. You. You. You.
Think that life’s coming to scoop you up…
Take you somewhere magic.
Think that there’s some cosmic force
that works to save the tragic
lives of people that don’t

So hey, let’s raise glasses
To the movers and shakers….
(Not the lazy heartbreakers.)



You found me sitting under a grey sky-
the dullness casting sickly shades of
(apathy)? across my face.
I was holding a lipstick stained cup
out to you. The lips weren’t mine-
they were thin like red inchworms
slapped onto a plastic canvas.
You said I looked like an angel-
a saint; Jean of Arc the day before she
burned…I said (yeah babe,
I’m fighting for my own cause-
that’s the way I operate).
You chuckled to yourself, and
walked away…
leaving me to carry
the weight of the grey sky,
and sip from a cup with lips
that were not mine.



Let’s stand in
one of those lines
that lurch and linger
(maybe a bathroom at
a concert or
a purchase line
of some sort).
Let’s shove our
hands into someone
elses’ pockets,
(not to practice
or perversity ….
a likely lie)
just to get a feel for
something new,
to sink our hands into
a stranger’s
Fiddle with
crumpled receipts,
scraps with numbers,
faces, lost meanings…
discards from a
Isn’t it curious? That all
the things that are too
(un)pretty to mount
on a wall but too
something to throw
remain for unestablished
periods of times in
the little cracks of
our lives?
In our pockets and our
floorboards… gathering
dust and disappointment
behind our furniture.
Little fossils of our weakness.
And as I stand in this line
with my hands in someone
elses’ pockets
(Guilty of
I can’t help but
think that there’s
some metaphor
in these musings
and that
we’ve all been
fragments of someone’s
life left to
dust in
shadowed places.
And I can’t
help but think of
just how
that is.



You are a buffer
the infinite sadness.
A floodgate.
Stopping the pervasion-
I have been suffused
already. I am a cloth.
The profound pervasion.
How resonant.
You are profound.
I am profound-
(Ly lost)
In this.
We are profound
together…. apart?
The ellipses
something in the
is us.
But isn`t.
The flood is coming
The flood is coming
The flood is coming
Will you keep it strong,
Hold it up
Be my Atlas?
The flood has come.
My eyelashes




Something I wrote awhile back. Meant to warm souls and challenge minds.

- - - - - - - - - - - -

You and your odd little

addictive personality

like to sit on rooftops,

swinging your legs

and musing about the passerby.

"His hair’s too short,

Her dress is too floral,

His mustache looks like Stalin’s….

but they’re all wonderful people.”

You and your caffeine charged turbolovefilled warmth

like to radiate from the rooftop

like a human sun.

Radiate in the arms of any stranger,

incubating their capacity

to be ok.

I like people like you.

"People mad to live, mad to talk…

desirous of everything at the same time”

Kerouac might say.

"People like you…"

Kerouac might say.

"Sick of all the cold brick

coolasacuke automatons…”

Kerouac might say.

You and your odd little

addictive personality…

might be shot one day.

Shot down like everyone with

an addictive personality

(is eventaully shot.)

Holes in the Splenda package..

Shot by the jealous brigade.

"Lobotomized by the practitioners

of hush- hush society,”

(Ginsberg might say).

But for now,

just sit on your rooftop,

and toss little papers

down on the heads of the passerby.

Little papers that sprinkle and

cling like snow,

and when opened read,

"You are beautiful…

yes you, yes you,

you are.”