A calendar for 2021: 
Illustrated original poetry about love and (mostly) loss
Images drawn by hand and colored in Photoshop
7" x 14" (open),     7" x 7" (closed)
Rt. 22 to Dullmeadow 
I often fantasize about driving you home. You’ll never know, because there’s no way in Hell I’d ever tell you. I’ll never tell you how you’ll leave the battery running by accident and have to ask me for a ride. I’ll never tell you that I’d drop whatever shit I’m buried in to give you one, screw my schedule. I’ll swipe away the garbage on the passenger’s seat, slightly embarrassed; I won’t be expecting any company. I’ll just pray to void and freezing air that the hoard of empty water bottles under your feet don’t make you think less of me, as if you could think less of me. We’ll get in my car and I’ll say you can plug your phone in if you want. But you’ll leave the music up to me. So I’ll blast the one country song on my iPod because I still remember the one time you told me you liked country. Right before you told me you had a boyfriend. 
Maybe that could change if you think I’m funny, so I’ll try to make you laugh, a suicide mission on my part. But all the one-liners and corny puns that have been lined up for this exact moment will be tangled in the cobwebs of my brain, curled up in the fetal position. I know I’ll end up regretting every word that comes out of my mouth, but you’ll still chuckle at them out of pity. I know it’s out of pity; but you still have the best laugh I’ve ever heard. For as long as I’ve wanted to tell you that, it’s the one thing I won’t be able to say.
By this point, we’ll be on the highway and I’ll ask if the heat is OK, if you’re not too cold. You’ll tell me you’re fine but won’t say much else. I know it’s because you’re uncomfortable around me, but you’ll never say that to my face. You’ll never say how the five other people you asked before me had somewhere else to be, or that you’ve been second-guessing every moment since you opened the passenger side door. You’re too nice. We don’t have sex or anything; I don’t even try to kiss you. I just pull into your driveway and stay there until I know you’re safe, waiting until you close the front door to set up my GPS. 
Maybe it’ll be more than just your car battery. Maybe I’ll end up driving you home every night one week. Maybe then we’ll get close enough for you to want to make out in the backseat or at least slide your hand down my shoulder. But for tonight, I’m just driving myself home, blaring the music loud enough to feel like I’m not driving alone.
Quasimodo's Disguise 
A balaclava 
for the freak to hide behind 
a rose clutched in his fist 
he only wants you to love him to keep him in mind, but you never did 

did you?

A cauldron seethes beneath his skin 
boiling over, burning baby’s pink
 from the splash of rose smashed 
in your fist,  married off to a kick in the shin 
and what you call a favor to mankind: 
a balaclava 
for this freak to hide behind
The Lone Goose 
I often wonder what I have done 
to harbor a loneliness so profuse 
The hours and years all fade into one.

My brain has been spun 
into wisps on a stick, pummeled to juice 
over words never said, things never done.

I know all too well that there isn’t a ton 
of women who’d want to pick me to seduce. 
It seems that if she exists, she isn’t the one.

Some nights I  wonder if I’d owned a gun 
would I melt it into David or put it to use? 
Put the barrel to my ears. Pull the trigger. Call it done.

People kissing by bonfires as hot as the sun 
while I’m stuck playing catch-up, playing caboose 
How long must I wait to belong to someone?

When faith to keep going has dwindled to none 
I often fantasize of becoming a goose 
I’ve glued all the feathers; the suit’s almost done 
For geese don’t get lonely. There’s never just one.-
Dump Pinocchio 
Strings hidden up his ass...Are you really in love? 
Otherwise, you deserve so much better. 
Go in for a kiss get a face full of leaves. The tree feeds on lies., 
You deserve so much better. 

Vultures perching upon his nose turn their gaze 
upon your sweet chickadee self. 
Sorry words melt into laser beams shooting from their eyes: 
you deserve so much better. 

Even the thickest of wool won’t camouflauge 
a snarling snout. You’re smarter than that. 
Boot his brain in the crotch, Dear, it’s not a surprise, 
you deserve so much better. 

Innocence twirling like snow in your eyes 
melts to obsidian at his touch I want to see you 
embraced by one of the beluga-hearted and honest guys 
you deserve. So much better. 

You’d rather disfigure that beautiful face 
in an industrial shredder, but no worries my love, 
I won’t be the gentleman waltzing with you once you realize 
you deserve so much better.
A Simple 'No' Would've Been Nice 
Two weeks, dead silence 
I don’t normally do this 
and now you know why 
$100 for 45 Minutes (Scratch That) 
Sometimes - no, a lot of the time - actually, scratch that - 
all the fucking time I wonder why I even bother trying to fall in love
with somebody when it always seems to bite me in the ass.
See, the thing is, I don’t “catch feelings” very often. I need
to really get to know them first. And if they have blue eyes
that usually does it. I don’t know why but blue eyes always make me weak.
Almost like ice cream, fluffy orange cats, all those are weaknesses
too. I mean, it’s not that I find other colors unattractive, it’s not that
at all. I mean, I think it’s because my first crush had blue eyes
and I guess no one ever really forgets their first love
Kinda cheesy - scratch that - pathetic, I know. Like ‘hey, I needed
to tell you, I still think about my high school crush’. I’d make an ass
out of myself. It’s no wonder no girl wants to take my pathetic ass
out on a date. I mean, it did happen once, though, like a week
before the world smoldered into a ball of ash in space. Needless
to say, I did not get a second date or anything at all after that.
I guess I just want so badly to fall in love
to hold somebody’s hand and stare into each other’s eyes
that my brain becomes this dorky cartoon character with hearts for eyes
like it’s all me and my sentimental-as-hell ass
can think about. But does any woman really see me as potential lover
material? She’d have to be washed out in a real moment of weakness - 
scratch that - total desperation for her standards to sink as low as that
and someone trampling my innards like effigy ashes is not at all what I need
And the last thing she’d probably want is some needy
sap like me clinging to her like a lash stuck in her eye
or scratch that - pet hair on black pants. I tend to be like that.
I’d like to think I wouldn’t be such a pain in the ass
if I wasn’t trapped in my head 120 hours out of the week.
To finally have a girlfriend who’s not imaginary. How lovely
A sweet girl with an elephant’s heart who loves
cuddling and cheeseburgers as much as me. Well she doesn’t need
to love cheeseburgers, as long as she knows I couldn’t go a week -
.scratch that - a day without saying ‘I love you’ or how pretty her eyes
are or how badly I want to kiss her or some other corny-ass
sentimental crap like that.
Well complaining about it isn’t gonna do shit. I know that.
But just think, this would be a way different-ass
story if it wasn’t so difficult to look people in the eye.
Sorry for Staring 
 sapphire blue 
poison dart frogs 
where your eyes should be, 
sparkling like Perrier. 
Has it gone straight to my head? 
Or  has  the  sunlight  in  your  smile 
evaporated all my senses? 
Their poison burns through, slow death commences. 
Every last one of my defenses
crumbles into a heaping pile 
at your feet. My brain goes dead, 
fixated on the way 
your eyes smiled at me. 
Light turns to fog 
around you. 
I can’t 
She Hates Him Once the Cameras Stop Rolling 
The thick
                                                 line that separates cinema
                                                 from the rest of us:

                                                     the way platinum gazes at rusted iron
                                                         wants him,
                                                           kisses his lips
                                                                because she wants to.

                                                                     I’ll become a Monkee,
                                                                     a believer myself
                                                                      when eyes half as beautiful
                                                                        see something in me.
Sunflower Bouquet 
My sunflowers 
are likely dead by now. 
Shriveled golden autumn on your tabletop 
swept so gracefully into your palms 
and tossed away.
Is "Bloody" Just an Expression? 
The auburn hair, wide green eyes 
remind me of a girl I knew, 
too sweet, too innocent 
to be a siren, 
still her voice submerses me 

Could you be the Marr to my Morrissey, 
the Calvin to my Hobbes 
the Harriet to my Dave; 
I need you now. 

Improbable it may be, 
but I believe 
time-travel’s the only way 
two men could infiltrate my sleep 
and put my life to music


In my head’s wasteland, you lie; 
“You have a lovely singing voice”; 
But why do what you’ve already done 
with a charred intelligent wit 
I can only dream of?
Shelter Mutt 
It seems to be 
that you and me 
are vanilla ice cream and warm apple pie. 
Something so sweet that only liquifies 
to a sticky puddle in the end, 
when you melt 

I was and I wasn’t 
a mutt of yours to foster 
(crooked ears, crooked posture)
until you abandoned me 
to drown in a sea 
of naked trees behind your house. 

I lie beneath them 
on a rainy night, 
To Her Father Thou Art Somewhere, Hollowed Be Thy Name 

Any daughter of God
is bound to have some daddy issues.
He's never even read her a bedtime story
from the brown brick of a book in her nightstand.

Because of Daddy and His issues,
she could never fall in love with an atheist,
or the brown brick of a book in her nightstand
might tear their fucking face off.

If she ever did fall in love with an atheist,
Daddy would read them a new bedtime story
about the man who tore their fucking face off
for touching a daughter of God.
Chicken _____ 
(Important Dates)
Lovelessness tends to run in the family. My 
grandparents, my parents, it’s only a matter of 
time before you run away from me. But you 
haven’t run. Not yet. I’d tell you to run while you 
can, before my inhibitions run out and I latch
onto you like a tick. But I’d just end up running
my mouth and running out of time before you 


run too, leaving me a runny mess of ruins. 
So I’ve replaced my running shoes with bags of 
concrete. When I try to run to you, I might as 
well be running on a hamster wheel. Take
them off and I run the risk of snowy-colored                  
dust flying everywhere and making it look like
 a blizzard had run through the place. I run the 
risk of being able to move.
All that’s left to do is wait for this thing
to run its course, for the inevitable 
‘we had a good run’. At least that’s what I’ll
tell myself as the cement running through
my veins runs hard and cold:
‘we had a good run’.
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