Boys Will Be Boys

The cries of joy ring out, it's a boy! It's a boy!
pale knuckles and sweaty palms relax, a deep sigh is released
but the immediate urgency thrust on an infant wrapped in blue goes unnoticed.
He doesn't yet know, but that little "Y" that made him a he
is going to finalize the spelling of his masculinity.
He's been cursed, as have we all, with that first identity.

He's been scrapping, scraping knees and flailing five year old fists
The kindergarten schoolyard handed him some real violence today
and in his fear and confusion, he confessed, crying to Daddy.
Daddy's what your sister calls me. It's time to call me Dad.
You've got to be a man son, and this man's son isn't gonna cry
unless he wants something to cry about.

GI Joe at eight years old and violent flicks with Dad.
He loves the guns and blood, the smell of sensationalism
The winners always win, and he's a winner.
He's kicking ass at sports and kicking ass at recess.
He's become the alpha dog, his pack circles his target
and he lets loose with fists, being painted with blood and tears
the former makes him a man, while the latter makes the opposite of his prey.

The faculty doesn't call home anymore, his detentions are not uncommon
and he wears them with a sort of pride. Besides, the man on the other end of the line
may as well be a broken record.
"Boys will be boys"
"Boys will be boys"
"Boys will be boys"

"Fourteen and no girlfriend yet? What are you, boy, a faggot?"
High school is a lesson first, his attitude and violence are
met by adult students who put him to the ground enough that he gets the hint.
But his classmates are dominated by his masculine presence, and with the hormones growing
and flying at such a furious pace, he knows the world is his. The girls are his.
Dad's right, after all, he needs a girl, lest he be a queer.
His popularity with peers, his power and prestige purport a predestined path to pussy.
He picks the hottest one, a trophy to atrophy the status of those beneath.
Nobody can touch the alpha's girl, hence, nobody can reach the alpha.

It's a four year journey of cramming lessers into lockers
A four year story in which, to many, he is the main antagonist.
He is Man among God. Excelling in all things social because every other
would-be alpha dog is tonguing his heels. A prince on the field and a jester in the class.
And of course, a king, when prom time comes.
His Dad provides the beer, which makes the night a bit of a haze.

But what he remembers, he defends.
"That faggot kid got what was coming to him. I'm just sorry the ambulance got to him in time."
"Fuck it. The janitor can clean some puke up. That's his job."

His girlfriend had passed out, but he had taken the opportunity to prove his manhood.
"Yeah, she passed out, but you saw how she was dressed. Don't tell me that slut didn't want it.
I'm pretty sure she mumbled yeah anyways. Besides, bitch was so drunk she didn't even make me wear a condom."

Her friends plead with her to do something about it. But she insists that there's a sweet side to him they can't see.
She stays by his side, and stays with his child.
And as the months pass, and her belly grows, he finds himself beginning to pray.
For what, nobody can be certain, but he is praying fervently, furiously, day and night.
The time goes by, and his prayers are answered.
Pale knuckles and sweaty palms relax, a deep sigh is released
The cries of joy ring out, it's a boy! It's a boy!

Writing About Nothing

I’ve got nothing to talk about, in that I’ve got something to talk about and that something is nothing.

 It’s the feeling that makes you drop the pen and pick up the remote control.

Nothing to say.

 I go through the list of “socially conscious” topics. Racism, Sexism, hatred towards homosexuals. But why waste anybody’s time with what could only be speculation? I don’t have a first-hand account of any of these situations. 

 I’m a straight, white male. That’s about as privileged as it gets. The most upsetting part of my life is that stairways make me sweat. The only prejudice I’ve ever felt was pointed at my weight, and that’s because I eat too much, which is my fuckin’ choice to make.

 I grew up middle class. Wasn’t rich, wasn’t poor, Suburban bungalow with a sports car and a 4-door. And what’s more, full access to the story of how Frodo visited Mordor. My parents read to me unending ‘till I took it on myself to pull a copy of The Hobbit off the basement bookshelf.

 But in the years before that novel found its way into my hands, and from a time far back as when I was unable yet to stand, I had The King, The Mice, The Cheese, Robert Munsch and Dr. Seuss. While other kids said “look, a choo-choo!” I said “Engine, cars, caboose.”

 I started school with books in tow, reading Clifford to the class. Made the teachers drop their jaws and other kids would kick my ass.

 Reading doesn’t make you popular.

 But, so be it. After punches, stolen lunches, and a medley of attacks, I started thinking up a world I could create, and thus, relaxed. I started writing little stories, nothing quite Lothario, more like day to day adventures starring Super Mario. I made up lyrics to myself and stories, some I never shared because of how life was at school, I’ll be honest, I was scared.

 I had a linguophilic attitude, with words my only friends. I figured, why the fuck say big when I can say gargantuan, gigantic, monstrous, huge, colossal, vast, enormous or prodigious, mammoth, massive, giant, towering, humongous, or tremendous.

 I learned of stories, allegories, metaphors and similes. I learned of irony, hyperbole, pathetic fallacy. The structure grew into a loop of writings started and thrown out. I had a lot of writing in me, and nothing to write about. It took me years to get to this point, now I’ve got myself a voice, and if I did it all again, you know, I’d make the same damn choice to read and write and take some beatings, let the bastards wear me out. Cause now I can still write something, when I’ve got nothing to write about.

 And I imagine thanks are due to those who push me to my goals, so I’ll begin with children’s writers, every one of them is owed a massive debt to helping kids begin a life of words and dreams, and to the teachers who actually care, their job is harder than it seems. George Carlin taught me how to be pissed off and keep it funny. Thanks to everyone who says “There’s more important things than money.”

Hell, thanks to everybody at the Burlington Slam, if not for it, I’d be at home each night watching Batman.

But most importantly, my parents, without whom I’d not be this man.

Thank you for introducing me to Mister Sam I Am.

Not For Kids

NOTE: This is another one intended for spoken word. Some jokes only make sense when read aloud (Sawed me, for instance.) Check out Urban Dictionary for any terms with which you may not be familiar.


Once, there were three funny little gnomes named Frumpy, Blumpkin, and Felcher, and they lived deep out in the bush where nobody could find them.

The three friends had just gotten back from seeing their families for the holiday, and were eager to catch up on each others’ news.

“Frumpy” asked Blumpkin, “What did you do for your Gnomesday?”

“Well!” started Frumpy, “My parents like to keep things simple, and in the family, so we stay in as long as we can, and if somebody asks us to come somewhere, we say sorry, but we’re not coming anywhere today. We wake up, put on our special Mushroom Caps, and share our gifts with each other. I was hoping for a muff this year, so I could keep my hands warm in winter, but instead, I got wood.” And Frumpy proudly displayed his wood to his two friends.

“Gee Frumpy!” Shouted Felcher, “I sure would like to play with your wood some time!”
Frumpy giggled, “Of course Felcher! Both of you are welcome to play with my wood any time you like! I bet it’ll be loads of fun!”

Felcher beamed excitedly. “My Gnomesday was great, because it’s also my birthday! We always wake up really early so my Dad can enjoy the way the forest smells in the early day. He always says ‘Felcher, there’s nothing quite like the smell of morning wood to keep me going!’ We exchange presents and then go out to a restaurant! I got so excited for my mom’s present that I dove right into her box!”

Blumpkin laughed; “That’s because you’re so full of spunk, Felcher! So what did you get?”

Felcher gave a cocky grin; “Haven’t you noticed? It’s a new suit! I’ve been wearing my birthday suit this whole time!”

“Oh my!” exclaimed the others, “That’s very handsome!”

“I had to send my suit to a steamer in Cleveland” mumbled Blumpkin.

“So what did you eat?” Asked Frumpy.

“Well, we like traditions. My sister has always had a taco, and I’ve always had a sausage and beans. Heck, even my parents get crabs every year! And to wash it all down, we had a nice big pitcher of donkey punch!”

Blumpkin sighed. “My Gnomesday is always very busy. My parents insist I do spelling exercises before I get any gifts. Normally I only have to spell 5 or 6 words, but this year, they made me do 69! It was such a mouthful!”

Frumpy patted his friend on the back “Hey Blumpkin, spelling is important! Remember, you can’t have a smile without s&m!”

“I guess so.” Said Blumpkin. “We went out to see a neat magician later though, and I got to be his assistant! He put me in this big box, and then do you know what he did?”

The others shook their heads.

“Sawed me! He sawed me right in half and put me together again! It was great! Then I got this special skin lotion”

Felcher looked confused. “It’s lotion made of skin?”

“No, silly!” Laughed Blumpkin, “It’s –for- skin!”

Just then, it began to rain, and the three friends looked very worried.

“Oh no!” Cried Frumpy, “it’s raining! If I get wet, I’ll have to sleep wet, which means I’ll have wet dreams!”

“It gets worse!” cried Felcher, “Look! Here comes the Angry Pirate!”

The Angry Pirate with one peg leg was pegging as fast as he could, directly towards the three gnomes.

“Oh dear!” shouted Blumpkin, “He’s here to spread his taint all over our home!”

“Or summon that awful beast with two backs again!” Added Frumpy.

“Arr! No! No! Ye’ve got it all wrong gnomes!” Laughed the Angry Pirate. “I be here to wish ye a happy Gnomesday! I brought ye umbrellas t’keep ye dry on the walk home, and I’ve a special gift for each of ye!”

The gnomes laughed as they accepted his umbrellas and he walked them the rest of the way home, pegging quickly to keep up with them. And when they got to their homes, they smiled with delight, because the Angry Pirate had given each of them a beautiful golden shower.

The end.

Nice Guys

Nice Guys are dicks.
And I don’t mean nice guys, no. No. I mean Nice Guys. It’s a title.
You know the guys I mean.
Yeah…fuck those guys.
They’re dishonest, manipulative, and have a severe martyrdom complex.
And I know this, because well, I was one of 'em.
I was a Nice Guy, trapped in the friend zone lamenting how I always finished last,
not considering that maybe I finished last because I let everyone start ahead of me.

Here's an example of the Nice Guy's mind in action:

Man, I just met this girl and she’s beautiful and charming and funny and different!
AND I AM IN LOVE WITH HER NOW.
But I want her to trust me, because true love needs trust…it needs to have time to grow.
So I’ll get close to her as a friend, and hopefully one day, she’ll fall in love with me.

So The Nice Guy makes his “friend” approach, builds a friendship based on false pretenses and earns the trust that a friend would have from this girl with whom he is so very in love.

Part of the trust in trusting a friend is being able to relax
and believe that this person is not just trying to fuck you.

So the Nice Guy tries to play the “close friend” while trying not to seem sexually interested. He cuddles and gives back rubs as an excuse to get physically intimate. He says things like “You’re so hot!” and then goes “HAHAHAHAHA just kidding!”

So you plan to win the heart of this woman by saying it was a JOKE when you told her she was attractive?

You fucking clod.

All these Nice Guys have a breaking point, too. Time will manifest the revelation that they didn't "just want someone to hold them." They wanted her, they've always wanted her, and they just can't keep it quiet any longer.

Surprise! It doesn't work!

And then, because he’s a Nice Guy, he stays her “friend” and silently pines over her until his next true love comes along.

And the best part? He honestly believes that this woman he loves couldn't see through his pathetically transparent façade. Hey, nice guy, she knew what you were doing from day 1.

I know, that in your eyes, you're a hopeless romantic, constantly overlooked by women who prefer assholes. But to everybody else? You're a sad, lost puppy dog, and who doesn’t love taking care of a puppy dog? Sure, you pissed on the rug, but you can't help it, you're a puppy dog!

So you're wordlessly forgiven, and you never learn that what you did was wrong. When in truth, you should be fucking ashamed of yourself.

If there’s anybody who hears this, to whom this rings a little close to home? Take my advice. Be honest. Be yourself. If you meet someone you think is beautiful, or special. Just tell them. They’re not going to laugh at you. And if they do, why the fuck would you think them to be special?

Declare yourself. Be proud of yourself. And I don’t want to hear “I’m not what society deems attractive, so it doesn’t work for me.”

I have been in numerous relationships since I left the Nice Guys, and I am 340 pounds.

If this reaches any of you back in the Guild, I hope you heed my words.

And for the Nice Guys who don’t listen? I’ll see you at the finish line.

I’ll be the one drinking the last glass of water.

Poem Designed to Lose me Points at a Slam

Note: This is a slam piece, which kind of bends and pokes fun at the rules of slam poetry. Again, meant to be read aloud, or heard.



I want you all to imagine a bassline
The kind you get with beatnik stereotypes
Walking up and down the frets to the rhythm of
Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss.

Cause I’m not allowed to use music
But that don’t mean I won’t abuse it,
I’ve employed a subconscious variant
And if you say I used it? Prove it.
And if you like the bassline? Use it
Get your body up and move it
Turn this slam into a dance
And let the bassline get you groovin’

Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss

It says “no props” in my instructions
Only vocal form and function
Is it accessible by all? It is?
Then use it in conjunction
With the words that come erupting
As a vocalized expulsion
But now I give my props to you
And still the penalties can’t touch me

Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss

See rules are great for breaking
Even though I’m just bending and faking
I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed
By madness, starving, hysterical, naked.

That one might get me disqualified…

Only original works, no covers
It’s just an homage for poetry lovers
Ginsberg shouldn’t inspire attack
Or should I be quoting Kerouac?

Bassline off!

It’s something I’ve heard said numerous times already
And I love the concept, and honestly don’t care if I lose points on this poem.
Because remember – there are points in poetry, but no poetry in points.

Okay Bassline On!

Ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss, ts-ts tsss

I like to think of myself as clever
With a touch of ego for good measure
I’ve been called an arrogant prick
But it’s the nickname that I treasure
There’s just one rule that I can’t sever
And I’ve been writing for forever
My friends, I’m just not good enough
To get this poem to 3:11.

My God

I’d like to talk about my god
My god is the creator, curator, partaker
In life and the living. My god is the light of day
And the tranquility of night. My god is a map
Of stars and heavenly bodies. My god is a compass
To which I cling, to guide me morally north.
My god is a beacon in absolute dark.
But please, allow me this occasion
To explain just why my god is everything my god is.
See, my god has observed me, preserved my
Virtues and values. Never once have I been judged by my god.
My god sees me as me, not sinner or saint. My god will guide me,
Support me, and never extort me.
My god abhors the wars that plague our history
Laments the extents of hatred and bigotry
My god’s not about building fortune or fame
My god doesn’t even ask me to capitalize his name
My god asks no categories, no segments and sects
No acts in my god’s name, no crusades, and no deaths
My god stands beside me, no veil, no shroud
Adds chorus to my voice, and helps cry aloud
“Gather round friends, I beg to be heard
Of conditions that render this planet absurd
While I’m not here to preach, I beseech you all, please
Give a moment to reason, that it might buy you peace.
I’ll ask no donations, my god is not greedy
And churches take space that could shelter the needy
I will give you my promise – faith need not be tested
And the children of this faith can live unmolested
By those they would trust and provide with their love
Because my god’s right here.”
Love is the best way to traverse my god’s path
And it don’t fucking matter what sex organs you have
Because love is just that. Love. No restrictions
Love is far more than the need to make infants.
Love is beyond our vaginas and dicks
To my god, a faggot’s a bundle of sticks
A dyke is a levee to regulate water
Not a name that you hurl at your lesbian daughter
And god…don’t even get my god started on war
I’ll say it again, though I’ve said it before
It’s an outrage of nature, the blood of our kind
Being splashed as we’re gashed and made wastes of a mind
Which could elsewise be working to teach and subdue
That which halts the full human potential coming through.
It’s hard to ignore that we’re violent creatures
When we decorate soldiers while pissing on teachers
My god openly weeps when considering cost
Cause who the fuck ever heard of ‘justifiable loss’?
War is a crime, it don’t matter the cause
Whether soil or oil, it’s grasping at straws
Like the colour of skin, or whose religion is best
They say “God’s in our hearts!” Well, your heart’s in your chest
This is man-made destruction, corruption erupting
The seduction of scapegoating God for protection.
It has to stop.

So I ask you now, stand up and do what you can manage
That we might co-habitate on this beautiful planet
And think of my god who won’t demand reference
Through skin colour, gender, or sexual preference
My god who would never send children to war
and will shrilly condemn what our weapons are for
my god who insists that the world be fed
with shoes for each foot and roofs for each head
There’s enough who agree that something can be done
We can stand up together, grant justice a home
And we can’t be afraid to raise questions to ears
Who would otherwise hide based upon their own fear.
And I’d love to assure you my god will come through
But the truth is, these questions have to be asked by you
I’m afraid I’ve been lying. The truth, then, is this:
My perfect world’s God just doesn’t exist.

Ode to My Voice

NOTE: This piece is heavily accented with a variety of different voices, so reading it will not have the same impact as hearing it.

My voice never complains.

Well, not unless I make it.

Strains and aches and injuries abound, sure

But my voice, my special friend, chums up and soldiers on

I can alter it at a whim, and it never gets frustrated by my indecision

I can crack it all nasal and irritating.

I can slip it low and sexy

Mimic Yoda’s I can with it, hmm?

I can even *cough cough* fake a coughing fit

Truth is, my voice is my own little God.

Where the rest of my body just MOANS and WHINES

Like “UUUGH, THAT SUN IS TOO BRIGHT”

Shriek my eyes and my pathetic ginger kid flesh

My voice never tells me “These shoes are too tight, I’m gonna blister up just to spite you”

The elbows  are all “Psoriasis! No reason. Psoriasis!”

My stomach says so very often “My God man, I am far too fat”

To which my voice replies “Well, I’m sorry stomach, but I like hamburgers.”

And I’m pretty sure my voice has never expressed “STOP EVERYTHING. I HAVE TO POOP.”

My fingers bitch and tremble, crying “Over a decade of guitar playing has shredded us to pieces!”

That’s right, I play guitar. Pretty cool huh?

So I muse to myself “Give guitar a break, let’s learn piano”

And then the piano says “Those calloused guitar fingers are dirty and heavy. They hurt my ivory face!.”

So the piano is talking to me. And this is my brain complaining now. “DANIEL. DANIEL.” That’s the voice of my brain. “I’M GOING MAD! I’M LOSING MY…UH…ME!”

But then to hell with you, fingers and instruments. Fuck both of you because thanks to my voice I can sing!

At least, until jealous Mr. Throat comes in, hoarsening up, readying weapons, STABBING, STABBING, and trying to kill my voice.

But my wonderful, stalwart voice will stay on its feet (whose shoes are never too tight) and it will whisper through the incessant volley of problems fired out of my malcontented windpipe.

It is the survivor of all that I am. It is what remains to express me.

I am a vessel.

Fitted flesh on a case of blood and bone.

This physical specimen is, well, not reality.

In time, come and gone, from semen to rot.

It is beyond what identifies that truly defines

I could step away tonight, wander in front of a bus, and shatter every bone in my body. My voice would still try its absolute best to say “Please call an ambulance. I wish to live.”

And with everything taken from me. All things cracked and destroyed, made useless for the remainder of my life, I could still cry, because of my voice.

And so, to my voice, the most honest and real part of who I am, I say thank you.

You’re welcome.