Tell Me A Little Bit About Yourself

Tell you about myself?
What do you want to know?
Look at my instagram 
Happy in each photo.

Or do you want statistics?
Name, age, date of birth?
The city I was born in?
Amount I’m worth?

How about some letters
At the end of my name?
Or high school, colleges, 
What I became?

Or the juicy ones
That you’ll spread around?
Bipolar Type 2, Pure Obsessive,
Chronically down. 

I don’t think you understand.
You can’t SEE me. 
You can’t tell who I am,
By my degrees.

Not by email, 
Not by text, 
Not by picture, 
Or what I do next.

I’m not who I was, 
Nor who I am now. 
Or what you see:
What I allow.

You have to talk to me
You have to learn
You can’t know a person, 
It’s something earned. 

There is no I AM
I cannot just BE
Bipolar, these obsessions,
They’re part of me.

I’m always changing
I don’t know who I am
I can tell you facts,
But you’ll never understand.

I’ll tell you 
What I think you want to hear
Because I know how you think, 
I know what you fear. 



I thought concentration camps
were black and white and grey.
How else could murder happen
in the 40’s every day?

In nineteen fourty five,
grandfather was outside Dachau’s gate,
it read Arbiet macht frei,
the prisoners fate.

Twenty three years old,
He stood outside the iron rail,
The chains too thick to cut,
A blow torch finally freed the jail.

When the US seventh army, 
Opened up the gates, 
They gave out all their rations, 
But for most it was too late.

A prisoner of war camp,
he had thought at the time,
so why the visible ribs?
The smell of death and grime?

He tells me it was only later,
he learned of ovens in the back.
Where Nazis burned the prisoners,
To make the dead turn black. 

I went to Dachau,
This year in June.
I stood in the gas chamber
Absent of fumes.

I stroked pale green tiles,
Standing under false shower heads.
Outside bright green for spring,
perfect for flower beds.

Puffy white clouds
Sailed overhead
When I stood in the courtyard
Where thousands were shot dead.

As I entered the creamatory,
I heard birds sing,
Just as the condemeed did
When they died every morning.

The smells of death and disease
Had passed overtime.
Dachau now smelled of dirt,
And breeze of springtime.

Gray photographs seperate us,
history books seem like fiction,
but there were smells, color,
a now impossible depiction.

My grandfather remembers 
Arbiet macht frei.
It means “work brings freedom”
The Nazi’s lie.

And he remembers the sounds
of shooting German gaurds,
the touch of prisoners,
the smell of the yards.

So it’s wrong to think the world
was black and white,
for those imprisoned,
Color gave them reason to fight.


A ghost lived once

A ghost lived once
inside this house
They say he murdered his kids
And then his spouse.

He fell in love
With someone else
He told his wife 
Their marriage was false. 

She went into the bathroom
And closed the door
She took the kids with her 
She loved no more.

He went to find them,
The doorknob was hot.
He flinched and jumped back
As smoke billowed out.

He pounded on the door
Then kicked it down,
Looking for their bodies
On the tiled ground.

His face sizzled and burned
Before the fire went out
Then he was alone
He cried and shout.

He went to the hospital
For his burned face
They looked at him and whispered
His deformity out of place.

He suffered and grieved
In the old house he cried. 
They made up a rumor 
after he died:

A ghost lived once 
inside this house .
He murdered his kids
And then his spouse.


Erotic Poem 

You have these obsessions,
You think leave a hole.
Come to me and we’ll see
Who really has a lost soul.

Put your hands on me, 
This is no a joke,
My soft flesh
For you to choke.

Take me under your control,
Rip my clothes.
Feed your soul. 
I’m yours to pose.

Hand on my neck, 
Take what you own
fingers in my flesh, 
Gasp and groan. 

I push you away
You laugh and pull me in, 
Push my legs apart 
I say ow! And give in.

Bury your cock in me
With a frenzied need
I scream No!
You release your seed.