the caucasion herd stampeding past the rotunda


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I have found that people who run in circles slow enough to be able to speak in complete sentences say profoundly dumb things.

Sweaty glistened,

defined rippling,

pale bone;

brain swivels,

mouth jeers,

“i hate those people!”

“i hate those people too!”

a jock chorus,


question of the day screeched,

“when you suck each other’s dicks, is it still easy to yell boo?”

brain and eyes snap forward.

they run from me.

they gave up on 12th night


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“I was thinking that it might do some good. If we robbed the Senate and took all their food.”

So, I am very busy and self absorbed.

So, I made a system.

If someone needs help and can sustain their activity toward self or world improvement for 13 consecutive days. I show up willing to help with all my power and creativity.

Why 13?

13 is supposed to be unlucky.

I was born on September 13.

The 13th step in recovery is naughty and not suggested.

It takes two weeks or 14 days to create a habit.

It takes me about two weeks to find resources for my projects.

So, on day 13 of the UVA Living Wage hunger strike, I showed up.

I had a plan and needed bodies to go all over grounds taking all the edible contents of all the University’s Department kitchens and possibly Carr’s Hill leaving in the food’s place quotes Ghandi had spoken during his hunger strikes.

The food would be placed on the Rotunda steps behind the hunger strikers.

I knew Spring Break was coming, so I found people to donate sleeping bags and tents, so the students could camp out in my back yard until they were allowed to return to the dorms.

I showed up thirty minutes before the 13th hour of the 13th day.

No one approached me or said hello until my friend Frank from Occupy came over and hugged me.

I divulged my plan. He told me he wasn’t sure if anyone was still on strike.

I approached the leaders and asked about the strike status.

And, the last hunger striker had Chinese the night before.

So, I left and went to Holy Comforter’s lunch soup kitchen.

to davy, my english hanuman


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when you were a simple monkey

asked to deliver a single bud,

you brought a field of asian amber flush.

your unbridled devotion

thrust you to monkey god.

now, you divinely intervene

and bring me messages of him.

i find him in a soup kitchen

baking apple bread in a

t-shirt depicting two quarreling

monkeys captioned,

“double talk.”

he loves me and focuses on

monkees rerun marathons

late into the night preserving

our chaste, intimate love.

tonight’s virgin viewing is

in your honor

and cinematic eulogy,


humming your swanee river,

i shiver with relief that

my heart no longer attacks.

thank you,

for the anthem bouquets

of my youth.

poetry and creative writing 101


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i read a lot of unpublished poets who ask for honest feedback.

here is a list of suggestions for better writing.

1. all stars are above you unless you are writing from an outer space perspective. so, writing they are above is citing the obvious and poor creative writing.

2. nights are usually dark, so it’s a boring and obvious way to describe night.

3. reserve capitalization for emphasis. if all of it is in capitals, it looks like you are yelling everything.

4. spell check is your friend.

5. if you find yourself using the same words over and over in your writing, peruse a thesaurus. has a good one.

6. a journal is not the same thing as an anthology of poetry.

7. use language creatively and effectively meaning use writing tools like alliteration, parallelism, proper punctuation, and correct tenses.

8. instead of writing “a rose,” do some research and specify what kind of rose or use the rose’s latin or genus name. this will make your writing more specific and more filled with novel imagery.

9. reserve cursing for emphasis. constantly using vulgar language numbs your readers to your work. using it thoughtfully and sparsely, jars and effects your readers.

10. try working with different poetry structures to broaden your writing skills. trying to express yourself in very tight creative quarters can lead to a lot of growth as a writer. haiku, limericks, and sonnets are great places to start.

11. reduce passive tense and nominalization, and use more active voice.

and, final tip…if you want to be a better poet, read more.

hope my suggestions help!

do you have any, you would like to share?

craigslist killer


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you love to stick your flag’s thin pole in her again and again.

you love to kill her heart songs again and again.

you love to delete her again and again.

you love to hate her again and again.

this piece is infected.

insert your skinny pole here, and disease will spread through your computer’s keyboard to your vulnerable fingertips and your heart will rival your mind in closeness.

your closed, frigid heart will crumble onto itself.

and, as your chest caves in, charlottesville craigslist women will rejoice in their new freedom to love openly and  expressively once again.

please, silly, puritanical censor, please flag her one more time.

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Sticking It to The Man Cruising Craigslist At Work?


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“I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

Her title cheekily reads, “Sticking It to The Man Cruising Craigslist At Work?”

He hardens as he glances at the erotic pictures below the ad.

“How does she come up with this stuff? Oh God, what if she’s a dude?”

Heel clicks approach.

He minimizes but cannot close her window.

His boss fills his cubicle entrance and looks down at him with  a third concern, a third frustration, and a third of something unreadable.

Twenty three minutes, two bemused, stifled, co-worker, bodiless, giggles, and one public corrective action later, he is alone in his cramped box.

Chewed out, he bites his upper lip and closes his eyes.

On the insides of his eyelids, he plays the tape forward.

He answers her(?) latest ad telling her how he first read her weeks ago and would recognize her writing style anywhere.

The first time, he was in a hurry, and bookmarked it to read later. He came back, and it was flagged for deletion.

And, now he constantly trolls craigslist personal ads hoping for her words, when he should be contributing to the new frontiers of life insurance actuary.

Then, he makes some funny remark about accessing the risk of contacting her, maybe with an Anias Nin quote thrown in for good measure.

She writes back something quirky, brief, and intriguing.

He responds the same day with a hopefully as equally inspired message and a picture of him playing in the pool with his niece and nephew. He thinks this a brilliant move showing his defined, freckled chest and his love of kids.

Not so subtle of him, but he senses she prefers blunt force.

She sends a note reading only “moi” with a picture attachment.

He clicks the paperclip icon and is stunned.

She’s a statuesque Amazon with flaming, flowing red hair.

Hmmm, a little intimidating.

She’s a petite pearl of an Asian woman with almond, exotic eyes and…

“Are you sleeping?”

He slams his eyes open and mumbles something about a migraine.

She shrugs and walks away.

It occurs to him that maybe he could google one of the stanzas from her poem and find a book or site about his Raphaelite beauty or China doll.

He copies and pastes her sexiest poem into the search engine.

And, he finds her blog!

He presses his cursor to the About section hoping to glimpse his allusive, literary sex goddess.

“Oh my God, how can someone so fat, be so sexually active?”

Thoughts of her, send him to the gym.

Thoughts of her, force him to the communal men’s shower.

“I really shouldn’t be doing this.”

the original bbw mystic


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she tangled me in her private hairs,

as i kissed darkness sweet good night.

her fish porridge boiled

burning my tongue.

her searing heat

came in staccato

puffs smothering

the bushel’s

candlelight of

jesus’ simple love


who seeks

ivory, bone arms,

when he can

lounge and suffocate



brown, thick

heaving heaven?

Steven Bost, Southern Gentleman?


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When I was a first year at the University of Virginia, I was fascinated with frat boys.  One night, this guy who reminds me a lot of Steven Bost invited me upstairs to his bedroom. We stumbled through the darkness onto his couch.

He shoved his tongue down my throat and thrust his hand down my tank top. I asked him if he had any condoms. He turned on the light to find some protection, and I realized we were making out against a wall with a huge Rebel flag.

I was seventeen.

I thought he was going to lynch me.

So, I started yelling and ran into the hallway half dressed.

Others starting poking their heads out of other bedrooms.

He ran after me and tried to explain.

In his fraternity, each pledge is assigned a big brother. When the big brother graduates, he gives his little brother something he cherishes.

His big brother gave him his rebel flag.

So, I made him press his palms against his Southern pride flag while I shoved Budweiser long necks up his ass.

Ok, that last part was a lie.

Anywho, when I met Steven with his Georgia drawl, tight body, and Redneck rhetoric, I was aroused.

He’s very ticklish. His size is OUTSTANDING. He smiles and shyly gazes in my eyes when he is inside me. He holds me at night after drunk dialing his baby’s mama seven times.

And, he wants to settle down one on one with someone.

And, that’s not my bag.

So, I decided to post a craigslist ad for him.

(craigslist ad for a friend in Charlottesville, Virginia)

(man in search of woman, dating, romance, long term relationship, Charlottesville, Virginia)

(if he sounds interesting, let me know, and i will connect you.)

(if you would like me to write one for you, let me know.)

TITLE: want me to paint you a birmingham?


I just moved to Charlottesville about two months ago, and I still haven’t found myself a private tour guide.

I am a simple guy from Jackson County, Georgia. One of my new friends told me I remind her of Josh Lucas’ character from Sweet Home Alabama. I just smiled and told her just cause I talk slow, doesn’t mean I think slow.

I want a sweet, kind, woman who is interested in settling down.

I have a lot of things I need to get accomplished like finding a place to live.

I just found a great job, and I don’t have anyone with which to celebrate my success.

But, I hope I can find a woman to believe in me and give me a hug and smile when I get down about how hard it is to get things done in a new place far from home.

Please put a local Charlottesville attraction you would like to show me in your response’s subject line to weed out spam.

Thank you kindly for taking time to read my ad.

I look forward to being the man you need me to be.

Night, night. Sweet dreams and say your prayers.

Love ya bunches.

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#TNT Sex in a Bucket


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Gillian Colbert of Black Door Press has declared February 28th “Bare your sexul soul day.”

Since, I get turned on having all of this familiar and anonymous attention focused on my creative love lit, of course I will rise to the challenge of baring my sexual soul’s hopes.

Here’s my Top Twenty Sex in a Bucket List

1. Tongue kiss Robert DeNiro.

2. Go on a long drive all over Afton Mountain while giving my (not so) secret Charlottesville crush road head.

3. Solve the mystery if my (not so) secret Charlottesville crush’s rug matches his orange red drapes.

4. Appear on the cover of O magazine nude or topless.

5. Start a plus size clothing line called Naked Lady.

6. Re-invent romantic and erotic writing with my own publishing house called Red Paperclip Press.

7. Get an endorsement deal with a vibrator company that supports cervical cancer research and sexual abuse prevention.

8. Get a gothic V tattoo in the middle of my chest while the tattoo artist fucks me.

9. Stay at the bed and breakfast on Main Street and live out the fantasy of an all white night… a white knight, dozens of white roses, white satin sheets, strawberries dipped in white chocolate, white feathers, white blindfold, white silk lingerie, and white rabbit fur flogger.

10. Fuck my husband’s brain out, make him taste it as he’s dying, and become a widow on my wedding night.

11. Have one of my fans tattoo or brand “lick my literary legacy” in his or her pubic area.

12. Make Mitt Romney say, “Please let me suck your pink patriarchy,” and commence eating my pink glitter strap-on.

13. Go to a party only in exotic body paint.

14. Be a naked dessert tray at a party.

15. Be the centerfold and write the copy for an issue of Playboy.

16. Be the sexual or love interest that inspires an original country song hit.

17. Get a lucrative erotica or romance book deal.

18. Sell my Faust romantic comedy series idea called “Burning Boiling Water” to the Food Network.

19. Do a follow up documentary of the current lives of the prostitutes featured in the documentary The Chicken Ranch.

20. Create a literary and visual art series called Safe Sex illustrating twisted, sexual         activities that have zero chance of ending in impregnation or sexual infection.

What’s your top twenty?

smelly ice dragon and his empty heart


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hollywood tiffany moment.

northern virginia tiffany moment.

he loved pokemon and yep fantasy.

he liked me.

i found my first love tutor and a fake hello kitty clutch

while perusing the aol personal ads in 2001.

i adored his thick legs with brown downy hair

and my pretty pink purse.

after teaching his nephews the first

verse of fifteen christmas carols, we

put them to bed and exchanged gifts.

i gave him a blown glass dragon

with tiny ruby eyes and silver flecked wings.

his eyes lit up as

he pressed the dragon’s etched

cool lines.

then, he gave me the signature baby blue box.

i trembled at the expense and thoughtfulness.

inside the box, was a thin, gold, heart shaped perfume container.

i looked to him expecting the next gift of perfume.

he smiled expectantly at me, hand empty.

“thank you. i don’t wear perfume?”

“maybe you should.”

some gift horses are unicorns.

some gift horses should be

punched in the throat.


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