200 bad poems (103-152)

Wow, 50 more bad poems. Will this guy ever stop. Is he out of his mind.

the office
the fidget spinner came apart in my hands
and I explained what it was
as it spun wobbly with only two balls

the office 2
as I screwed in the third bearing she asked me
how does it work? —I had no idea
“bernoulli’s principle” (I’m dumb)

that’s terrifying
Zak messaged me after I sent him notes from a lecture
Gordon Lish had given on July 14 2018
“I’m still terrified,” he wrote me, half an hour later

I saw my friend’s “friend” walking in front of Shopper’s
they were lovers but not for a while now
their eyes flashed in the rain

tri-corner hats
yeah I ate three of those cookies
as soon as she pulled the bag out
I’m proud of it

we’re moving books from one section of the library
to another section of the library
it’s like they’re taking a little trip

in the tunnel the train stops completely
someone’s sleeping with his hand covering his face
I think he must be faking

Carson was already hitting the ball
when I arrived at the court and apologized
he said “no, you released me”

none of the photos I have seem good enough
the water is either too shallow, or too deep
no one’s going to believe I’m water polo MVP

for a long time in the office I think
I’m the only one who is going to be here
the loneliest of all outcomes

quiet 2
shortly after my colleague arrives
it starts, just a little bit, to rain
I get up and look out the window

the side door
most people buy their cars either through
the front door (dealerships) or the back door (stealing)
I wait in parking lots and say “please?”

if I ran a queer burlesque or was myself a performer
and I’m not saying this is happening
my show would be called “Daddy Augustine”

when I’m holding the book in front of me
I say what I like
“I think I’m at least a deist now”

the side door 2
I love my new range rover with 4×4 and a v6
thanks Val in the parking lot who thought it was sweet
to ask so politely

if you want to go back in time
just open Apple’s “iMusic” app
and put on the Fiery Furnaces’s I’m Going Away

Google says the above-mentioned Fiery Furnaces album
didn’t come out until three years later
regardless I maintain my initial point

Gordon Lish
I tell Zak I think Lish will never die
living long enough to bury us both.
but I quickly retract it: he’s old as fuck and I want to live

thank you Val
I drove over to Val’s house
—she still had a trunk full of groceries—
and pet her dog and wrestled her kids

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200 bad poems (78-102)

Here are 25 more bad poems. Can you believe it? Over 100 bad poems. Some people would say that’s a lot of bad poems. Not me though. There will be 200 bad poems on this website by next Wednesday.

this poem is out of control
it is not going to the office
it is not going to grocery store
it isn’t walking the dog

after three days of warm temperature
and then rain, all of the snow is hard, and grey, and thick
perfect for keeping your bowling ball out of the gutter

here’s the truth: my voice
keeps rising, and I keep saying more
and soon my head will lift from my shoulders

it’s hard to talk to me in the winter
when every thought
I deflect with a stick

Miriam told me she knows she needs to start writing
when she follows her partner reading the news
angry at everything she has seen

is waiting in front of a Paris bakeshop
and there are rows and rows of skeletons
and they all want a pistachio danish

high snowbank
the dog perches neatly on the huge snowbank
somewhere high above
an owl watches him poo

I keep rubbing my face
as if I’m trying to take it off
I’m not sure what I’m trying to say

a car splashed me with water
I shouted “fuck off”
it sounded like a little bitch

wrong parallel park
four sheets of drywall in the car I park behind
the guy says c’mon you idiot move your car
can’t you see this is a real construction zone

real construction zone
two pickup trucks and a broken piano on the front porch
every time I pass I think about how the man
threatened to beat me up with his “guys”

his guys
when he came back he was telling his guy
the guy said “no worries, we can move them”
I’m sure he’d have preferred otherwise

night walk
the dog wants to go out
I’ve been asleep for two hours
in the morning she says he pooed three tiny sticks

murder mystery
my character had three accents
and someone killed me
but not the right person

the accents
are accidental! where’s my voice
literally any one

sex cards
you’re supposed to trade them
they signify that you “did it”
but I only have two

if you don’t know what to say
sometimes you can just stand there
and the conversation will leave you

I’m worried I don’t care about anything
where’s my zest!
I watch an episode of Russian Doll

first meeting
when I first met the dog I thought
oh god
imagining it was too much to grant

I didn’t want to know a dog
come on
it sounds like the beginning of a holiday movie

the truth
it seemed exhausting
all that enthusiasm!
but the dog generates it himself

a literary solution
there are two ways of solving your problems
one involves getting your hands dirty
the other, turning things around in your head

3D chess
sometimes it feels like I’m playing 3D chess
with God
and God doesn’t care if he wins or loses

big magazines
you have to “play the game”
and “get off Twitter”
and “read a single book”

go to dinner
why didn’t you go to dinner
with the big editor
or kiss his hand when he put down the breadsticks

200 bad poems (53-78)

Here are 25 more bad poems. I will reach the end of this exercise. In relatively short order you will have 200 bad poems.

how we read
if that poem’s in a book
maybe it’s a poem
maybe it’s a bird

only lowlifes do this
today I stayed in bed
a car honked outside
then another car

charming glow
god I love to order breakfast
from a self serve terminal
bathed in a charming glow

remember your youth
stuck on a bus
slinking around corners
waiting for a bell to release you

coat on a chair
from this angle, a stranger
a cold stranger
who doesn’t want to join us

a dark mood
all day I feel it
but I can’t describe it
someone is following me

I was alone in that room
when the door opened I jumped
then I was alone again

my friend LeBron James
proably an a-hole?
but he cries under a towel
that’s nice for a king

my sin
when you choose to do bad
it’s a sin. and if you didn’t choose
maybe you just forgot

I thought I was going to run
I could see it coming
not too far off
then it veered away

a polite phone call
they tell me they can hear someone
speaking and not speaking
but not the words

derek beaulieu
a nice beard on video chat
but he blocked me
on twitter

mutual friend
I think you know him
about yea high
eyes like pools of water

mutual friend 2
paul! you’ll never believe it
our mutual friend
drowned in himself

looking away
you know when you feel
someone trying not to look
hey! just close your eyes

going places
you ever go somewhere
and realize
you are too tired to leave

I’m doing well
look at all of these nice things
all piled up around me
in grocery bags

I’m ok
while I was shelving
my heart stopped
then it started again

the heart
a lot of blood moving
this way and that
really makes you think

the perfect poem
came to me in bed
“I’ll never
forget this”

to the moon
where do lost things go
like poems
perfectly formed

dogs in little coats
who put your feet
those tiny balloons

owners of small businesses
love to talk
it is how they “get the word out”
about their carpet shampooing

it takes a lot
to imagine yourself speaking
how does anyone do it

on the moon
hey Kim
check this out
pretty funny poem

200 bad poems (1-52)

Today I found 36 poems on my hard drive that I did not remember writing in (apparently) April of 2017. I thought it would be fun to add to these poems and so I wrote 16 more. Now I think this is a new fun challenge that I am doing, to write 200 bad poems (after Anthony Clark’s 200 bad comics). I think it makes sense to do this within two weeks so that is what I will do.

too sad to think
I am too sad
but I am writing poems
poems don’t need thought

a poem about economic insecurity
economic insecurity sucks
there’s a moth
always crushing your brain

tips for managing yr workload
throw your task list
into the garbage can
no one will ever notice

a crisis for office managers
dave said he couldn’t work Thursday
but shirley booked Thursday off
well, someone needs to be here

when your boss hates your life
with a wink and a grin he says
you don’t have to come in Monday
“come in only when I want you”

he says he’s never been called a fag
I wouldn’t say he leads a privileged life
but someone should go back in time
and kick him in the pants

why don’t you
why don’t you do this?
this has always come easy to me
or you could do this instead?

remember when money was real
when money came from god
or depravity or violence
there was no need for illusion

when you keep checking your phone
the flowers stop blooming
a gust of wind blows through an alley
I’m waiting for you

it’s not fun being fun
when everything has to be “good”
what are you?
a libertine of others’ kindness

you make me second guess myself
I wish I could be pure and free
riding on a motorcycle
gunning it through god’s will

I wish God existed
it’s so hard living without Him
no one ever says hi to me
peering from my hole

wait what’s depression
is it this
or this
or maybe this

when you can’t get out of bed
there’s an owl perched on your shoulder
now it’s walking down your back
now its head is turning around

Continue reading →

Museum station was closed, doors he had never before seen in the evening imperfectly sealing the way to the subway at the bottom of the stairs, yellow light gleaming behind their seams. He thought, initially, it was a suicide, but the shuttle bus that would later pass him on Bloor indicated a plan to the closure. Between the museum stairs and two party limos parked at the curb, filled with suited white men, gleeful and anonymous, drinking beers, a forklift slowly drove, then turned and indolently dug its teeth into only a four inch snowbank. At the library exit a woman he had found in the stacks once after closing, who had confessed that she had been so lost in thought she had missed his announcement, asked what day it was. The other library assistant had said, “Tuesday.” They talked about it being Tuesday for some time. But it was Monday. He wished her good luck after correcting them both. All day he had worried about “lack” and now he was thinking “How is today any different from the past?” It was important to him that things be different this time but he had never really thought about it before, not meaningfully, before he made the decision that things would be different now. He had been reading Augustine, who was describing a method that only made his absence feel more pronounced. The method that Augustine described was barred to him. He thought of something he had once said to a friend of his, in a rare moment of clarity, explaining that of the kind of person who felt their own absence deeply there were two kinds: those who tried to account for it in themselves and those who made others responsible for it. He did not say that there was nothing stopping him or anyone from being both at once. His friend had said “André I am thrilled by this.” 

Betrayed by Mathews’s Algorithm


The car creeped slowly down the street with its hazard lights on. Inside there were three people doing their laundry: they looked rough, like they’d been there all night, and they gazed at me suspiciously. A dark car: sometimes the interior lights are on, sometimes they are not. A man came in and said that it was so quiet outside he wasn’t sure if he was alive or dead.


Sometimes I will spend the entire day inside and only leave my apartment well after the onset of night. The two women running the bar didn’t know what to do—we stayed inside but not away from the windows. At night things become softer, like a whisper, like being wrapped in a cool blanket. He told us that the shooting had taken place across the street, and that the shooter had fled on foot.


In the morning I went to the coin laundry to exchange my ten dollar bill. It parks in the same spot every night, idling right in the middle of the street, forcing traffic to maneuver into the opposite lane—even if there’s a space for it somewhere against the curb. Afterwards I sat in the coffee shop and waited for my breakfast—the coffee shop was completely empty. Sometimes the car has its engine running and I can hear it from my apartment, and sometimes it sits there in complete silence, as quiet as a ghost.


We heard the gunshots from inside the bar. I found my head swimming as I entered the world dazzled by that dim clarity. Soon a police officer arrived. I feel impatient, when I’m walking outside—impatient to fit the whole world inside my head.

When I feel this way, what has happened? I’m looking for something much larger than me. I want relief but no relief will ever come—not in the way I imagine. Somehow it seems tied to neglect. When I feel neglected, even or especially if I’m the one neglecting myself, I imagine, on a subconscious level, that there is a solution to this feeling. That something will liberate me from these feelings. That I will be pulled into some kind of peaceful understanding. 

It is a deeply religious feeling. And I know it is tied to not getting something at a time so far back I cannot remember. I would never be able to tell you what I did not “get.” I can only guess myself. 

But it is something so integral—I imagine—that if I got it my reality would solve itself. 

I will never find this peace that I crave. But the feeling has a strong hold over me, even when I know that the things it tells me I want are wrong. When there is no way that they could save me, could in fact only cause me more problems, more want. I suppose perhaps that is what I want—to feel that irrepressible need, as if an acknowledgement of my lack, or maybe more accurately a dwelling in it would make more sense to me than to think that—possibly—I might already have more than I could ever want.