Don’t Be A Dick

I have developed a simple philosophy of life: Don’t be a dick. If you can’t help others, at least don’t be mean to them. Think whatever you will about other people, but don’t belittle them to build yourself up. Some folks have a hard time following this principle. If more of us did, there would be fewer dicks in the world to bring us down.


Shovel Her Stoop

Forget snowstorms
And wind chills

I want Summer
In my hemisphere
This Valentine’s

A flirty girl
With strappy shoes
And silver toe rings
To boot

Soft soles
At the foot
Of a warm bed
To soothe

A see-through
To remove

Before I shovel
Her stoop

Breakup Song

Tell me everything is alright.
Tell me everything is all right.
Tell me everything is alt-right.
Tell me I don’t look fat in these jeans.
Tell me I’m the one that got away.

Tell me I was your thirst.
Tell me you think of me when you hum.
Tell me I sweat the small stuff.
Tell me to grow a pair.
Tell me we are never ever getting back together.

Tell me you bought my book and the shipping was free.
Tell me I’m a white boy from the suburbs what do I know about “suffering.”
Tell me everything will be OK.
Tell me everything will be okay.
Tell me size more or less matters.

Tell me God is binge-watching us.
Tell me you never faked the news.
Tell me I’m more than a hound dog.
Tell me my poem is lovelier than a tree.
Tell me no man is a peninsula.

Tell me the meaning of strife.
Tell me everybody dies in the end.
Tell me there’s someone for everyone to disappoint.
Tell me it’s “lie down” not “lay down.”
Tell me nice guys let the girl finish first.

Tell me what will be will be no more.
Tell me if I liked it then I should’ve put a ring on it.
Tell me he doesn’t taste like me.
Tell me your name.

Universe All

Universe All

your mind is a universe all
to itself
a vast ineffable
bundle of stars

incandescent thoughts
illuminate the moons
of your imagination

you wonder if
Newton floated
the idea of gravity
to keep the masses down

I remind you
love is not a theory
or practice exercise

let me kiss you
in the suburbs of our youth
like no one’s home
to catch us with
our hormones exposed

I remember the sweet spot
on your scientific blue jeans
your homeroom Shakespeare
algebra blue jeans
the flip flops dangling
from the honor roll
of your extracurricular blue jeans

I remember how
to trace your curves
to hold your life
for a moment in mine

love is not a theory
or practice exercise

c b snoad
draft 2-17-03
edit 1-24-17

Just The Tip

Just the Tip

Fucking is easy
As free verse
She says
Try falling in love

Mouths aren’t lips
I’ve read

Just the tip
Of a tongue

She’s all diaphragm
Swallows nesting
In an iron lung

Other than words
I repeat
Nothing rhymes
With love

c b snoad

Refractory Period

one day i fantasize
all women will liberate me
one day i fantasize
all mothers will infantilize me

i can’t get off
without my fetish
i can’t get off
without a tease

i can’t get off
without permission
i can’t get off
without you looking away

we’re all confused in our teens
spreading our jeans
we’re all wet in our dreams
a puddle or stream

one day i fantasize
all women will fat shame me
one day i fantasize
all women will objectify me

we’re all coming apart
at the seams
recovering youth
lost in our teens

i can’t get off
without America Online
i can’t get off
without the NSA

i can’t get off
without thinking of you
i can’t get off
without falling in love

i can’t get off
without falling in love
i can’t get off
without falling in love

c b snoad

Free Writing #2

all the women i love
have a hard-on
for the other guy

all the women i love
undress me
with their sighs

all the women i love
are secure
in my manhood

politically direct
anatomically erect
i long to be the

action figure of her
socially constructed
gender role

a pebble
in the flip-flop
of her undertow

all the women i love
bust the balls
of mama’s boys

all the women i love
prefer dumb

all the women i love
inherit the welts
of 12 step fathers

swipe left
swipe right
i long to be

the blind date
she stands up
humble servant

of a mistress
refusing to
untie the knot

if you liked it
then you should’ve
put a finger on it

if you liked it
then you should’ve
put a finger on it

if you feel the love
you still can’t
put a finger on it

c b snoad

Love And Marriage

In a few days my first love is marrying a man who isn’t me. I wished her a wonderful time and told her to remind her soon-to-be-husband how lucky he is.

This doesn’t mean I’m free of regret. I met my ex in high school and we dated ten years. Life, as it often does, “happened” and we slowly grew apart, but against the odds remained friends.

We almost tied the knot in high school—in a marriage and family class, for credit only. We had a chance to play house and raise a ten-pound bag of flour. I got sick and changed schools to avoid seeing a classmate who hurt me emotionally and physically. He’s got a family of his own now—funny how the universe works.

I used to watch from the window as my ex walked to the bus stop, wishing I were there beside her. When I think today about a life for us that never happened, a tremendous sorrow fills my soul. Then I look again, through a different window. I’m happy she’s found love, because she has loved me.

Hot Pursuit

In grade school I used to chase girls on the playground. The cute ones. The ones that drove me crazy. Sometimes girls chased me. We were children caught up in a game no one understood. But we liked it.

It feels like I’m working with a child’s concept of romance. Often I push too hard for the attention of a woman I like. Rather than allowing the game to naturally unfold, I shout, “Okay, I’m here and I’m going to chase you now,” telegraphing my every move. And when the game doesn’t go as planned I assume I’ve played it wrong from the start.

My culture dictates that the Boy “go after” the Girl. I get that. But at 34 I’m starting to wonder what being chased might look like. Maybe I should play it cool. Maybe she’ll come after me.

At any rate, I’m tired. Recess ended twenty-five years ago. And I’m out here all alone.