In 2014, i published 20+ poems, read 500+ submissions, published six amazing manuscripts, made 200+ friends, made $9,000 on poetry, and oh yeah published my first book AND got in contact with the woman that gave birth to me.

The best part is I’m just getting fucking started. Here’s to 2014 and every year that will be light years better than the one that just passed <3


In my nightmares, no one is
ever warning me about the
inherent dangers of swinging
from a chandelier. These dreams
have nothing to do with gravity,
but everything to do with the
way certain everybodies look
when they do fancy-ass shit
with their hair at weddings. Does
anyone else know what it’s like to
expect every status update to turn
into a dance party? Why aren’t
we all sitting on a beach and telling
each other about my grandfather?
My grandfather came here with nothing
but two Genoa salamis and a lot of
unpopular opinions about lawn care,
so we’d all be fucked if he saw us
sitting here scowling. I don’t mean
to be melodramatic, but I wish
everybody in this room would
take off their shirts so we could
start getting to know each
other’s belly buttons. I won’t feel
right about anything unless we
can redefine our secrets—isn’t
that from a rap song? Why isn’t
that from a rap song? Let’s get it all
out in the open and talk about
our head trauma as if we’re putting
it in a rap song. Biggie’s mom
had breast cancer, yet she’s still
trudging along longer than he
could. What I’m getting at is we only
have so many opportunities to
take our dogs mini-golfing before
someone pokes a hole in the
ozone and kills all the sand cats.
How many more times can we fight
about Chinese food before we start
talking about our spirit animals—
my spirit animal is an animated GIF
of two dogs in business suits plotting
a detective novel on a white board—
my spirit animal is an aborted fetus—
my spirit animal is the epidermal cells
beneath the fingernails on a Pro-
Life poster— my spirit animal is
#FUCKYESOXYGEN—my spirit animal
is you, and you are a hundred
helium balloons knotted
around my ribcage—
you are the guard rail I grabbed
before I split my head
open on those stairs—
you are a land shark with giant
foam teeth, and I am the dumb fucking
remora sucking on the blubber
of the last great thing you ate—
I am the seal you are dying
to breach, but you let me live—
I am the seal and I am alive—
I am the seal and holy
Puffy Combs, I am
just so goddamn
happy to be here.