How to know if God exists

How to know if God exists

There’s so much to consider:
rain falling on one side of the street
for instance, or dust devils swirling
up in the gravel— harmless tornados.
There’s time, always time,
hours a larva spends chewing holes
through a single birch leaf,
the fraction of a second
between bullet and skull,
a junebug’s lonely drumming
along the side of a yellow house
built by hands turned to dirt
like the empty space a river
finds for a canyon.

I saw a man walk away
from an impossible crash,
his body pinned perfectly
between two tractor trailers,
his Grand Cherokee
a crumpled accordion
of aluminum foil
around such tender pale flesh,
he was a potato
ready for baking.

He smiled for the camera,
surveying the damage
with glass-eyed shock,
wondering if ghosts
could smell honeysuckle,
if the greens and blues of his world
had always felt so claustrophobic,
new dimensions jutting
from the scenery like fog—
wolves have better vision.

Sit still long enough
in a lightless cave
and the sound of blood
thrum-thrumming in your ears
will drive you insane.

A teenager wakes before dawn,
the scent of oil on his fingers.
He kills his mother.
They find her hours later,
still clad in plaid pajamas,
her face all but gone.
He then drives
to the school where she worked,
and tells twenty children
to line up in the hall
like they are going to recess,
tiny reflections on the tile
collapsing like unspooled yarn
after each shot.

The human genome
contains six billion DNA base pairs,
while an average adult body
holds seven octillion atoms,
every one of which
once part of an exploding star,
much older than planet Earth
or any living consciousness
capable of nostalgic wishes.

Imagine a universe
in which every atom
is a Lego block,
and every Lego block
is made of light.
Now, imagine building
a rose petal.
Imagine building a sun.

Imagine choosing which kites
get to fly,
and which get stuck in trees,
only instead of kites
they’re Boeing 777’s
climbing the stratosphere
to avoid a storm
somewhere over the Atlantic.

Imagine planning the trajectory
of every hail stone,
every drop of dew,
every pine needle
loosed from its limb—
Imagine never sleeping again.

When I was a child,
I was taught to listen
for that still small voice
speaking inside my heart.
I was taught that a man could live
for days in the belly of a whale.
I was told heaven collected souls
like a bucket left in the rain,
that dying meant rebirth
in a place without sadness,
where everything was perfect,
nothing hurt,
and the streets were purest gold.

But why then does the body
fight so hard to stay alive,
a shuddering gasp
in every slackening face?
Why should angels with white wings
worry about golden streets
in a world where walking
is itself obsolete?

It’s like asking Death
to define what is beautiful.

Once the forest spoke to me
through the hisses
of leaves brushing against leaves.
The trees said everything
is either dirt or rain or light,
and that God is the breath
between them.

But I remember that morning,
before the twin towers fell—
those great pillars made of ash,
I saw a woman leap from a window,
her arms flailing wisps of flame
trying to catch the sky,
and I knew that God was the empty space
between her body and the ground.


Finalist for editor prize, accepted to Jabberwock Review, April 2016


Life Lessons in Dog Walking

My dog always stops
to smell the roses
blooming or not blooming
by my neighbor’s mailbox,
as if to say, there’s beauty here
even if you can’t see it,
just wait.

Every new scent must be cataloged,
inspected and identified,
from the honeysuckle falling
over a church’s park fence
to the latest piece of roadside trash
discarded from a reckless window
with hints of the owner still attached.

Every new face must be greeted
with a smile
and an unencumbered joy
that swells through the body
like hot air inside a balloon,
as if to say, oh, you live here too,
isn’t it wonderful?

There’s awe to be found
in the mundane
sight and sound
that is anything but mundane,
unbridled pleasure
released in each discovery
of this, an ordinary life.

new poem


and so, i awaken
nosferatu, cthulu, leviathan
set of broken teeth chattering

my face a chimney
lungs now pews of worship
set before the unknown

i am become death
warden of bones
valium for wounds

beset at the gates
where the hinges scream
and twist like candy

loosing demons within
called by your spell
of snake charm poison

i become, crucifix of nails
paladin of noose
heart of a razor blade

i am what you made
i am what you made
i am what you made

Censorship wins?

I have complied with Amazon’s request to censor the Misogynist manuscript. It will be re-released in a censored format, now titled Censored. It is available soon, and I will have copies.

As to the uncensored version, I have several copies available, which I will sell for $20 a piece, as they are no longer going to be made.

This is the decision of the poetry gestapo, but the original manuscript still exists. It will never cease to exist just because it offends you.

Making Things Crystal Clear

One final post to set the record straight on the allegations being thrown around about me and my work:

One person has claimed that I cyber-bullied them. What? Not true. This person is delusional and trying to deflect from the fact that she created drama around herself to get the publicity for it. What DID happen, is that I disagreed with her and had a brief argument with her on Facebook. This is not bullying behavior. This is called human behavior. People have to be allowed to have disagreements. In today’s society however, with this extremist feminist trend in social media, if you disagree with a woman, you are almost immediately labeled as a misogynist or some other label like racist, or homophobe, to delegitimize your argument and put you in a position to defend that allegation rather than the original argument. I have seen this time and time again online. You disagree with a woman about something on the internet, and you are a misogynist, or you are mansplaining. This is nothing but a red herring and a distraction from the truth. But on social media, once this has happened, and the person accused of the nonsense goes their own way, then the accuser will come back and make more posts about them, and call in all their like-minded friends to trash talk them and smear their name. So, what is a more bullying behavior? To disagree with someone, or to get hundreds of people to call them a piece of shit online when they are not looking? To call for multiple people to go through and give their books one-star reviews? To call for editors to remove their work from magazines, to call for their books to be banned? To create a smear campaign that includes patently untrue accusations that is shared widely, thousands of times? You tell me.

Another person has claimed I have a “history of harassing women” and all my work “harasses female poets.” This is unbelievable, and a fucking lie. I have been publishing poetry since roughly 2012. In the past five years I have published hundreds of poems in hundreds of magazines. The complaints on my work stem from the poem Scowl, published in 2015, when one person claimed that the poem was written about them. This is an untrue assessment, based on coincidence, but the internet mob took it as truth and ran with it, using it to tarnish my reputation and then put me on a “do not publish” list with hundreds of editors of magazines, basically attempting to ruin my attempt at a writing career. The latest collection of poems also uses several first names, and garnered the same accusations of it being about real people, and I did it on purpose to prove the laughable notion of the whole thing, that using first names proves nothing and I knew that people would leap to that conclusion and use it to attack me again, and my prediction came true (again). The reason that this happened has nothing to do with reality, but only the perception these people have created in their minds about me. The whole project grew out of this notion that I am a villain to these women, so hated that they would love to see me commit suicide. The fact is, I have done nothing to the people who hate me so much, nothing at all, and yet they have tried to ruin my career and have spread lies about me all over the internet, that I am a serial abuser, wannabe rapist, woman hater. The absurdity has reached such a level, that the latest collection has caused people to claim they were “targets” and “threatened” and “traumatized by violence.” You have got to be kidding me. These people even filed police reports about it and tried to file restraining orders, even though they live hundreds to thousands of miles away from me and have never met me in person. Folks, that is the insane part. This is the insanity of the fever pitch of noise created by an internet mob. Words are not violence. And the only reason this was taken to such extremes was because it was me. Any body else could have written this collection and no one would have noticed, but the fact is I am being obsessively scrutinized by a group of people looking for any reason to ruin my life, and they have been trying to do it since 2015. This collection of poems was in response to that, and shows the level of absurdity involved, to the extreme. How could anyone read this work and think it actually a reflection of the author? Have these people even read any of the hundreds of other poems I have published? Or do they just look for things to be outraged about to create drama? I think the answer is clear and speaks for itself to anyone willing to actually take an objective look at it.

There have been allegations that I must be abusive to my wife, physically and mentally, or even that maybe I murdered her and assumed her identity on social media. Some have sent her messages on facebook and such. People, please, say whatever you want about me, but leave my wife alone. We are happily married, have been in a near-perfect relationship since 2008, and don’t need freaking strangers trying to start drama between us over petty internet feuds about poetry that no one reads anyway.

It has been said that my facebook and Twitter accounts were shut down and I was banned by them from having accounts there. False. I left social media before I even wrote the poems for the latest manuscript. I did so for my own mental health. This is documented.

People have said that I harass women because they won’t sleep with me, because they are more talented than me, because I am threatened by them. First of all, see point number one. Disagreeing is not harassment. Secondly, see the point about my wife. I am happily married, and not seeking any kind of outside stimulation. Thirdly, I am not threatened or worried that someone is more talented, unless you count the group of people actively working to block me from being published, in which case, yeah, they can eat a bag of dicks. They’re not more talented, they just are evil vindictive bitches who’ve networked themselves into positions of influence over the indie lit community.

It has been said that I plagiarized and slandered someone. Where is the proof of that? Absolutely not true. One of the poems in the manuscript responds to the poem “Kill All Men” by Heather Bell. A response poem is not plagiarism, as that is a popular model for writing poetry, people do it all the time. In fact, the poem in my book “kill all women” bears no resemblance at all to the poem it responds to, other than the title. So, it doesn’t really even need to acknowledge what inspired it. Of course, any real writer would understand the nuances of when to acknowledge inspiration, and when it isn’t necessary.

Lastly, a person named Diddle Knabb claims that I obsessively harassed her and such. Not true. Again, see point number one. Disagreement is not harassment. Harassment might be using your platform to publicly smear the name of another person, which she does all the time. In fact, this person went so far as to make an Amazon wishlist named “I Fucking Hate Jay Sizemore” and I bought her a rug off that wishlist because it was so ridiculous how could I not. I suppose she doesn’t realize that when you buy people things on the Amazon wish list, it doesn’t tell you their information. She stated to people that she felt threatened because I knew where she lived. No. I do not know where she lives. Amazon doesn’t tell people that when they buy things on their wish lists. It just sends it to them, because it already knows. Want to talk about threats? People in response to the latest manuscript posted my address and phone number publicly on social media. That’s a threat.


The fact of the matter is this, I have written provocative work with an intent to prove the nature of response to such work due to extremist views of identity politics, and in both works, my thesis has been proven by the responses the work received. Perceptions are easily manipulated online, and in these cases, the people reacting so violently to the work, have been duped wholeheartedly, hook line and sinker.


The book is alive and well

I have a new distributor for MISOGYNIST. Despite activities of the poetry gestapo, there are many publishing platforms. The current distributor has no content clause, they place all content responsibility on the author, so there’s no term violation that crybabies about violence in poetry can exploit to censor an author. The book should even show back up on Amazon soon. In the meantime, I have a private link I can send for anyone interested in buying the book too controversial for it to exist on Createspace or Lulu. Contact me to get one. Thanks for your support.

Censorship Alive and Well

Censorship is alive and well in America. It is one thing to protest and make an editor remove a poem or a website remove a poem, but to have books banned or suppressed for offensive content, that is blatant Censorship. Especially when there is no justification for the claims being lobbied against the content. Believe me when I say, this is not the end, and this book will be available one way or another. Artists who would work to suppress and oppress the work of other artists for simply not approving of their work are the lowest form of human beings and deserve to have their credibility stripped of them for working to enact Censorship of the arts rather than letting art either survive or die based on its own merit or ability to reach an audience. When fascism comes to America, it’s acts like this which will be remembered as the first steps of allowing it to seep into our minds as acceptable and into the fabric of American ideals.


New book MISOGYNIST is now available

Here it is, folks. Love it or hate it, use it to burn down my life, this is the culmination of two years of people trying to sabotage me with defamation. This is the result of being labeled something you are not. These are the poems of that persona and the poem that started it all. Enjoy, and go fuck yourselves. Maybe someday I’ll write a sequel. Either way, some years down the line I will surely enjoy revealing my pseudonym. Till then, goodbye.

Available now

New poem from work in progress


Your love is like a winding sheet,
a cancer in the mouth,
a wound filled with fire.

Every time you speak my name
something beautiful withers and dies,
on the spiraling vine of the universe.

Your voice is a coagulation,
your face is curdled milk,
your cunt is a craggy cove of death.

The future demands your absence,
like a star that folds in on itself
and destroys the neighboring light.

You hate me, but your hatred is like a dagger
in the heart of a shadow,
a shadow cast from your own mind.

When you remove that blade from the glass
of the dark and dirtied floor,
you’ll find you’ve been stabbing yourself

instead of someone else
this entire time, and wonder
how you ever blamed the darkness.

Coming Soon