My Penis Is Larger Than Tao Lin’s Penis.

My penis is larger than Tao Lin’s penis.

I know because someone asked him

how long his penis was

in a Q & A session

at The Rumpus

and he said ~5” erect.

Mine is in the 6.5” range.

What relevancy does this hold?

Very little,

other than it has inspired me

to assemble a collection of poems

that I will entitle

My Penis Is Larger Than Tao Lin’s Penis

in which I will probably include this poem.

So thank you, Tao Lin, for having a smaller penis than me.

I’ll take my inspiration wherever I can find it.


Apologies for failing to update this blog for the past couple of weeks. I was in traction after being accidentally kicked in the balls by a converted lesbian.

Three (Random) Untitled Poems All Subtitled “I Hate Jodi Picoult”

The following poems were written based on J. Robert Lennon’s Random Poem Idea Generator. I’m taking the first three ideas it offers me, no mulligans. So blame him when they suck.

Idea #1: Forget yourself while contemplating terror sarcastically

I’m tired of being judged by the color of my skin
every time I
fly to visit my grandparents,
rent a moving truck,
enter a gas station.
As if ending your insignificant lives
would accomplish anything.
The only bomb in my bag
is Jodi Picoult’s latest novel
and then only if you judge it on
literary merit
rather than sales.
The only book that compels me
to kill someone
is the shittily written novel
and then I’m only compelled
to kill the author.
But you look at me
and you quiver in fear.
You look at me
and you hate for no reason.
You look at me…
Oh, wait. I’m white. Never mind.

Idea #2: Confess that you have a crush on cinema furrily

Fine, I’ll admit it
I secretly cheered when Freddy Krueger
crushed Debbie like a bug
in A Nightmare on Elm Street 4: The Dream Master
because I’d had a crush on
Brooke Theiss (and most of the rest
of the cast of Just The 10 Of Us)
and I saw it as vindication of
her rejection of me,
not that we ever met.
If only Freddy Kreuger
would jab his finger knives
into Jodi Picoult’s
Wal-mart guts.
That may be petty
but I’m mostly just making it up
(except the part about Jodi Picoult)
because I have to write this poem.

(Thank you to for informing me that furry can mean terrifying; hair-raising.)

Idea #3: Run like hell from fish in the form of a letter to Ann Landers

Dear Ann Landers,
I know it’s not real
but I’m still terrified
and now my kids
want to go
to the beach
but the terror of
half-shark, half-octopus
is almost as bad as
the idea of reading a
Jodi Picoult novel
while the kids frolic in the surf.
How do I tell them
that we’re going to
for summer vacation?

To make sense of the irrational Jodi Picoult hatred, please read Why I Hate Jonathan Franzen (and Love Stephen Elliott).

It is better to be recycled than to be refused.