Epic Toast is Back

Hi everyone. Epic Toast is in its 4th year of publication and we need your help! Please check out our kickstarter campaign to raise money for publishing that is funded by your donations. It’s important that our kids have this outlet to express their creative and artistic talents.


This night, tonight

What does it mean to have distinction
to have a unique and throbbing heart
a siren for all the world to see?
a mysterious cloak though,
hides your eyes
they wonder what you’re for
and what you mean
you make them question their
own existence
and if everything they’ve ever thought was real
is not–
the baby cries
it’s time for dusk
a bath
a quiet
what do you want
for yourself this night
this night
is mine
this night

I don’t like this new format 

Trying to stay on top

I’ve flopped 

Almost all the way down 



Comparing the eyes of the soul

By years 

As typos 

Become tears 

I’ve ridden the beast 

Of fears

We dance the night away 

On tip toes 

This year–

Go Bloom

in the blackest darkness
i see your tiny face
my eyes adjust
and the blue around your eyes
becomes magnified.
in this embrace
i feel you are back in the womb
and together
with mother earth
we make the world

For you

Week after week
I would come through those
gray doors
It didn’t matter what day or time
it was
It was always unlocked
Cracked just a little bit
The stale hallway
leading to a stale apartment
Warm yellow light
and muffled voices
that became louder as I made my
way into the humid
and sometimes
The same faces
week after week
month after month
Year after terrible year
Our eyes would rarely meet
Money would still exchange
Drugs would change
People would come
And go
The black couch and the pain
would remain, though, the same
I remember one of the many times
we shuffled out in our
Substance induced oblivion
and swing on the swings in
Satellite park
Empty but for us two fools
young and reckless
and completely carefree
The sun shining down on our
tepid bodies
Our skinny faces
Roaming the Brooklyn streets
as the day and its events would
leisurely pass us by
How I do not long for those
veiled days
They are but a distant mark
on a lonely and dark past
I have rid the shackles mostly
I hope you can someday too
at least for your two children
if not
For you–

Til I’m done

How can I get the urge
The desire to write
To put down all the pain
And joy
And sometimes
Mostly suffering
On the bright white
How to churn up that feeling
How to nick it
Kick it in its guts
To draw blood
To drip drop
To call someone my love
The acrylic the oil
The memories all but gone
How I long to see you hanging
How much longer
Til I’m done?