Merits of Being a Sloth and other poetic musings

on the merits of imaginary tree sloths

I like pretending
there’s a baby tree sloth
wrapped around my shoulder,
clinging to me
with its innocuous claws.
It gives me someone
to love.


This is my old country.
This is where my ancestors are from.
Four generations raised in cow barns
in southern Wisconsin, USA.
And the other branch of the tree:
in hay fields in eastern Iowa, USA–
by the Mississippi River–
the fourth longest river in the world.

Sonnet #25

I hate
I hate
I hate
Why do I hate so much?

I hate
I hate
I hate
I hate most of these.

But some of these are beautiful.

the neverending neverender that never ends until it does

Yesterday I wrote a poem
and today I wrote a poem
and tomorrow I’ll probably write a poem
and complain about how this woman
misspelled ‘puppy’ as ‘pupy’
and this betrayed her intent
because that sounds a lot like ‘poopy.’
So instead of talking about canines,
it sounded like she was a 5 year old
trying to trick you into saying something dirty
like, “the pig fell in the mud”
which will always be my favorite joke.

M.S.-“Anonymous”,  is from Madison, Wisconsin, USA. Sometimes he wishes he was a manta ray. @Allomycterus Payment for these poems was donated to Domestic Violence Intervention Services in Madison. #DVAM