HeyJaredThe Philosophy Club
I explore philosophy and religion (in hopes) to understand how to live a good life: goofs, gags, and poetry to boot. Forays into Wittgenstein, Kierkegaard, Nietzsche, Luther, Hegel, Nagel, Bagels and more! Booyah! Happy to have you!
- Indexed issues, last 90 days
- 4
- Latest publication
- Sep 28, 2026
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- Earliest in this view
- Jul 4, 2026
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more poems... (opens the original)
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hi,you know. yeah. I’ll just. post these poems. yeah. cuz man. why not? these are not good poems. they were written like i be shittin’. nasty. quick. and on my phone.that’s right. i shit on my phone. right on it. dammit, that’s the blessed love of the stove turned blackbird pristine in the latrine.anything to say…Cars 2 is alright. uhh, AI is not conscious, read John Searle you son of a bitch, we already settled this. Or Hegel. Or just, get a different gut, cuz yours is anti-human heresy dogshit
Ripping the Harm (opens the original)
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As I sat in a pub in York, I discussed Parsley Puss.There was an at-home abortion method I tried with one my ex-girlfriends (the titular Parsley Puss) because her period was late. She requested that I put parsley up her vagina. This was supposed to make the baby taste good and make her body eat it up, or something. We then, later, could not find the sprigs: no matter the degree of scooping and searching: my fingers like a search party in a swamp. It had dissolved or disappeared into that good ni
Itinerant (opens the original)
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yoooooo.I’m back at my teaching assistant hovel at my university. I’ve been walking myself there every other night to sit there and try Pavlov’s-Philosopher-Dog myself: try to convince my body it’s where it is supposed to be. It’s weeks before the university comes to life again, so the campus is empty and so are the offices.I’m in there pacing, laugh-crying just goin’, “I’m meant to be here. All as it should be. All as it should be.”I remind myself of a monkey some ape-ologists were studying onc
Half-Off the Oyster in the West Bottoms (opens the original)
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I asked for the oyster—happy hour, half-off, a buck fifty—at Voltaire, a lounge down in the stockyards of the West Bottoms. Next to the river, all the buildings down there are old livestock exchanges or meatpacking plants: brick and square and tall. Weeds are climbing up the walls. There are pigeons on metal platforms that jut out of each window. I saw a man with jeans below his ass, his lanky body scrunched up, riding on a little girl’s bicycle the wrong way down a one-way. A cigarette hung loo
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