Bob Raymondais a writer based out of New York. His work has found its way onto Quail Bell Magazine, Visual Verse, Syndicated, Potluck Magazine, & Elite Daily. In early 2015 he founded Breadcrumbs Magazine, an online literary and arts journal that fosters creativity and collaboration through shared inspiration. The project has grown into a community of over 200 contributors across a wide variety of mediums, with more submitting all of the time.

A List of 25 Poems that I Haven’t Written Yet
By Bob Raymonda

• a poem that’s actually five separate poems, all occurring simultaneously
• a poem celebrating my father’s fifty-eighth birthday
• a poem about the bowl of cheerios that I ate for breakfast
• a poem that serves as an adequate apology to every person I’ve ever hurt
• a poem about desire
• a poem about my conflicted feelings surrounding God and chocolate cake
• a poem about the dance my partner is doing at this exact moment
• a poem written in the month of September
• a poem chronicling the year our cat, Toby, killed the baby birds in the attic and left them for us as gifts, on the living room floor behind the couch; blood and entrails trailing behind him
• a poem that would just be a short story if it had less line breaks
• a poem about the chicken coop behind their grandmother’s house, and the half a dozen cars, slowly rusting away along the edges of her property
• a poem that includes the word compliance twice
• a poem about tuna fish sandwiches with habanero pickles
• a poem rewritten six times across fourteen (non-consecutive) years
• a poem listing every single grey hair that I’ve ever found on my body
• a happy poem
• a poem that spans several millennia on an uncharted planet in the deepest reaches of the universe inhabited by clouds of gas that speak in monosyllabic guttural screams
• a poem that traveled around the whole world in eight hundred and forty-three days
• a poem co-written with Jamie Lee Curtis while filming her new Halloween movie co-written by David Gordon Green and Danny McBride
• a poem about Annabel’s disrespectful son, that ungrateful piece of shit
• a poem involving squatty-potties
• a poem that rode the last crosstown bus in Cincinnati
• a poem in a field of wildflowers
• a poem that isn’t at all self-conscious about its merits as a piece of literature while solely existing in an unread google document that is occasionally brought out like the only dusty old trophy I ever won from a little-league baseball tournament that happened eighteen years ago and then shoved back into the closet until I (the writer’s) psyche is damaged enough to take it out and show it off all over again