Friday, November 23, 2012

The Winter Coming

Distant and silent
whenever it approaches, still seeming so far,
trees mourn over shedding leaves
as evidence of another summer, another lover

Cold and biting
in the still wood, the deer bends her head
gracefully to drink from a cold vein in the sleeping earth,
while skies breathe frosty flowers that slowly bury a lover gone.

Shadows of the past dance with remnants of an ancient sun between branches
and the forest howls tiny knives against your fleshy cheeks,
a reminder that you're still alive.

Trees shudder
at this harsh love
moving through you
testing your will,

always entering and leaving with the subtle hope in
knowing beneath their frozen glass
is in letting go and shedding the old,
are the seeds of life, anew.

Monday, November 12, 2012

Grass Puddle

So, you're lying in a field-
a puddle of what you once called yourself
fearful, because being mortal has never left your mind, and death- its cousin, is never too far behind.
But you're laughing,
because as much as you are afraid, you know that this puddle is only a container
for what you mind knew before knowing.

In this field of insanity trees are laughing at you
as you rock back and forth while the music keeps playing,
only hearing the same words over and over and
horses on sticks rise past you as you float to the top where a crazy house has put all of your friends behind the mirrors.

It feels like a broken jack in the box.
You know the clowns have all popped out and run a muck
and you really don't care what they do now because you can't tell if that is grass
or if those are your legs.

A man comes out from the circus crowd and exclaims:
It's like a dream! It is all like a beautiful dream!

And like Merlin speaking an ancient incantation, you suddenly feel like a spell has been lifted from  you with this notion.

What you're experiencing isn't real but only the perception of a thought culmination and experiences in your imagination. All you have to do is wake up...

but it's only midnight with at least five hours until dawn.

Tuesday, October 30, 2012

Pill Boxed

In a land of individualism
and opportunity

it feels very lonely
when you are prescribed
a type
a gender
a position
a salary, and
if you're lucky,
it pays for a health care system-
Pays for an elite-
bankrupt running the rules whose interests are not in your favor.

This land where monetary value is the measure of self-value
and the rest can go eat cake.
Except, there is no more cake.
Go ask Alice, she'll tell you
there's only a magic pill instead.

Therapists pushing papers
printed each day in favor of
the newest progression of evolution: synthesis of person-corporations!

Their agenda, their life line: keep them buying. Keep them happy
but not satisfied.

Offer temporary relief from the injection of media necessities.

We offer temporary self- esteem
with the newest cologne.

We offer you conditional friends,
who compete with you for your life line,
for the next photo shoot.
And if they have some lingering remorse, they are soothed by the system smiling: That is the nature of the game. 
Because we know how to keep you on life support long enough.

Take the magic pills,
they will make you feel better.

Float out of bed,
float over in line,
fade to gray- washed out in the silicone sunshine
of your wannabe apathetic instagram photo shoots.

Inside you're screaming
somewhere, like at birth
for a love that you may have felt from a mothers embrace.
Because the monsters you saw under the bed have morphed into
this America of celebrity politics
and educational debt
this is a society of prescription headed- drones,
of apathy, of immediacy,
this is a community of isolation.

Take the pill. It will make you better.

Fuzzy hard to think
hard to feel
angry with this reality
hard to feel like
there is anything you can do about it
accept sit quietly and
smile pretty for the camera.

Smile big and pretty, alone in your empty house
full of ebay.
Sip on the bottle of temporary life for a night
until tomorrows hang over.

Just take the pill. Everything is fine.

Friday, October 26, 2012


There is nothing normal about this.

Where you had expected to land is
not here
the journey you had projected
with its line carefully constructed, measured and drawn to precision
on the map moving straight, in the direction towards your goal
has encountered
the unknown.

There are no lines here. No measurements. No maps to point you
in any cardinal direction.
Bird with out feather,
turtle without ocean,
you are here in this uncharted place
and there is no turning back,
whatever direction back means...

The only direction one can distinguish
is in the sensation of purpose.
A force driving you, though often
you want to think that
you drive it.

And whoever ends up having to pay the cab fare is irrelevant,
because once you have achieved that unforeseeable destination,
there are no more man-made ideas
like debt
progress or achievement.

Those only bind you to unimportance,
which does not define anyone
unless they believe it and its handcuffs.

No, there is nothing normal about us.

This map you are forging
with the freckles on your skin
and the lines in your palms
grasping for the tiny siren who
pulled you out of a blissful dream only to drag you into your morning oatmeal
before the sun has kissed the day good-morning,

the that holds in your breath long enough for one wish to be blown
out like dancing water crystal-frosts biting anything exposed

this body you are feeling,
this person you are being

is how you define it.

Blank canvas of energy and potential to
become stars
from stardust

you are the keeper of your own fate.
So, whatever deck of cards she hands you,
play them well.

Because next time,
you might not be so lucky.

Black Holes

There once was a  body of Stars,

who would dance every day with her sister Moons
into the night where she slept
gently caressing the shoulder and cheeks
of her brother Planets
all in eternity playing and

Brother warned her about the black holes, because

black holes suck.

They are the definition of what it is to suck, he explained.

When Object passes by, they are slowly intrigued by the mysteriousness of the black hole. So,

they get a little closer. Just to see what this black hole thing is all about.
But, knowing black holes and their devious manners, Brother heads warning that the black hole, waits for this moment of intrigue, because when they are sighted as something curious or mysterious,
it is the moment when they have found their prey.

And good luck to them,
because as soon as any prey tries to get near the essence of a black hole, they are locked on.

And suddenly, the black holes are

hard to see
and hard to makes sense of.

They can take just about anything and warp it
distort it.

Is is then, just when the prey thinks, ok I've had enough
I'm done,
I am ready to move on...

It's locked into the sucking so completely that
it is consumed
It becomes warped, demented.
It doesn't know which dimension it started in,
where it is
or how it will look at the end of this
so called "experience."

So, whenever you see a black hole, please take head when it is said that they
really suck. Because black holes
truly are the definition of sucking.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Carry Me

I need somebody to carry me on
because I can't seem to get things through
and I've been struggling to fight
with the inches I've made
for what I believe is true.

The beginning of the path is too far away
to start and turn anew
And where I am now
there's no lights to guide, so
I need somebody to carry me too.

I've been dragging my bones
rattling getting louder
each step I take I might feel a little prouder
but my body's aching for a home to call back to
I need somebody to carry me through

My head it feels heavy with rocks of thoughts
My heart feel battled and weathered
My soul has roughened, thick hand of leather

I need somebody to carry
                                           just for a minute
I need somebody to lean

I need somebody to take me through. 

Friday, September 21, 2012

Without words
I would still feel the way I do,
and I would still try to somehow explain it to you.

Slowly they come. Slowly I write,
day by day
star by star.

A clock measuring down
slicing time into pieces so that our perception of what is happening
is not felt like the strike of a match where the scent of phosphor hints at its existance before it is fed into a flame that can only burn as long as its stick will allow.
And you know that its life is short. Time measures that for us. The scent of phosphor, even shorter.
It's almost like experiencing them simultaneously because

time does not splice them in our perceptions

like it will do to us. We are experiencing life slower than a match strike.

But matches or not, you are becoming more like the smoke. Harder to feel. Harder to see. Your presence hints at the existence of a palpable thing,
a flame,
that I,
           the phosphor,
and you,
           the stick, once shared until time measured to snuff us out.

You see, if we could slow down time enough to see what that flame was actually doing to the phosphor and the stick, then I might be able to explain the transformation that took place.

In that fire, it would look like this:

A summer blazed through, to a quiet day where the humming of change was in the air. An ignition of energy burst through the endless leaves of green and naked skin, where hammocks swung in solstice and greener pastures rocked us silently to giggle fits of infinity.

With autumn leaves falling at your back, you would chase the summer west.
And as your shadow fades into the orange glow of the california sunset flowers you once knocked at my door,
I would sing for you fresh peaches wearing the fuzzy skins of sun kissed forebitten flesh.
I would sing for you late night, backyard crickets in symphony with dancing porch-top turtles
I would sing for you fields running playfuls of enlightened laughter
until the end of your stick, my match. And when my songs are only whispers weaving in your smoke,

even without words,
I still feel the way I do.

Friday, August 17, 2012


I see the universe looking
back in on itself in those deep
abysmal pupilets encased in
your snowy-blue mountain eyes.

I have rode to its edges and back
through their portals
and have known what it means to truly
contemplate temporality.

Those starry nights you stare down
pierce holes in my armor and
pour over like ice-diamonds
pour over like powdery-whispers
pour over like laughter tickling numb prickles under my skin.

I'm afraid to lose you here,
where I have seen lights and shadows of myself wear your mask,
walk your path.
Where I have seen you in fast forward motion, growing whiter.

Here,where we are no longer recognizable as you or I or ego,
Closer than id,
I see the reflection of this void as entirety,
this creation, as closing.
Both sides transform, and
depending on which direction you are looking through,
it will take or toss you.
What you do in between is all your story.

Thursday, July 26, 2012

Adieu Epiphany

I want to say goodbye to you
like summer does to spring.

I want to wave gracefully, my plumage green to the
soft buds of your departure that have bloomed into
falling petals of an experience not forsaken.

I want to embrace this new season
of silence and distance, like your moon over oceans.
Never saying, never responding
but always ebbing and flowing with eternal wisdom
as life does.

I want to kiss you as the pollen does the wind,
for just enough time to be gently placed in new grounds
and grow another time, greeting you again
as a butterfly does the flower
or the bird does the seed.

I want to say goodbye to you
like summer does to spring,
hatching bird and blooming flower
feather to the sky, pollen to the breeze.

Sunday, July 22, 2012


Everyone is sleeping.

When she awoke, she could sense your second coming before she knew exactly what that meant.

It arrived to her in the form of a letter, which spoke nothing of the unfolding
and unfortunate timing of the crash-collision that would soon after commence. 

The first time was an ancient time, where you found out how to transcend time,
until the morning of the great void
that swallowed you into this existence.

You painted her naked sky in stars,
gas swirling, expanding, new light of collisions
shattering dust into matter of eternal birth and destruction.
She breathed you fractals of golden
songs searching, reaching, echos deeply
inside of idea fundaments of blossoming contemplations and manifestations.

This time was, as everything always is, accidental.
When you sang her song and the earth quaked inside of her,
she felt herself dive in and out
becoming and unbecoming again. 

It beckoned her, after subtle knocks and tiny interruptions,
to explore the corners of your contours,
before its proper time.

Propagating the seed of foreseen, creating the nexus of connection,
is a process which cannot be forced or coerced. The timing has to be perfect. Her investigations
and abrupt withdrawal resulted from remembering your great expansion of light and sound.
She was ready, trying to conceive you with nourishing words, approachings, and gazing lovingly-
the only gifts her earthly body could offer in attempts to awaken your ancient wisdom.

Are you still sleeping?

Can you both go back  now and transcend your time so that you might exist outside
of boundaries and calculations?

Perhaps the growing pain of a long-lost found connectioncut short-lived is the only relic that will remain of the first time
when you crashed into her
absorbing all of you.

Friday, July 13, 2012


I   Realizing

When reality comes,
and like a cold blanket, wraps me in its infinite
understanding that this
is not mine,
this is
and will forever will be it's own,

I grow the brisk awareness that
this experience
is not to keep but to receive.
I am sobered.
Full of gratitude, I
try and participate,
engaging with what may come.

I cannot fake my surrender.

Like music crying,
laughter singing,
naked skin touching skin,
dancing in warm rain,
kissing whenever, wherever,
midnight adventures, knowing that you can have
late mornings after,

or anything worth basking in the receiving of life,
one cannot pretend when relinquish isn't real.

To trick oneself into that thinking
is only cutting a sold soul from growing to fit a mold
of a projected self
rotting from the center.

Resist it and flounder
in temporality fixation.

II   The Truth

Impermanance: We are all so fucking sacred.
I want to reach out
touch it, like the red apple on an autumn afternoon, hold it in my hand,
Smell it, breathe it, eat it, become
full of sweet nectar
and, oh honey don't you understand that I feel it there
feel it in every moment.

And when I tell that you
make me feel
more alive than I had ever wanted to know I could feel...
Like when that sound thrust, color snap, taste note hits your tongue in such a way
that your body is twisting
and my skin is raising white flags of delicious surrender, unfolding its layers until dawn whispers to
breathe in,
and my hair is tossed gently, spiraling over bare neck by hands that caress up from the
swaying hips
to the heavy beat of the
drums drums
and face is turned upwards, eyes

Because if open,
looking up
seeing you
in that void of infinity,

then I forget
and am reborn
to tears of beautiful nothing
that I shed for every nothing
that this feeling is not mine, alone.

And as the waves of warm
bliss wash me back into being,
I grow the brisk awareness that
this experience
is not to keep but to receive
and  give
and receive...

Saturday, July 7, 2012

Back to You

this feeling inside of me, the urge
-to go forwards and grow steady roots,
-to make fire from wet rock shoot out and scream like it was waiting for that exact moment to be heard by you,
-to do it all over, the uncurling, creeping open vines of morning spoons after nights of hide and seek, down the slides, in the playgrounds where I ran, I swung, I turned in,
-to see kaleidoscopes of pink sunset stars crashing into black oblivion back and forth again, breathing like pulses inside the birth of a universe, the birth of a planet, molecule, atom, energy, being-
the feelings that I am,
that feelings that are me

are not available.

in the conundrum
between mind ticking forwards, trying to erase the inevitable
memories pricking, pulling backwards away at walls, shields, spikes and swords
revealing the chaos within:
under the body paralyzing, crippling, crumbling to a halt
towards the call
melting towards

Where does my thought begin? Feelings end 
upscattered in this place I call myself
that I dress and I move
I feed and I keep.
I am here
I feel everywhere else.
I used to mold me
like clay and play
with an idea or a word
that could describe inside, but
aged experience has hollowed and burnt out
and followed me down into
this place.
I do not want to feel
this place.
I do not have armor for
this place.
I do not see light in
this place.

between fighting
mind pulling north and south and
bodily urges to sprint east and west
where I lay in the center trying to hold
all my pieces together from scattering
back to you.

I stretch in pain knowing
will be taller from all this.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012

A Word

an indication of
consideration- was required
to move forwards, passing this
stagnant bog of wading.

Side to side off glances
of pushed out mouths and stretched out faces,

inside paces back and back races.

Reaching out for the moment of concrete to hold,
foundation remains
but bare
as drops of laughter  in dreams trickle down its sides
connecting opposites
showing images of
disturbed by it's non reflection:

no word
no response
nothing is silent
and the nothing is strong enough
to place another brick in the unstable foundation
wedging relation with questioning
repose for conceited feignings.

Friday, June 1, 2012

After the Storm


I give you give,
after the storm. You leave me
mirrors smashing
shards of red crashing
after I give you a piece
of feeling carried by troubled water.

I could not deliver it well. I did not know how to.
It corroded from the inside .
It pushed out the seams,
pulled rope,
sinking in,
shaking my vessel.

I tried to get you closer to hear it,
to see it.
I'm sorry it was distant.

Moving forwards
in all directions now,
between mine
stirring the space
and my insides,
breathing the sensations
purple crushing back water on your far off blue shores.

I want to pour over you
and wrap you in dry amor.
I want to snap into pieces,
                                          parts have began to fall
splintering and drifting
until you see nothing
but my naked truth.

I am not sorry
for delivering the word.
I am not apologizing for sharing a piece of me,
a piece of feeling.

              I am sorry
              my feeling was not articulated
              in flesh. I am sorry it was cold.
              I am sorry that the sparks on the wire of communication
ignited into an electrical storm of crashing vessels and messengers birds preying on every word, every letter, mistake and floundering attempt to listen to a kind of understanding. 

My white flag is raised in hopes that we can see each other and remember ourselves. I do not want to pick up these broken mirror shards alone.  I do not want to float in this space of unresolution. I want to greet you on dry land
with both feet in the sand
knowing that
we are both heard
and mutually respected.

Sunday, May 27, 2012


Why am I searching
for the puzzle piece
that fits me

when I know
I am complete?

Knowing that does not eliminate the longing of true companionship.

Because if I am whole
and I find another piece,
we expand-
creating something made of cosmos,
blossoms of
the joyous sensations
of experiencing
love outside of the self
for another self,

so completely whole
and wholly complete.  

Monday, May 21, 2012

Death of a Faun

Crying Wolf.

On top of a city, slumber is disturbed-
when warning howls sing the songs of a fresh kill.
As the body stiffens, turns raised hair
in the opposite direction,
searching for answers...

Silently, deep
the reassuring side responds
gently between sharp teeth
the Spider to unwind and give
into another,
allowing for this sacred exchange.

Wolf devouring.

The Spider watches
while her offering is
intertwining with
the connectivity,
trusting this
shadowy transport between
giving death in hopes of rebirth.

She opens
her delicate, sticky web in confidence.
Beads of clear sentiments decorate her portal
as its ancient wisdom echoes
through the faun
as it is taken.

Wolf lying.

Above the city
he sleeps with shrouded stains
           of other faun,
breaking Spider's webs.
As clarity falls
and its beads splinter,
Wolf eludes-

hidden in his caves
where nothing can enter
an nothing can return.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Coming into Me

Went out today,
came home, and realized I-
Change happens fast.
After chemicals in formulas are
mixed, they cannot be separated by science.
They become something else.
In this vibrating matter,
where there are no rules or boundaries,
only expansion and multiplication,
creations of new are merely transformations of lost,
old, destroyed or forgotten.

Naïve hope lingers,
whispering empty promises
of reinforcing walls collapsing
and time warping
to be ready for this,
to complete unfinished reactions
of prior attachments.

But I swallowed
and choked on knowing
wise hope moves forward.
No color
no sound
suspended here
in this space,
the destruction of what became something else.
I am the artist
who will paint the changes
new equations
and unfold to this new experience.
-came into you
and went out as a dream. 

Thursday, May 17, 2012



outside of yourself
in all the other
creates conflicts
propagate seeds of


A spectrum of plants
exist in this jungle.

Seeds mutating-

Weeded, brown
rotten and hollowed
poisonous, seething
plants taking
and consuming.

Seeds transforming-

Green, vibrant,
bursting with color
food feeding,
fruit bearing
plants living,
giving life.

One can argue,
how a seed grows
is affected by the elements
and conditions it was
cultivated in...

even if it is,
as we all inevitably are,

it doesn't negate

In being,
it has a choice-

The free will to act
and grow to be
the seed,
the plant becoming,
in it's fated life.

Without searching
it does not expand.
Without growing
it does not transform.
Without the idea,
the external conflict,
the choice of life,

it remains a dormant shell,
not existing outside of itself.

Wednesday, May 16, 2012


Feigned compassion
for selfish intentions

Empty sorries
prefaced with clauses
whose subtle cues
clue into the inevitable shadow
of disappointment that leaves traces
from the corner of a well rehearse smile
to the lost sparkle of a promise once broken but
never forgotten, that lived so shortly in eye.

Once cannot be angry at this storm for embarking across the face.
It was whispering stories of its coming.
Once can only bask in the sun
of reluctant denial
and wait until the rains wash
every good feeling out with
disenchanted doubt.

Distance well rehearsed
are the words that hail from the mouth,
carrying with them
no spirit or response
only the shallow recourse which
does not offer shelter
from the shattering frozen

Monday, May 7, 2012



You trick my words
and twist their meanings,
until they drip sticky pieces
of letters

jumbled up
in sounds of coo and
goo and ahh,
until my sentences
are bittersweet songs,
that pour out of yesterday's longing

with their yellow banners silently
goodbye to that 'naive' definition.

You're against my stance.
And you take that uncertainty
in my spaces and use their hollow
vowels to howl back
beautiful, black, smokey lines I have
been wanting to
Waiting to

Oh, the words
that tremble with excitement
I have yet to announce
I am filled with



An artist of words is never clarifying.
They only reveal enough skin
to give a personal image of the territory,
because every body,
every freckle,
every scar
has transformative meaning.

But if I have to
justify my meaning in progression
and fight for no clues to
wisdom in lesson,

tell me what is the point,
the punctuation mark,
in continuing this conversation?

Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Am I?

How do you start
an explanation of something
you have never seen or really
experienced before, but you have
the sensation that it is something that
may come to affect how each second of
your life will unfold. Like removing an object

from its package and taking it out so that it is
exposed in the world, seeing it this way for the
first time through this lense of clarity and wondering
why it had never know or had wanted knowledge about
this mode before. Because this fresh sensitivity has so many

excited nerves shouting and electrons jumping, carrying with them
new information about this unexplained territory that they take back
to their dimention and tell to their children before bed. It becomes, inevitably,
considered just a fantasy, or an idea that can only exist in the mind. And
once it leaves the vessel, the real air of the reality that we perceive to

be depletes it of its life force. But the children have not forgotten and
allow the ideas to breathe in their sleep and be in their sleep even when waking
because to them there is no difference between dreaming and being. They too visit
the sensational realities that exist with new skin feeling, clean eyes seeing, tentacle tongues
touching tasting, speaking, spitting the iridescence of the evanescence of the layers touching
edges only perceived in the fourth, the fifth dimensions... How do you start to explain this?

I woke up on the bus today after nodding off while reading George Orwell's 1984 to two men
sitting across from me. One asked me how I liked the book. After responding to him that it was interesting so far, he continued back to his conversation which seemed more like an interrogation but of the purest nature.

The man sitting next to him asked,
"If this is all a dream within a dream, how do we know we are real? How do we know that those trees are real? Because we can see them? Because we perceive them? Can  you prove language exists? Just because you hear it doesn't mean it's real.

What about that age- old question about the tree falling in the forest, and no one is there to hear it. Does it make a sound? Well there are a multitude of answers... and that multitude are four. One, the tree is perceived but not known. Two, the tree is known but not perceived. Three, the tree is neither perceived nor known and- four, the tree is both known and perceived. "

They exit the bus.

Now, after watching "Waking Life" a few days before, my mind is fresh with many of these ideas and cameos... and I am writing that feeling down, the feeling that begs me to ask, can we know and perceive simultaneously? Does that prove anything? Do I exist, or am I just a detail of someone's dream? Who is doing the dreaming? Are we collectively creating it and experiencing it?

My brain hurts. At least I think it's my brain...

Thursday, April 26, 2012


Birds stitching
the invisible fabric that holds
up the sky.

and what little we understand of it
breaths leave blossom that
lace naked branches.

Language has a new cadence
of laughter.

And yes,
it is surely spring.

Monday, April 23, 2012


Letting go
of something I was never
to hold onto.

air           water
sand           fire

I feel these for you.

I know it's
something unwanted
right now.

But I have arrived.
I cannot unarrive

I can however let it

instead of pretending I had it
in my palm
like a rock
or a bead.

It can fall
drop for drop
word for word,
it can baptize the wrinkles around the sentiments.

It can run
farther and father
deeper and deeper,
it can shed it's clothes and transform laughter
to copper wishes at the bottom of a concrete fountain.

It can splatter
beads of cascading fragments
stretching across all eternity only
to merge again
with itself or its other
creating recreation.

It would be foolish
to try and stitch those back together.

What was never built
cannot be destroyed.
Only the idea-living
or the feeling-being of it
can consume a man.

Let it go.

Meandering and being
without paradigms or parameters
in the web
flowing freely to feed
the nothingness that is
and the nothingness it creates.

I ponder whether my removal
frees me to myself
or binds me to its other.

Sunday, April 15, 2012

Dawn of the Muse

The energy in our molecules
hummed in harmony.
Bursting out expansions
of mental matter, they
feed the other wordly,
to play,
to see
as we might hear the quiet tones
of shared understanding
in one another.

The humming sang
songs of thriving
like spores spreading seeds,
and thought bubbles bursting into
a glittered dust of ideas and imagination
that infected and came to be.

Your bones,
your being,
experiencing itself
expanding itself
other manifestations of
ignited suns and stars
in my mind
in my time...

And for me,
for that instant,
was the overture
I wanted to work towards
to create the master piece
which would finally fit
a finaly into the nook of my being.

Universe within universe
singing together in harmony
drums beating through the bones in our bodies

What a beautiful, tangled web we weave.

Saturday, March 31, 2012


I have two tokens and a card:

One I bought
one was chosen for me
and one was given.

Something about your mid twenties and alcohol
on a speak-easy Saturday night
makes you want to confess
all of the untied fragments that
you may have forgotten
living with the lint in your back pocket.

And as you reach in deep to pull out
a conversation
pieces of it spill out onto the floor like
bouncing marbles, rolling
as others trip
over or roll with them,
reversing their sides of that card.

Our histories are pieced together of frames
we choose to keep,
because sometimes we are not collecting
and sometimes we
are not looking.
Through that lens,
sometimes we are living in real time
and not thinking about how this time
will become the last time
or the times before
we realized it would keep us,
because we do not keep it.

Something about whiskey on your leg
and a book made in your hand that
makes you invert your intro
version to a complete exchange of purity.

There I saw, with one blind eye a man can still see
sometimes more than he wants to.
And if my chosen token allows it,
he may see me for the first time
instead of seeing himself.

I bought myself a smile that night,
but she unfolded after I had left the room.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Sunday, March 25, 2012


I suppose I should write,

since there is no one,
in my phone at least,
who I know now
that would come
for me

I suppose I should write
about how isolating standards
put down red tape
and create the illusion of grass growing greener... but

for what?

I want it closer,
because I can't feel it anymore.
             the pillow does not smell like you
                        the picture is not on my desk

                               Nothing comes in
               nothing goes out

Sealed bottle of flat soda

I close my eyes
to try and catch the evasive shadow
of the dream I once had
where you came to me
and with loving cheeks
caressed them
against my pale, sleeping chest

only to open them
to the stale sunlight in my gray room
with cold spaces
and the weights of winter's solitude
crashing on my bed

to greet me in this
flat feeling
that follows
every glimmer in a steady glance

every hours long embrace

every kiss
filled with cigarette smoke
in my lungs breathing
for that feeling
but the burning never comes.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

Wake Up

It's all a distraction!

From you
    for you
to step out
and feel
because you wanted to
get lost.
maybe you'll never make it back home
back to you
but you had to prove it yourself?

        How am
        I not..
             -I am

Strange how
we become
to the vice of distraction

looping through
for the sake of
...of who?

The image of achievement
subdued the center
for the cause
for an idea
....for who?

the only thing to overcome is the self.

Not for Love

I am not in love

I am in the gray

I am not thinking

I just am

I am not on fire

I am in the blue

I am not asking
for the

I just am

at the mercy of this moment
held here

I don't feel
I don't crave

Not complacent

just existing
and feeling
the nothing that is surrounding me

the nothing inside of me

Not depression

just seeing
and knowing
the moment is ordinary

nothing thinking
just being
and being me.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Now and Then

i feel so alone

friends holding up my standards

not understanding

where happiness lies
or where functionality begins

why must one be compromised?

in this tunnel of chaos
with fear and its blue legs running
from feeling unworthy
for feeling guilty
from asking for what it needs
its love is conditioned to give
without receiving

and i feel so alone

caught between what i need

and selling

what the soul desires
for the standards of my cog in society's function

why must we be compromised?

Saturday, February 11, 2012


so busy

never satisfied

looking for
in what we're doing,
and not doing what we're meaning with what
we're looking for

in a culture where
self love is measured by
self indulgence
and what is sacred
is subverted to
the alter and
slaughtered by sarcasm

i find myself on the edges asking

where are we going?
where have we been?

what is genuine?

we can talk about talking
we can think about thinking
this world is so fucking meta

who are these assholes?
what are they trying to say,
without actually saying it?

no one is honest anymore
because honesty is not clever
or ironic
it is not safe
or protected

honesty is both an opening inside
and a weapon to turn and stab with

concealed behind our masks
i ask
to remove mine

as to live honestly and openly

Friday, February 3, 2012

Venom and Arrows

The archer taught me how to love

honest arrow
direct and straightforward

it does not shoot aimlessly

it has a target

serious, much like the art of war
the battles here are not fought in bloodshed
but made in love spread
that paints our entire entangled bodies
the color of children breathing meadowed mazes of
Port land islands surrounded by giant oaks
where my hunter got lost chasing lust through the Grantwood forests

my arrow pointed true but
no one told me its tip was venomed

too much is poison

as I have seen
and killed
a many

too much
too fast 

but I never speak of those days,
I promised to never hunt again
because I love like the arrow steeped in
a lethal toxin