Tuesday, May 15, 2018

somewhere something

somewhere there is something
hardened like a stone
where minds embrace the darkness
unafraid of the unknown.
somewhere there's a yearning
bathed in silver light
cast against the shadows
of this never-ending night
somewhere there's a fragment
of some shattered part
crushed under a crystal
combative to my heart
and until it is in ruins
I will fight it with my soul
somewhere there is something
somewhere, we are whole.



Dreaming of

Wet concrete

A place I can live and work and feel whole

Like a human,

…whatever that means.

Dreaming of

Your face

Alight in happiness

Like a beacon calling some salt-chapped mariner home.

But the reality is

I love the rain obsessively  

Where my work never makes me satisfied

In an anger

That never subsides.

The reality is

Like a nightmare   

Mired in amphetamines

Like a distortion without future or past.

Why then

Have we been wrought?

To this level of exchange

Where I feel you like the smell of some familiar cigarette

Rising up through the air.

Why then

look upon me?

So full of derision

Where I feel like a fool I once knew

Falling through life blindly.

In moments

There is so much chaos

So much further to go

As if time feels like treacherous mountains

That must be traversed

In moments

I feel so deeply

With such sensitivity

As if the petals of myself peel back

In a rawness that I save for you.


And I’m learning

How to let go,

How to make things right

In ways that I never thought possible.

And I’m learning

That there is a kind of method

Spawned from the absence of possibility.

That arises in these moments

Where I awaken

To a world that is different and new

Under all the contextual things

consuming every facet of free attention. 

I awaken

Repeadely, as if surfacing

Upon the worlds that I have not yet known 

Where we are only beginning

to understand what the future holds

Thursday, May 3, 2018


There is a tension to it

Like a twisted piece of fabric being rung

Like the emptiness that I feel

Growing within me.

Moment by moment.

The seconds draw out,

longer and longer

like some impossibly perfect candle-lit vignette


in the otherness

that I know that

you have seen

within me.

I’m so empty

it’s hard to put to words.

And it’s an emptiness that is so familiar.

As I stand wondering if ‘our’ time has passed

As you look in the reflection of yourself

that is me.

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Shadows of the Eyucalyptus 41/100

There is a point where I walk to

In the dark with my dog

Where three great Eucalyptus stand

In my childhood a man sat beneath one of them and took his own life.

I know this because they grow near where I went to school as a child.

At night the sprinklers run

Big rooster tails of water rain down over everything  

with a stillness that I can place

I have walked here for decades

To steal loquats from one of the neighboring trees.

And I stood a while in thought.

Wondering which one exactly it was

Her voice came to me. clear with concern

Sensing that I was thinking on the topic:

Why do they do that?  

I don’t know entirely, humans are complicated creatures. Sometimes they become sad.

What is that? She pulls the word sorrow from my mind.

I imagine the man, revolver in hand, placing the weapon to his chin.

She interrupts. I still have the little piece of metal inside me.

Beaming, as if she has a special piercing.

I kind of respect it.

I look into my phone

 anxiously trying to get in contact with another human.

With their broken juvenility.

Sorrow pouring into me like an emptiness I cannot place.

A human feeling

standing there  

upon nameless thin places

like monoliths in the dark

dancing interpretively to the zephyr of the night

perceiving the universe more as time than as space

Everything you guys experience is short-lived. Even your suffering.

& I kind of respected it.

As I thought about the frivolity of being a human

Overwhelmed in powerlessness from one moment to the next

I went home to handwrite words

In some feeble attempt at traversing time

Sunday, March 18, 2018


Sometimes it feels like

The manufacture of culture

Stone cold

Peeling ribbons of cloth on the winds of self

Festering maggots on the carrion of their dreams

Thundering hooves on the soil of my soul.

They have no idea what awaits them.

How simple it is—

How savage. and ruthless. and raw.

I didn’t come here to fuck around.

I didn’t come here to listen to your beta-boy story about who gives a shit—

You made it this far into the woods and now you have me.

In all of my filth.

In all of my ruthless glory,

With all of the human abuse  

Inflicted with open hands

In woken minds.

They eat my cum out of one another.

Tonguing at it like nymphs for ambrosia.

Devouring these fabricated ideas of humanity.  

In the thousand-yard stare

Where I have forgotten everything that once was

As they compete for a thing they cannot name

struggling against a thing they do not understand

unable to grasp the power of infliction.

...power of affliction

I have seen the terrain between these spaces

As the stars on a freezing night

Contorting flesh splashing through the river.

Fingers down throat, lordosis effect.

where our souls have been wrought of unspeakable anguish 

Where the talons of my mind

Rend everything in a way that seems beyond familiar.

What are they to me but refuse—

Disposable meat to be held

Marrow to be eaten

As if tasting the intoxicating nectar of some imperfect flower

That grows deep in the jungles of self.

Sometimes it feels like

Lightning touching down

Electric and visceral

As if I am surfacing upon other realms

As swarms of insects taking flight

 As if hearing two conversations running at once

Like two songs playing at the same time

As narrative and dialogue unfold together

To realize that they,


Look upon us like so many filthy children

Ragged and abused

Pliable and simple

As if pitiful deer left in the forest

Have you not seen their craft?

So utterly beyond comprehension, 

Beyond this

There is something else—

Esoteric in a way, but not impossible  

Like tendrils climbing the lattices of time

our many dimensions unravel

in a gracefulness beyond the limitations

of these human forms  

Tuesday, March 13, 2018


Pour into me

As the river

In the moments that I am whole

As if flowing water is something that I know.

In concepts of home

And peace

abandoned like footprints in time

That never lead anywhere

empty as their apathy

sensitive to their nature.

Experiencing it more as time than as space

As though existence for all is a kind of frustration

No matter how it’s sliced

Like so many nicks

in our fingertips,

Bruises on our psyche,

Chainsaws to our limbs  

allocations of nervous tissue

empty beyond our personal experience  

as if I am hearing them shriek in terror

worthless to come to their aid

Tuesday, March 6, 2018


Like I,

Resistant to the end.

Although, by now, how would I even know?

Where does the fiction end and the reality begin?

the narrative

the dialogue?

When am I too deep—

Lost at sea

Where does sailing become drifting

When does drifting become, adrift?

In those moments of fragility

Enduring and driven.

Talented in nuance

What never-ending fetish this has become

Bearing the masks that hide our ruthlessness

Where I envision my enemies devoured by ants.

Picked clean by vultures

Worn thin by the endlessness

And I know my kind is like this,

Barren in a gentle way

As if dying from exposure

the sharpness of the weapon

only shows when composure is lost

Resourceful and resilient

Conversant and clear.

And yet, deluded.

As if any of them are anything like this

Where I feel more at home, alone in my mind

In the sense that writing about isolation does nothing to bring about its end.

There is an emptiness to this

That has become familiar

Like a king vocalizing epithets

Into an empty castle.