Sometimes I can feel myself spinning off course,
and I worry that I’ll never regain my eccentric orbit;
that no gravity will hold me and I’ll just keep spinning away,
away into the senseless dark.
Nimblewill
Have you ever tried to forget a nightmare?
Eyes open to the dark, desperately avoiding the nightmare-shaped hole in your thoughts;
fighting to stay awake long enough for the bad things to give up and leave you alone.
What can you possibly think of in those moments?
What impenetrable serenity can be won so cheaply?
There are weeds in every garden,
blown in on the currents
or creeping through the cracks.
You can spend your life on your knees,
clawing, tearing, uprooting;
or you can be overrun.
Eyes open to the dark, desperately avoiding the nightmare-shaped hole in your thoughts;
fighting to stay awake long enough for the bad things to give up and leave you alone.
What can you possibly think of in those moments?
What impenetrable serenity can be won so cheaply?
There are weeds in every garden,
blown in on the currents
or creeping through the cracks.
You can spend your life on your knees,
clawing, tearing, uprooting;
or you can be overrun.
Recursion
Why is it
that I would never listen to you
when you were here
but now
I will pull your voice
from the swelling wind?
How can I be haunted
by someone that was a ghost
while they were alive?
that I would never listen to you
when you were here
but now
I will pull your voice
from the swelling wind?
How can I be haunted
by someone that was a ghost
while they were alive?
Harmonics
I always used to say,
“Someday,
I’ll look back at all this and laugh.”
“Someday,
I’ll wonder why I even cared.”
I don’t know if it’s Someday yet,
but I can already see
that those notions of eventual triumph
were more naive than the petty emotions
they were meant to overcome.
As I’ve drawn closer to the turgid purgatory of middle age
I’ve become increasingly certain,
that whichever maladies or malaises
are crawling around in my skull,
they’re following me into the grave.
Sometimes a silent surrender
is an invisible victory.
Sometimes balance
is the best umbrella.
“Someday,
I’ll look back at all this and laugh.”
“Someday,
I’ll wonder why I even cared.”
I don’t know if it’s Someday yet,
but I can already see
that those notions of eventual triumph
were more naive than the petty emotions
they were meant to overcome.
As I’ve drawn closer to the turgid purgatory of middle age
I’ve become increasingly certain,
that whichever maladies or malaises
are crawling around in my skull,
they’re following me into the grave.
Sometimes a silent surrender
is an invisible victory.
Sometimes balance
is the best umbrella.
The Pharaohs' Tomb
I know without any doubt,
that my childhood self would love
the person we’ve become–
of course he would,
my house is a
monument to his memory,
right down to the Star Wars bed-sheets.
Unfortunately the one of us
that’s actually alive
needs somewhat more than
a boxed copy of Battletoads to make him happy.
Sometimes being surrounded by
these cluttered walls feels like living
in the tomb of a postmodern child-king:
A Tut for the new millennium,
surrounded by hoarded treasures,
and enough entertainment to weather
the eternal afterlife of adulthood.
that my childhood self would love
the person we’ve become–
of course he would,
my house is a
monument to his memory,
right down to the Star Wars bed-sheets.
Unfortunately the one of us
that’s actually alive
needs somewhat more than
a boxed copy of Battletoads to make him happy.
Sometimes being surrounded by
these cluttered walls feels like living
in the tomb of a postmodern child-king:
A Tut for the new millennium,
surrounded by hoarded treasures,
and enough entertainment to weather
the eternal afterlife of adulthood.
Roman Rooms
My survival is built
on an elaborate system of workarounds,
dams and bridges
criss-crossing my brain
like a second set of veins,
or a neural treasure map
with x’s marking the spots,
most marked by exes.
Still I find myself wandering,
in moments of fragility,
the twisting backroads
of memory.
on an elaborate system of workarounds,
dams and bridges
criss-crossing my brain
like a second set of veins,
or a neural treasure map
with x’s marking the spots,
most marked by exes.
Still I find myself wandering,
in moments of fragility,
the twisting backroads
of memory.
Maladie
Too often, we lock ourselves up, forgetting
that heartbreak is a fever you can’t sweat out.
Resting a while might make you feel better,
but eventually you’re going to have to get up,
and walk it off.
that heartbreak is a fever you can’t sweat out.
Resting a while might make you feel better,
but eventually you’re going to have to get up,
and walk it off.
The Tenebrist
My life has been a study in contrast,
in small things casting long shadows,
and convulsions of light scraped away
from a canvas of matted black.
I’m made of flesh stolen from the poor,
a heart broken by its first beating,
a brain forever bored and boring.
I’m stitched together with grit and gristle,
snips and snails, dead-ends and dark alleys.
The world is, by most accounts, a beautiful place,
but my eyes have not yet adjusted to the light.
in small things casting long shadows,
and convulsions of light scraped away
from a canvas of matted black.
I’m made of flesh stolen from the poor,
a heart broken by its first beating,
a brain forever bored and boring.
I’m stitched together with grit and gristle,
snips and snails, dead-ends and dark alleys.
The world is, by most accounts, a beautiful place,
but my eyes have not yet adjusted to the light.
Sol Invictus
It’ll always be tacky—
the first subject of the rookie artist—
but there’s primal beauty,
(and beautiful primality)
in the rising of the sun,
that no amount of clumsy analogizing,
or heavy-handed brushwork
could ever wholly dispel.
the first subject of the rookie artist—
but there’s primal beauty,
(and beautiful primality)
in the rising of the sun,
that no amount of clumsy analogizing,
or heavy-handed brushwork
could ever wholly dispel.
Covenance
What is a promise
but an attempt to pre-write history?
We all know these words are lies,
and yet we say them with conviction,
because we mean them,
as sincerely as we can mean anything.
A promise is a still-life portrait,
of a moment in time, where
our desires were powerful enough
to unmake the rules.
but an attempt to pre-write history?
We all know these words are lies,
and yet we say them with conviction,
because we mean them,
as sincerely as we can mean anything.
A promise is a still-life portrait,
of a moment in time, where
our desires were powerful enough
to unmake the rules.
Birthstones
Each of us was passed through
the guts of our mother,
like a swallowed stone.
Even after they shat our slimy bodies
into the arms of a stranger,
they still had to carry us home.
They carried us out of the emptiness,
and through the years of swirling dark,
until we were old enough to hate them for it.
——————
I’m sorry, mom.
I’m sorry I saw you
as a sad little girl
who swallowed a magic pebble
so she would never be lonely again;
because maybe that was true,
when our story began,
but you became so much more,
a woman, a mother,
an Orphic heroine.
And yet, you never stopped being sad,
or even lonely.
and despite our combined efforts,
I’m just like you,
minus me.
the guts of our mother,
like a swallowed stone.
Even after they shat our slimy bodies
into the arms of a stranger,
they still had to carry us home.
They carried us out of the emptiness,
and through the years of swirling dark,
until we were old enough to hate them for it.
——————
I’m sorry, mom.
I’m sorry I saw you
as a sad little girl
who swallowed a magic pebble
so she would never be lonely again;
because maybe that was true,
when our story began,
but you became so much more,
a woman, a mother,
an Orphic heroine.
And yet, you never stopped being sad,
or even lonely.
and despite our combined efforts,
I’m just like you,
minus me.
Parasitic Twins
I read once that if you want to expel a tapeworm,
you can starve yourself for a few days, then hold your face
over a pot of simmering buttermilk.
Sometimes I sit and stare at this blinking cursor,
because I feel like there must be something inside of me,
feeding. I want to feel it slither.
Up, and out.
I want to be unimpressed at the sight of it,
writhing, dying under the electric light.
I want to be overwhelmed by the ordinariness,
of the things that I consume and that consume me.
I want to be well.
you can starve yourself for a few days, then hold your face
over a pot of simmering buttermilk.
Sometimes I sit and stare at this blinking cursor,
because I feel like there must be something inside of me,
feeding. I want to feel it slither.
Up, and out.
I want to be unimpressed at the sight of it,
writhing, dying under the electric light.
I want to be overwhelmed by the ordinariness,
of the things that I consume and that consume me.
I want to be well.
Exody
I am standing on the doorstep
looking back into my darkened home,
one hand resting stubbornly on the handle,
just watching, breathing, blinking—waiting.
I look as though I’m checking
to see if I’ve forgotten anything,
but really I’m just afraid—afraid
of letting go and of taking those first steps.
I have always been so afraid.
looking back into my darkened home,
one hand resting stubbornly on the handle,
just watching, breathing, blinking—waiting.
I look as though I’m checking
to see if I’ve forgotten anything,
but really I’m just afraid—afraid
of letting go and of taking those first steps.
I have always been so afraid.
Lunacy
My battle with depression has been like
the moon’s battle with the sea;
long, slow tugs of war,
perceptible only to the unobservant.
—————
The ocean is breathing,
in gasps and sighs, and awkward waves,
unable to stop from chasing
the ever-falling pearl.
the moon’s battle with the sea;
long, slow tugs of war,
perceptible only to the unobservant.
—————
The ocean is breathing,
in gasps and sighs, and awkward waves,
unable to stop from chasing
the ever-falling pearl.
Odysseys
I always feel loneliest when I wake up—
when I reach into the matted darkness,
and feel only the cold side of the bed.
Weren’t you here just a moment ago?
I must have been dreaming of you again,
though for now my memory is merciful.
I remember passing time in a borrowed bed.
I would have stayed in that room forever,
tracing fingerprint tessellations in your skin.
Unfortunately things didn’t work out that way,
but you’re still out there, somewhere,
and it’s not too late for you
to find your way home.
when I reach into the matted darkness,
and feel only the cold side of the bed.
Weren’t you here just a moment ago?
I must have been dreaming of you again,
though for now my memory is merciful.
I remember passing time in a borrowed bed.
I would have stayed in that room forever,
tracing fingerprint tessellations in your skin.
Unfortunately things didn’t work out that way,
but you’re still out there, somewhere,
and it’s not too late for you
to find your way home.
Digital Analogy
It's been years since I heard your voice, your true voice,
resonating through your delicate bones,
and breaking apart in the unworthy air.
Instead, through some miracle of the modern age,
I am given electronic reinterpretations
and dot-matrix portraits, in the style of Life.
It's not that I'm ungrateful for our conveniences--
I love the glow of your digital ghost--
but I do miss that third dimension,
(and those other three senses).
resonating through your delicate bones,
and breaking apart in the unworthy air.
Instead, through some miracle of the modern age,
I am given electronic reinterpretations
and dot-matrix portraits, in the style of Life.
It's not that I'm ungrateful for our conveniences--
I love the glow of your digital ghost--
but I do miss that third dimension,
(and those other three senses).
Ginnungagap
I’m too tired to focus.
I lie paralyzed, staring into the near-total darkness.
My wandering thoughts pause on my open eyes,
and the black holes yawning in their centers,
stretching to swallow every stray photon,
and force it to mean something.
Tonight, the winds blow black.
I lie paralyzed, staring into the near-total darkness.
My wandering thoughts pause on my open eyes,
and the black holes yawning in their centers,
stretching to swallow every stray photon,
and force it to mean something.
Tonight, the winds blow black.
Tectonics
I have always been sentimental to the brink of cowardice-
can’t move on, can’t let go, can’t turn away-
too afraid of losing what I have
to find anything new.
Obviously the world doesn't work that way-
people change, people leave, people die-
and I have lucid moments when I know
this is the only way it could ever work.
I feel myself carried away by great gusts of time,
always with the feeling that I wasn't quite ready,
that if I could have just found surer footing,
I might have kept it together.
can’t move on, can’t let go, can’t turn away-
too afraid of losing what I have
to find anything new.
Obviously the world doesn't work that way-
people change, people leave, people die-
and I have lucid moments when I know
this is the only way it could ever work.
I feel myself carried away by great gusts of time,
always with the feeling that I wasn't quite ready,
that if I could have just found surer footing,
I might have kept it together.
Disillusionment
One of the problems posed
by the introspective
descent-into-the-maelström
(of which I am very much in the middle)
is that the illusory walls
we wrap ourselves in
begin to flicker.
How can we stay focused
with the depthless void
yawning at our feet?
What do we do
when we find we can do anything?
When impossibility is the only impossibility,
and the only time wasted
is the time spent worrying
about time being wasted.
by the introspective
descent-into-the-maelström
(of which I am very much in the middle)
is that the illusory walls
we wrap ourselves in
begin to flicker.
How can we stay focused
with the depthless void
yawning at our feet?
What do we do
when we find we can do anything?
When impossibility is the only impossibility,
and the only time wasted
is the time spent worrying
about time being wasted.
Anxiety, Ad Nauseam
It’s amazing how you can agonize over a decision to the point of physical illness—
aware, suddenly, of the acids burning through your bowels—
awake, again, stuck living your life in a moment that only exists as a projection.
Play, rewind, pause, play.
A private performance of failures and fears.
A multiverse of miseries.
There’s permanence in pain, but the sickness will pass.
Anxiety is a shapeshifter, a doppelgänger.
It disguises itself, in the cleverest of ways, as conscious thought.
But even knowing it’s true name can’t make it go away.
You have to dig at it, expose its roots to the open air,
and watch as it slowly suffocates.
Don’t clean up afterward, either.
Leave the corpse rotting in the garden.
Feel the chill winds singe your exposed nerves.
Because that’s the real you, down there,
not these mechanisms of survival
under which you’ve been buried.
aware, suddenly, of the acids burning through your bowels—
awake, again, stuck living your life in a moment that only exists as a projection.
Play, rewind, pause, play.
A private performance of failures and fears.
A multiverse of miseries.
There’s permanence in pain, but the sickness will pass.
Anxiety is a shapeshifter, a doppelgänger.
It disguises itself, in the cleverest of ways, as conscious thought.
But even knowing it’s true name can’t make it go away.
You have to dig at it, expose its roots to the open air,
and watch as it slowly suffocates.
Don’t clean up afterward, either.
Leave the corpse rotting in the garden.
Feel the chill winds singe your exposed nerves.
Because that’s the real you, down there,
not these mechanisms of survival
under which you’ve been buried.
Pearl
To sing her praises,
with my voice,
would be to paint the ocean
on the back
of a napkin.
And yet I’ve tried,
because words are all I have
running through my brain,
and through my veins,
and out my broken mouth.
When I see her again,
after all this time,
these words will break apart,
and all I’ll have is an open heart
spouting nonsense to the beat
with my voice,
would be to paint the ocean
on the back
of a napkin.
And yet I’ve tried,
because words are all I have
running through my brain,
and through my veins,
and out my broken mouth.
When I see her again,
after all this time,
these words will break apart,
and all I’ll have is an open heart
spouting nonsense to the beat
Tunnel Vision
I am unmade, as this bed
I can never seem to leave.
I sit, with cloudless eyes, and stare
into this tunnel of artificial light.
Like Janus, I see into both
the past, and the future—
but never the present—and in
both directions, death: imminent, eminent, permanent.
Our lives divide infinity in two halves,
each governed by our total nonexistence.
I am a bubble in the breach,
a teardrop in the sea.
I am all that will ever be.
I can never seem to leave.
I sit, with cloudless eyes, and stare
into this tunnel of artificial light.
Like Janus, I see into both
the past, and the future—
but never the present—and in
both directions, death: imminent, eminent, permanent.
Our lives divide infinity in two halves,
each governed by our total nonexistence.
I am a bubble in the breach,
a teardrop in the sea.
I am all that will ever be.
The Cagelings
I don’t know why, but you were always the key.
Unlock my rib cage and let me flutter free.
We’ll make a nest of our twiggy limbs
And teach our chicks to sing.
Unlock my rib cage and let me flutter free.
We’ll make a nest of our twiggy limbs
And teach our chicks to sing.
The Hollow
This year has sucked the
tears from my eyes, the
blood from my veins, the
marrow from my bones.
I am left hollow,
cracked in this crater,
lying as I fell,
broken by the earth.
What’s left is a pile
of empty organs,
discarded, shredded,
like old wrapping paper,
that could have once held
anything.
tears from my eyes, the
blood from my veins, the
marrow from my bones.
I am left hollow,
cracked in this crater,
lying as I fell,
broken by the earth.
What’s left is a pile
of empty organs,
discarded, shredded,
like old wrapping paper,
that could have once held
anything.
Cavities
When I slow down I can hear it—
the rising drone of dread.
Inhale
and feel it echo in my empty chest.
Exhale
and feel it whistle through the cavities
in my teeth and in my soul.
If I try to speak I will surely vomit
my darkness into the impartial air.
So I will sit, a ship in a storm in a bottle,
and swallow.
the rising drone of dread.
Inhale
and feel it echo in my empty chest.
Exhale
and feel it whistle through the cavities
in my teeth and in my soul.
If I try to speak I will surely vomit
my darkness into the impartial air.
So I will sit, a ship in a storm in a bottle,
and swallow.
House Arrest
I wish I could strip the bed,
and wash you out of the sheets.
Instead, I have to wear you,
like my only set of clothes,
until your threads unravel,
and I can scrub you away
from my suffocating skin
with water too hot
and soap too strong-
until I realize,
dispassionately,
that pieces of me
wouldn’t let you go,
and were flushed away.
Sometimes moving on means leaving you both behind.
Brick your bodies in the walls of the house you shared.
Hang your skeletons up neatly in the closet.
Shut off the lights and leave the key under the mat.
Now stop—breathe it all in. Remember it just-so.
Suck the stench of death deep into your languid lungs,
and walk away, slowly—so the ghosts don’t follow.
and wash you out of the sheets.
Instead, I have to wear you,
like my only set of clothes,
until your threads unravel,
and I can scrub you away
from my suffocating skin
with water too hot
and soap too strong-
until I realize,
dispassionately,
that pieces of me
wouldn’t let you go,
and were flushed away.
Sometimes moving on means leaving you both behind.
Brick your bodies in the walls of the house you shared.
Hang your skeletons up neatly in the closet.
Shut off the lights and leave the key under the mat.
Now stop—breathe it all in. Remember it just-so.
Suck the stench of death deep into your languid lungs,
and walk away, slowly—so the ghosts don’t follow.
The Transcendents
For you I will ever be
Everything you ask of me
And if what will serve you best
Is my silence I will be
Nothing
Everything you ask of me
And if what will serve you best
Is my silence I will be
Nothing
Crossed Stars
I call this collection The Unfettering.
For me, writing is all about
making tangible the wraiths of
depression and regret, of
helplessness and isolation.
From above, these profound gulfs
are nothing more than a vast,
wasted capacity for love.
To feel empty is to have once been filled.
When I am happy,
my pen dries up,
or rather, is set
to another purpose.
Meditations on Pain
I have never felt invincible,
the way uncreative people say
that young people are supposed to feel.
If anything, as I've grown older,
my emotions have slackened their grip,
given in to pleas for mollification.
There are days that I feel nothing more
than a distant drip of denial,
nights where I sleep without incident
and wake without feeling anything
at all.
And it could be that those days and nights,
are slowly increasing in frequency,
and when it's time to die I may feel
nothing at all.
the way uncreative people say
that young people are supposed to feel.
If anything, as I've grown older,
my emotions have slackened their grip,
given in to pleas for mollification.
There are days that I feel nothing more
than a distant drip of denial,
nights where I sleep without incident
and wake without feeling anything
at all.
And it could be that those days and nights,
are slowly increasing in frequency,
and when it's time to die I may feel
nothing at all.
Assignations
My outwardmost flaw--
save perhaps my rotten teeth--
is that I hold the ones I love
to impossibly high standards.
I am constantly let down by--
and pissed off at--
the squandering of potential.
Yours, mine, and ours.
You will never achieve
the greatness
I have assigned to you.
And neither will I.
save perhaps my rotten teeth--
is that I hold the ones I love
to impossibly high standards.
I am constantly let down by--
and pissed off at--
the squandering of potential.
Yours, mine, and ours.
You will never achieve
the greatness
I have assigned to you.
And neither will I.
Senselessness
I'm dreaming, again,
of death and the dead.
Faces unblemished,
quiet in the quick.
I'm sorry, my friends,
I was never there.
I'm sorry I'm not there now.
of death and the dead.
Faces unblemished,
quiet in the quick.
I'm sorry, my friends,
I was never there.
I'm sorry I'm not there now.
Ineffectual
I don't know how I'm still this nervous.
It was supposed to work itself out
along the way.
I still have to force myself to deal with
the things, and people, that I don't like,
or like too much.
In many ways I still hold myself back
irrationally afraid of unforseen
consequences.
No choice but to struggle on,
as I've always done,
and hope that I still have a little
time to grow up.
It was supposed to work itself out
along the way.
I still have to force myself to deal with
the things, and people, that I don't like,
or like too much.
In many ways I still hold myself back
irrationally afraid of unforseen
consequences.
No choice but to struggle on,
as I've always done,
and hope that I still have a little
time to grow up.
Unborn
The days are filled with black noise,
and at night I dream of my coffin,
a wooden womb for me to crawl in,
and be unborn.
and at night I dream of my coffin,
a wooden womb for me to crawl in,
and be unborn.
Umbra
I know a time will come
When all this flesh is washed away,
And all that's left of me will be
What's running through your veins.
When all this flesh is washed away,
And all that's left of me will be
What's running through your veins.
Star Maps
Tonight, I made the mistake
of catching up with some old friends,
through their obituaries.
It's long been my policy,
to only grieve for the living.
Tonight, I made an exception.
of catching up with some old friends,
through their obituaries.
It's long been my policy,
to only grieve for the living.
Tonight, I made an exception.
Dark Matter
After all these years, it still tears me up inside--
this swirling mass of indigestible darkness.
Sometimes it feels like it's my center of gravity,
and all I can do is give myself in, and revolve,
like a lonely satellite,
always to see and never to feel.
And on my worst days,
the only thing that helps,
is to remember how badly
you treated me in the end,
and how hurt you must have been,
to bring yourself to do it.
this swirling mass of indigestible darkness.
Sometimes it feels like it's my center of gravity,
and all I can do is give myself in, and revolve,
like a lonely satellite,
always to see and never to feel.
And on my worst days,
the only thing that helps,
is to remember how badly
you treated me in the end,
and how hurt you must have been,
to bring yourself to do it.
Weregild
It would be reasonable to expect,
given the life I've been living,
that I would be more tolerant
of mediocrity.
given the life I've been living,
that I would be more tolerant
of mediocrity.
Never Never
I've spent the last days of my youth,
shirking, dodging, refusing adulthood.
Promises of redemption fade with time,
with hairlines, with heartaches and histrionics.
I'm Peter fucking Pan.
A king among children.
Last of a dying breed
of adult runaways.
shirking, dodging, refusing adulthood.
Promises of redemption fade with time,
with hairlines, with heartaches and histrionics.
I'm Peter fucking Pan.
A king among children.
Last of a dying breed
of adult runaways.
Unordained
When my Sisyphean mask fails,
and you are made, at last, to see
the grasping tendrils
of my madnesses;
Will you see me through my naked face,
or will you even hold my gaze?
Is there anything left
of me worth saving?
Pourquoi
ne suis-je pas
vivant?
and you are made, at last, to see
the grasping tendrils
of my madnesses;
Will you see me through my naked face,
or will you even hold my gaze?
Is there anything left
of me worth saving?
Pourquoi
ne suis-je pas
vivant?
Distraction
Five years wasted,
paralyzed by fear.
Sliding across the earth,
like the shadow of a snake.
Loneliness is the curse,
that gives us the means
to achieve greatness,
the desire to drive us
toward its pursuit,
and the madness to distract us
from its fulfillment.
paralyzed by fear.
Sliding across the earth,
like the shadow of a snake.
Loneliness is the curse,
that gives us the means
to achieve greatness,
the desire to drive us
toward its pursuit,
and the madness to distract us
from its fulfillment.
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