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.
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.
Diptych
Sometimes it hurts
More than this,
When everything
I want to be,
Seems so far
Away from here.
Beyond my reach.
Away from me.
More than this,
When everything
I want to be,
Seems so far
Away from here.
Beyond my reach.
Away from me.
Sepia
It has taken many years
to gather the strength,
but now I'd like to look back
across the wreckage of our life together
to find comfort in its idylls.
Yet I find the memories
do not come easily to mind,
like opening a trusted photo album,
and finding many of the pictures
have rotted away.
Worse, kept so long from sight,
they've become pale and
sickly to look upon-
A confusion of sepia-toned
unloveliness.
There is no comfort here,
and if there ever was,
it has been lost,
along with so many
other things.
to gather the strength,
but now I'd like to look back
across the wreckage of our life together
to find comfort in its idylls.
Yet I find the memories
do not come easily to mind,
like opening a trusted photo album,
and finding many of the pictures
have rotted away.
Worse, kept so long from sight,
they've become pale and
sickly to look upon-
A confusion of sepia-toned
unloveliness.
There is no comfort here,
and if there ever was,
it has been lost,
along with so many
other things.
Unmoved
Things are strange, indeed.
I always thought life was supposed to be about ups and downs,
and the best one could reasonably hope for was a high average.
Lately, I'm living a straight line, or a dot, suspended in time.
A static node about which things revolve but do not touch. First mover, unmoved.
I miss you as I miss my childhood, true emotions.
First impressions, first chances, first loves.
I love you and I love nothing.
I always thought life was supposed to be about ups and downs,
and the best one could reasonably hope for was a high average.
Lately, I'm living a straight line, or a dot, suspended in time.
A static node about which things revolve but do not touch. First mover, unmoved.
I miss you as I miss my childhood, true emotions.
First impressions, first chances, first loves.
I love you and I love nothing.
Ballad of Dead Leaves
My sleep is fevered and intense.
I awake to the sound of my own voice,
and I fear I must have been calling out your name.
I dress in the dark and leave the house in silence.
The walk is cold and lonely.
The leaves have all blown away,
leaving behind little indentations,
like cloven hoofprints in the earth.
I draw myself in, against the wind,
against the cold, against the deepening night.
I awake to the sound of my own voice,
and I fear I must have been calling out your name.
I dress in the dark and leave the house in silence.
The walk is cold and lonely.
The leaves have all blown away,
leaving behind little indentations,
like cloven hoofprints in the earth.
I draw myself in, against the wind,
against the cold, against the deepening night.
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