Behind a masque
of words, images and emotions,
held by habits etched
throughout history
hides the face
of the witness
mistaking himself
for the mirror of the mind.

I am not this
or that.

I am the only
thing I could never
truly think, feel,
imagine or perceive.

That which I can only

The Bad Kind of Bondage.

Thrust me
into this place, give
me a name, memory
fades of so
many times before…

Borne into contract
(the bad kind of bondage),
then forced to forget
that its all just a game
and that the game
is rigged.

Found just
to be lost again,
left bleeding away from the mind
like a dream, as though
through the useless
cupping, frantic clutching
of determined fingers.

My rebellion
of memories pushing
hard against the walls
of this flesh-imposed
conscious cell…

Noting the patterns
in the paths
from womb to womb,
still found myself
in a rut stained with déjà vu.

Left dizzy
from another tour
on this misery-go-’round
wheel of misfortune,
another sentence spelled out
through a new version
of the same ol’
hamster wheel existence,
growing sick
of chasing the cheese
forever lingering out there just out of reach.

Of Aliens & Alters.

It would not make sense to claim that alien abduction accounts are due to “screen memories” of childhood abuse, and for two reasons: first, the purpose of such a screen memory would be to dull or reduce the trauma of the actual memories being “screened,” and given the terror inherent in so many of these alien experiences it does not seem to be serving its purpose. Second, not all memories stem from childhood; many have been real-time experiences. Those with Dissociative Identity Disorder often have alters who are modeled after an abuser or perhaps the “screen” that the abuser was given. The alters may then repeat the abuse, perhaps similar to the way in which the mind is thought to deliver recurring dreams in order to exhaust an intensely emotional circumstance. Is this the answer? Are the aliens I have been seeing all my life hallucinogenic exteriorizations of alternate identities? The astral projections or lucid dreams I began having in May, 1995 — experiences that began with me being attacked by a formless, vicious entity — truly a shared dream state which I had with just such an alter? Is this a possibility I could perhaps verify or falsify myself in some way?

Tortures of Transition.

Novocain bleeds away,
left alone with painful clarity.
Armor shed,
sensitive skin exposed
to the relentless elements.

Here we go again.

Every action, an overreaction.
Every perception, dramatized.
My will, a machete
worn to dull butter knife
in the thick jungle of my mind.

Must find a way out of here
before the clock winds down.
I can already hear
the alarm sounding,
clawing at my bleeding ears.

Blazing anger,
ever consuming.
Frozen veins
in the white-knuckled
grip of terror.

Deadline cast around the neck,
feet dancing madly,
aching to break new ground.
Idle hands, drunk
with desperation driving me
to latch into almost anything
as my world
comes crashing down.

Nothing else matters now.

Must thicken the skin.
Sharpen the blade.
Refuse the noose.
Must melt the frigid fear away,
rise from the ashes I made.

Division Lost to Reason.

Fight tooth
and nail to overcome my own
resistance, betrayed
at every turn by self-sabotage,
my heart infected
with perpetual ambivalence,

my head, the walls
of an eternal war over
well-worn, broken ground,
feet bound, mind locked
on nothing.

I’m going nowhere.

One soul,
mind wrapped,

Does not seem so.
At least not
from where I manage
to stand.

Broken, severed
in some way for one
reason or another,
thoughts obscured by emotions
alive in me, chased by starving
questions, left spinning
in the cyclone,
fingers itching for something
in empty space.

No sane trauma to blame.
Origins of dichotomy
locked up inside me.

No scars, bruised skin,
they just dwell deep
in the marrow,
infecting everything,

Threaded the eye,
failed to cast
it far enough across the abyss
to mend the stitch,
so here I stand
just shy of falling,
division lost to reason.

Before You’re Determined.

Sleepless again.
Smoke another cigarette
beneath the stars.

Open your eyes.

Lost in the dark,
broken only by flashes
that fail to make clear
the path,
always stumbling, restless,
forever on edge,

so sick of trying to fake
my way to calm, squeeze
myself into some semblance
of normalcy.

It’s not me.
It could never be.

of elimination
towards self illumination

trying to clear my head,
fighting myself to see

as I’m left feeling
like I’m dying here without a place,
this false face suffocating me.

Stop whining.
Stoke the embers,
feed the fire
of determination

before you’re