Rumored, Deathless Self.

Cherish the chards.
Souvenirs of truths
you cannot remember.

Just set them up
in your mind,
on display, behind
glass, evidence of the absurd:

your own little museum
of the so-called soul,
displaying suggestions
of that rumored,
deathless self

and how little
you know
of your own.

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Till the Ocean is Yours.

Toes in the water.
In shock,
run far from shore.
Curiosity summons
you back,
each time
drawn to drift
out further,

screams
of the psychic
lifeguard dying
into indecipherable
whispers with the increasing
distance and heightening
rhythm of the waves

till you cannot see
the shore,
till you belong
to the water,
to the sky,

till the ocean
is yours.

Self-Serving Prey.

I detest blind
worship, mindless subservience,
power-hungry dominators
exploiting the weak,
draining them of precious
vitality, reducing
them to tools
for use in deepening,
broadening their empire,
reinforcing their notions
of their own divinity,

so I am
sick to find dark,
smoldering happiness
here in transient
slavery, my nausea

transmuting to arousal
when it comes to you,
your words, your ocular
high beams enchanting,
inspiring intense focus,
ego absence,
lost in bliss, drifting…

Drawn to the interplay.
Dominance, submission.
Both swirling like a cyclone
deep inside of me.

Seductive, complex
sorceress, weaving her webs,
watching prey
get caught, panic,
get tangled in their struggle
like a gift wrapping itself,
a meal serving itself.

What the fuck
is wrong with me?
Dark drive of mine,
an enlivening resonance.

Escaping here into hypocrisy.
Its in you, in me.
Such deep ties
between desire and hatred
held up to my conscious
light here, yearning
and resistance fucking
in the tension, both exposed
like oozing wounds offered

to your vermillion tongue,
between beaming white teeth,
saliva running, glistening,
as if begging to be consumed
by you, as if you are
another part of me
and this suicidal submission
is my antidote,
as if you can help
me complete me.

I tell myself I only
see here what I want to see,
maybe need to see,
whatever leads
me back to my place in line,
dumb, grinning high,
rock hard, ever-ready to blow
though the hand that guides
me never released the bow
to let the arrow free,

transfixed, thirsty for satisfaction,
gripped by hypnotic
obedience, inching closer
as I await your slaughter,
my morbid welcoming.

The Next Crisis.

Lately I
feel so stuck
again, just awaiting
the next
crisis to threaten
to push me back further.

Reinforce my fears
that this is an impenetrable
barrier.

Steadily approaching
that moment
of greatest self-contempt.

In their eyes I
can feel it, I can see
that they expect nothing
short of my constant failure
and sometimes I truly
wonder if I have it in myself
to prove them wrong.

Damn This Fear.

Hang my head in shame,
hands covering
my face as I take a deep
sigh, squint bloodshot
eyes, ocular silos
to a sleep-deprived mind,
move my fingers
to massage my temples.

Just a moment of silence.
Another moment
to assess the mess.

I am on an island
of boredom, insult
and frustration
surrounded by a treacherous
moat of fear that no one
really feels or sees
but me, an obstacle

that no one else
seems to have an issue
crossing, overcoming,

triumphantly degrading
the wretched place
they escape in the wake
as they go on to bigger
and better things.

Here I am, stagnant,
just damning
this fear again,

this pointless,
relentless cage
of terror
I’m locked within.

A Reason to Fight.

I cannot be
like you, for that
would impede
upon my individual
responsibility
to be true

to myself and, by extension,
impede upon
my responsibility to feed
the diversity
that keeps the fires of life
as a whole
blazing.

To be anything less
than who I am
would be to dishonor
life from all conceivable
directions, so I am afraid

I must decline
your invitation, as it does
not resonate
with my inner core.

Push me? I push you.
You crossed
the line, I am just guiding
you back.

Don’t make
me have to violently
increase the distance,
or, in an animalistic
manner pluralize
your existence,
your precise
location in time
and space.

Its a form of rape.

I know revenge
is just an attempt
forced empathy.

I will never do
what you do to me.
You, you’ll never get it.

Freedom, truth,
individuality,
choice
is everything,
and among
you, it all dies.

A reason to fight?

Fuck yes,
that is enough for me.

Sold Us.

Endless droves
of distraction, littered
with spin and bold-faced

lies. Infotainment.

Intellectual
anesthetic. Emotional
fix fed. Vacuum-packed
for freshness, blacked out
in secrecy, the lid
is on it.

Muddied the leaks.

Fixation, confusion,
so frequently we are hypnotized,
immobilized. Blind me, deafen
me to the media, please.
Inspiring pointless conflict
that keeps us disunited,
hopelessly entangled
in the trivial

all as they live the high
life at the expense
of our freedom and hope
for the future, truth safety-sealed,
educated choices
rendered impossible
by the population. Beneath

this dark blanket,
suffocating. Bad
for the species, though it serves
the length of their term.

Good for the state.
Serving the peeps.
Good for the economy.

In the name
of our way of life
and death. Necessary
for the maintenance
of our national security.

Fuck you, we’ve been
living a lie. A fiction
you have sworn
to uphold and abide.
And we’re dying. Your damn
faith will cost
our future its life. You sold
us out, you bring
it all down. Your message
is yet to be sent,
though upon its arrival
it shall be loud and clear
to all of us. Such a shame.

All we could have accomplished…

Heart of Spokes.

Struggle with fate, eye
to damn some destiny,
it makes for a wayward
journey, creates a crooked
path, jerks of a worldline
from all the endless struggling
on this dizzying wheel
until forces

take over, spinning towards
the center, inevitably
one with the heart
of these spokes, core
of this cyclonic cobweb.

501 Generations.

Kids: think
outside the box
they built
for you, do not
be bound by the contract
you were born
into, adulthood
is an illusion, growing
up is just

the process of submission,
waves of endless
bullshit eroding
you away.

So get out from under
your overlords.
Rise above the maze
of mindlessness
they cage
you in.

You are more
than this, so much better,
rich with the resources
provided by 500 generations
or so screaming
their sad
stories, an echoing
cacophony of mistakes.

Be the next step,
make your mark.
It should have never
gone this far.

Equality via Consent (or,

Nucleus of the Natural Law.)

Everyone has the right to believe whatever they want, to do whatever they wish to do, so long as they do not infringe upon the rights of others to do the same. This is a concept that resonates very deeply with me. This they have often called, in slightly varying forms of wording conveying essentially the same meaning, the Natural Law — specifically in the political philosophy known as Libertarianism. I would list this as one of the very valuable concepts offered to me by my mother — but of which my father far more closely approximated, far more authentically embodied. I know that there is quite a bit of debate packed into that loaded sentence regarding the nature of the Natural Law (evidently synonymous with the Wiccan Rede), but I for one believe it to be a nucleus worth revolving around, a value worth elaborating upon, an ideal well-worth investing in and aspiring to and building on.

This means that the moral status of any relationship is directly relative to the degree of consent inherent in the relationship in question. This keeps the focus where it belongs, in my opinion — which is to say on individual choice.