Close Enough (Reflection, Part II).

You feel
as if you are constantly
on alert,
ready for an attack

that is most
likely to occur
the very
fucking moment you drop
your guard…

Constantly you fear
things coming at you out
from the corner
of every eye.

Startle response?

Through the roof,
for sure: hypervigilance
to the goddamn max.

you are, unarguably,
sensitive as fuck.

They think
it is so fucking funny
creeping up
on you and scaring
the shit out
of you because it’s so

but in that moment
you are awaiting

or, in the very least,
prepared for a fight
to save
your own
goddamn life.

You get this sense
that you are waiting
for something…

Something big, bad,
incredibly important,

and your run
-of-the mill
killer tip
of tongue…

Immortal Gasp (Reflection, Part I).

Without knowing why,
you feel as if an archer
is pulling back
on his bow,

that this constitutes
your overall
state of being.

He just holds
it there, steady,
to the tension,

this agonizing pain:
and you?
You are
the fucking Bow.

If you were anything else,
you would have mercy
on yourself eventually.

You would let go.

Options are limited, however.
Free choice?
Not here.

Here, there only resides:
no release.

Its that same feeling
you get right
before making a dangerous leap,
but it is only
that. It is that very moment —

not before,
not after — frozen
in time, caught
in amber, put in a state
of suspended animation.

You live this, all
of it. Endless
fucking tension.

in a sudden
gasp that never

Off Into Space.

unblinking, unwavering:
staring off
into the infinitude
of space.

Not as lost
there as I am here.

Vision blurs
as I fall, descend
into me, find a comfy,
secure seat inside
away from the boring
and mundane.

Don’t pull me out
of my trance,
I’m busy looking
deep within
my shell,
swallowing myself.

No interest
in playing your games.

Hopeful Trajectory for a Gracious Impact.

I had my reasons,
damned if I can remember.

Do I trust
myself despite
the lack of evidence? 

So real,
far more than the rest.

Do I ignore its penetrating
reality and grab
a hold of the herd’s truth
despite the distinct,
smell of bullshit,
acquiesce to dissolution? 

Do I submit,
work harder,
or think smarter,
find a way to beat

the system, light
my way, well-armed, along
a path of good intentions,

sure to keep
the goal in sight
to avoid a misled,

altogether blind
race to Hades.

Low profile,
medium confidence,

high road
to purpose,

being a part, taking away,
giving back again:

in my estimation,
in the end,
an all-serving impact?


Good for you.

Eat my asshole.
Pox on your first born,
scum of the earth.

Don’t just bite
the bullet:
no, no:

fucking eat it.

puppet-master. Savior
of the paranoid

ears fixed
on conservative
talk radio. Go ahead,
widen the divide:

it will only lead
to our demise,
to your own.

could have saved you.

Selfish and shortsighted
aiming towards
blind arrogance:

sure to get
there: in an important
way, subliminal
self mutilation

along the path
to unconscious suicide.

Make your choice,

I’ll be busy loading my gun.

Culper Ring.

I died
here in this desert
wasteland. Honorably,
of course:

just another
fucking way
of saying, albeit

with some more-than-vague
semblance of respect,
that I failed.

A failure in action.

What I might have done.
What we had hoped
to have won. Is it all
dead now?

Tallmadge in my blood.
feeling I relate.

To know
you are in there,
in the red essence,

sure as
fucking Ragu.

Cannot ignore
that familiar

right here,
right now:

this could be a war
not over, but yet
to be won. So remember,
remember, remember…

Dreaming, awake:
fucking remember

that you have
on many levels

there before. Dumb
as a virgin, sharp
as a veteran.

There is Always Ascension.

Cling to familiarity
as it provides
some sick,
feeble sense
of security

of a type that never
comes without a high
of predictability.

Never are you not prepared.

Well worn paths worn
down to ruts. Surface is too high
over your head now. Hopeless,

endless, this forever
dizzying circle.

Is there no
way out
of here?

Cracks in the Dam.

Knots inside
of me tightening.

Idle hands, fidgeting
fingers peck
away at wounds,
till I look down

at my spread digits,
open, vulnerable mitt,
vermilion puddle
at the center
of my palms.

I am a lie
just getting by trying
in what is clearly
a state of total insanity,

to secure
truths I somehow
managed to salvage.

I am a masque
crumbling away, cracking
damn of my soul
will flood
before me one day.

Dark, Gray Cloud.

Even if I were rich
in comparison —
well off, let
us say — and not
drowning in debt,

if everything
was settled
and seemingly silent
with respect
to societal matters,

even then:
there it would be.

Still it would loom,
this dark, gray cloud
over me, a surreal storm
ready to strike
when I least expect it.

Lost, without trust,
void of truth.
around who gets it.

I would still
feel insane, weak
and pathetic.

This is the issue:
all else,
symptomatology, so

I have got to dig down,
fingers diving
into rich soil

to grab
this by the roots…