Prime Suspect.

In the end, you can’t trust
your own mind,
and that’s what kills.

Holding yourself in contempt,
no hope for true
connection with anyone
else remains.

Everyone is suspect.

The prime? You fool:
it’s your very soul. Isolated.
Solitary confinement.

Every day, I am witnessing
you plowing our path
towards the moment

you finally crack.

Meaningless Gesture.

In giving
charity, in donating a dollar
for whatever

when the cashier asks
if you want to or when the ad
on a trusted website
like Amazon interrupts
you, are you doing

nothing more than attempting
to alleviate your guilt
for having so
much more than others

while whining
about your relative misfortunes
at the same time?

There is no contact
with the life you allegedly invested
in, no experience or evidence
of its success,

or even its influence.
It is a bold
yet weak

and ultimately meaningless

Fund Elemental.

So you burn it down, blow
it around, flood it, bury

it and then inhabit
it. All five

Can you possess
some semblance
of freedom now?

Dig down deeper.
Invest in the foundation.
So… fundamental.

They say
That the truth shall
set you free,
so get a load of this…

Yeah. I know.

Good luck

With the Right, Magick Words.

That arrogance arises
yet again:

you could have
said something, engaged
in some conversation, devoted

all-hands-on-deck scale
attention towards
an accurate reading

of him from vibe
to body language;
cleverly concocted a creative,
constructive conversation:

with the right, magick words
you might have enchanted

him just enough
that he would elect
to adjust his angle
in such a way
that it would turn

him away, his trajectory
clear of the heinous
act he ultimately

the tragedy
he authored,
a worldline
you failed to edit.


Surface layer of skin,
Conscious personality,
so hypervigilant.

Yet deep beneath hides
a locked hatch
concealing a catacomb
so labyrinthine

with a surface cold as stone:
a degree of frigid
so foreign, yet in touching it
you fail to shudder.

Just so happens it matches
your body temperature,
so that soon you cannot tell

where my cold begins
and your own ends

and we are one again
once again.

Raw Atha.

Naked. Unfiltered.
Unedited. Raw. Just like you
always wanted:

yes, you literally
asked for it.

So here I am,
before you, in all
my horror and glory.

How do
you like me now?

Still want to crawl
inside my dark, rapid,
spinning head?

Well, leave your baggage
at the door
and fucking come on in.

Welcome to a world far
too alien. Bond
deeply. Let it infect
you, if you like

or walk
away from
me as I did from you
so many times.

Seeking Cultural Transcendent Function.

You see it all
in red and blue,
black and white,

as if there is no spectrum
to be found, only polarity.

Find middle ground,
determine your line of sight.
Strive to reconcile,
let all the colors run inside

your welcoming soul. Abandon
the comfort of tribes
to find your center,

rise above
this frightful duality,
look down,
see clearly:

a hundred and one
flavors of insanity.

Soul Meets World.

Into dark
questions patiently awaiting I,
a work in progress, go
on mindlessly/mindfully
stumbling, destroying
and creating

a new path sustained
in a state
of constant

an answer only found
in the balance,
within psychosomatic

of crazy, free, fucking love
and the most vicious,
absolutely psychopathic,
authoritarian form
of malice:

the story of soul
meets world. 

All I need
is to find a way for me
to be honest
and creative, to own myself,
to embody integrity —

it’s all
the same, anyway

— and yet earn
a living, my keep
and appease
my agonizing, utterly
alien soul.

I will not say please:
this is Do or Die.

I must
or release.

Of Fool and Tool.

Makes me sick
at either end,

let me tell
you, though I must confess,
in shame,
that I prefer the tippy-top: 

better to be the fool
than the tool.

No virtue
in being the manipulated,
better to be
the con artist. I’ll bear

the internal flagellation
over the length that the mob
would go in order

to subjugate
a defiant slave.

Why must I strive to be honest
against my best interest?
Explain this impulse to confess
to my insanity in trust

despite my clear
and present