My Overreactions.

For the longest time, I’m fine. Not great, not on top of the world by any means, but I’m okay. Life is manageable. Then the inner tension rises and I cannot for the life of me bring it down. I jump to conclusions and overreact. The smallest things set me off in the biggest way for an enduring period if time. Trying to contain the intensity kills, so I draw it or write it out. Get my paranoia down on paper so as to exorcise it from myself. And when I finally calm down a bit, at least for a day or two, clarity comes back and I’m embarrassed and ashamed of myself.

And here I am.

Another Satisfied Customer.

I understand your hate for this place. Truly. You’re coffee has been cold three times in a row. Your order takes forever and when you get it, its wrong. I’d be upset, too, but let’s make two things clear.

First, these kids — some adults, yes, but largely kids — get shit wages, no raises, no vacation and very little respect from their authorities and customers in general. Basic human psychology dictates we need that carrot dangling before us to keep us going. We need incentive to do better or even keep our pace. We also require adequate on-the-job training, which happens to be lacking in this place.

Second, if the service sucks, if the quality sucks, why don’t you just fucking go somewhere else? Why keep coming in expecting different results? Why sit in a booth, get all high and mighty and bitch about it so loudly?

Go home. Cook a meal. Open a can of spaghetti. Make your own pot of coffee. Or just go somewhere else. Or just kindly fuck yourself.

Circumstantial Turtle.

Staring out
at nothing, focused
inward, resonating
with feeling, analytical

and goofy daydreams,
often nested,
frequently busting down
the fourth wall.

boredom and stresses,
into my own, ever-expanding
world, far away

from this sea
of bullshit around me
until I find an environment
more accepting of creativity.

This place only destroys,
constrains, and it infects me.

I need
to fucking create something.

Needing New.

Screaming, colliding
in the thunder and rain.
Mind like a mosh pit
in the midst of a storm.

Frantic thoughts swarming
like insects
in my far-more-inner ear.

Untamed, unruly emotions
rocking me violently
within my fragile frame,
dragging me down
to the darkest,
most frigid depths.

So nothing new today.

Too inhibited in the light.
Packed tight and self-censored.
Darkness snaps me too far
the other way, inspiring indecent
exposure of my twisted soul.

Imbalance persists.
A psychic teeter-totter
for a thoroughly-caffeinated
monkey mind.

Must quell the madness within.
Reconcile the opposing forces
battling it out,
leaving me a wasteland.

Bathe in the light.
A dawn of a new day, soles
breaking virgin ground.

Night, bringing satisfaction.
Comfort in the black.
Eyes to the sky.

I need
something new to say.

Cup Eventually Full.

Darkness calls
to me. Stars embrace
me. Taking turns
in intimate contact
on my
interstellar journey.

Bending spacetime,
my subway
weaving through deaths
and lives, generating,
gaining meaning, fueled

by a deeper passion
for greater

And little
me will learn the art
and, until
then, learn to bear it.

Fear not,
for before the end

there will
be peace, my friend.

Frenemies & the Transcendent Function.

about straddling
the line,

just wearing a path,
an easy crossing,
not allowing

yourself to be ensnared
by either side.

Categories try
and claim you, steal
your sense
of individuality.

Assigned roles
are circumstantial.
Mask and costumes,
lies of impermanence.

I see you
through red and blue
as you do me:

no spectrum
in between.

You see my plight
through black and white;

through monochrome
I perceive.

No conversation
to mend
the tear, just calls
to me

to engage in widening
the gap

from a troll,
a respected mind

I thought that I
would join
forces with in the end.

Hypersensitivity Squared.

These trials
of my soul?

They are by no means
your fucking business.
Let’s get that clear,


my awareness
of your prying eyes
only breeds guilt,

that in turn
serves to constipate
the process. Quite

a shitty kiss
off to anonymity,
if you ask
me, which you’d never
dream of doing.

Amidst countless lumps
in a worldwide sea
of bullshit, you identified
me, and now judge
me on the basis
of my psychic purge,

this anthology
of linguistic atrocities.

Just a fucked-up artist
here, busy
at his work, enveloped
in passion, clumsy
and stumbling,
still learning,

and I don’t need
your bullshit, harsh
additional shot
of hypersensitivity:

got a big
enough reservoir
of overreactions
to contend
with, thank you very much,

so either avert
your eyes

or accept your responsibility
and my freedom,
find something to wash
it down

if you can’t bear
the painful
after you’ve managed

to swallow
your pride.

Potential Side-Effects.

think and fret
over it, I just do
it. Well lubed
and smooth-sailing

between Thinker
and Doer unobstructed
by the editing
process that otherwise

as the middleman,
that twilight
authority, the troll
at the toll booth

beneath the bridge,
at the borderlands,

constipating the process,
throwing a wrench
in the gears

of an already glitchy
machine, not at all well-oiled
and designed

but with the aim
of planned obsolescence
in mind.

Though they lie
when they utilize
the word


for the prospective user
for a given drug:

all of it falls
under the heading:


and alone you are left
to weigh shit
in one hand

and present relief
promising long-term
in the other.

Is the freedom worth
the consequences
not only where soles
presently rest,
but with respect

to the soul,
of your quest?

Pathway to Good Authority.

Mini vacation.
Not making
this my permanent
station. I

remember when I fell
into this. Clear
in memory,
how I was swallowed
by this. Something deep
down driving, hiding

this. A cheap, legal,
socially-acceptable means
of transiently escaping

bullshit, but I desire
to rise
above this, face

squarely, make friends,
and integrate it

and a release valve
of this nature
certainly has benefits,
but I

have the tendency to dive
deep and I fear
I may go to depths
rivaling Cousteau,

get stuck
and never surface.

It’s the art
of control I’m lacking,
needed and I’m slacking.

Blood, sweat and tears
but that was just to get
inside it, building
is another art-form:

if not in this life,
then the next,
I’m set to conquering
my own
weaknesses, chiseling

a masque
more aligned
with the Original Face
behind, witnessing,

so that I can know Me,
so that I may be Me,
and all I see, feel

and think I can offer
with fearlessness
and sincerity,

as I’ve vetted
and consider
it all to be
on good authority.