Eyes Wide Shut.

Laughing, slipping
into the blue, embodying
her Shadow,

sharing shameful secrets
with you, destroying all
you hide in the light
and your sense

of moral superiority,
sending you in a tailspin,

obsessively chasing
down the darkness
for just a taste
of the monster hiding
within, donning

the masque, dangerously
dancing with the primal
on the edge of the blade,
peering into the conspiratorial

to know thyself,
to find your way
back to her once again,
each now whole on your own,
both now wide awake:

trading in illusions
for honesty and trust…

Gain the Wisdom.

Reading the words,
they fly by me.
Hearing it all,
but not listening.

Watching without seeing.
There, but not really,
feeling disgusted,
dark and angry.

Failing to register
all around me as my mind
wanders, tossed
like a feeble vessel
on a violent
ocean in the midst
of a storm.

Give me clear skies
or sink me
already, the torture’s
a tease
that exhausts me.

If only I
believed in a god, goddess
or karma, I’d scream
to the sky, asking,
What have I done

to deserve
feeling like this, to have grown
so weak I can hardly bear
it, but I have only

an impersonal universe, circumstance,
my own freedom
and self-responsibility.

There are no true exits,
only illusory
seductions of finality,

I’m left alone
to find the will to make order,
to gain the wisdom
to finally fix me.

Philosophy of the Jungle.

Looking back,
this path

through a jungle, so thick,
with a skull to match

has led
me nowhere but ’round
and insane,
but I keep pushing
through, machete in hand,
hacking away,

slowly feeding the illusion
I’ll escape one day
and reach a higher plane.

Might as well live the lie
till you find the truth,
as I’ve found dying’s no escape
and fighting
who and what I am,
it’s just no use.

Cienega and Sieves.

Transmissions to Earth

Across the desolate wasteland I drag myself by my bony digits, each caked in layers of sand mixed with blood hardened into some almost concrete substance. Hardly a body, I am barely alive. More like a feeble creature composed of mere skin and bones; some animate, three-dimensional stick figure vacuum-packed in a form-fitting, dilapidated epidermis baked to a light brown beneath the relentless rays of the desert sun. So far have I traveled up and down these dunes across this dusty tundra, so long past any reasonable estimated point of expiration. Why? Simple: because in this dramatic metaphor for my path through life I am at the same time immortal. I am subject to dying, but never death; the pathway of suffering without the release of reaching the final destination. I am bound to dying, verb; eternally shunned by death, noun.

Then comes the oasis. You turn to look at…

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It’s always the little things people say to me. The asides.

“And people wonder why you have trust issues,” Elizabeth once said, when I never caught the slightest hint that people were wondering about me at all. And do I? Do I have trust issues?

I suppose I do.

“You don’t like people getting close to you,” Gus said to me recently when I referenced his lack of respect for personal space, but I didn’t say it in an angry manner. He wasn’t saying this to me in an angry manner, either, it was just an observation — but I thought he meant close physical proximity. Which isn’t true. I like hugs. I shake hands. I have sex, or at least I used to. It’s just that I don’t do that with just anybody, that’s all. He didn’t mean physical proximity, however, as he went on to briefly explain before one or both of us got distracted. He meant emotionally.

Which isn’t true, not entirely. I want to be close but I need to be free. And yes, I’ve learned that getting too close never ends well, and I’m cautious about the strength of the bond. Every high has its equal and opposite comedown. However good it is, you will end up feeling just as bad. However close you feel, the severance will be as painful, the distance as vast and cold.

So the question always is: is the potential for this close bond worth nurturing, or would it cause more problems than its worth?

Typically, intimacy loses the election. I keep nearly everyone at arm’s length. My close friends, family, they get bent elbows.

Its nothing personal, I just need more room to breathe than the normal person.

My people tolerance has even declined over the years, though I think this might have a lot to do with working food service. Far before the end of the day I feel like I’m in overload and feel as though I run out the door and for the hills at the end of my shift just to salvage that last little bit of my soul.

The persona smothers me. People drain me. Isolation is my natural environment.

Hanging out with people, being social voluntarily after being imprisoned by it from four to midnight plus, it kills me inside. Eats away at me. I fear losing myself in the herd, becoming whatever they think of me by confusing myself with the reflections in their eyes, or something like that. But its a physical pain, too. My muscles ache from the tension. My mind is so bored its eating itself alive or its so tense that it needs to relieve itself through the medium of ink or pastel or hunt-and-pecking.

So it’s not that I hate people, not even that I don’t want to be close to people, I’m just quickly overwhelmed by them. I’m an emotional sponge nearly always approaching maximum saturation.

This has been an issue with family, with friends. Certainly with the rare intimate relationship. Am I just fucking wired this way?

In the Wake of the Raw.

Blast awake
in the aftermath
with self-loathing
closing in.

Maybe I
should just take down
the transmitter, save it all,
delete my messages
from the public eye
and plant my mind’s soles

once more:
another name,
a different place.

Exposing all my madness,
or spewing boozed words
for years,
perhaps I should wipe
the slate clean,
try and start again.

Always embarrassing myself. Indecent exposure of my insanity.
I could do it right this time,
open a new chapter
characterized by stability,
no more soul-killing
in the wake of the raw.

A Home for All of Us.

Inside, my soul
knows and accepts the set

moulded by the masses
and the subtle forces
that manipulate them,

it’s only
that it refuses
to feel
bounded by it.

Fuck ‘em.
Fuck ‘em all.
To their manufactured hells
with all of it.

Soles grow out of, are guided
by the light of subliminal glow,
triad of eyes set on target,
potential roots

already squirming
in aching
hunger for new, firm
ground, play memorized,
the stage wound, bound deep

in mind,
and yet this ego trots
about, donning its persona
in a context

where it serves
as the walking dead
in the graveyard
of clinging, aversion-bound ghosts

where only children
should play, so as to acquaint
themselves with the fate in store
if they don’t explore
and pursue their natural passion,

fan and feed the flames,
make their place or mark on the world,
work for the greater good, using
all they are connected to,

so as to truly make this world
a home for all of us,
not just the powers that be:

a fuel
for true liberals
in light
of the Pareto Principle.

A Closer Approximation to the Truth.

Lit by a torch of doubt
illuminating the spaces within and without,
I tread down the wayward trails of the unknown,
each enshrouded in the ominous darkness of mystery,

associated terrors ultimately
no match for the spirit of exploration
and passion for intimacy with reality

that pushes me forward
like determined hands from within
my wandering, aching soul.

I cradle beliefs at the very worst,
at best, hypotheses hammered out,
ideas borne through data and creativity,
forged in the uncompromising fire

of experience, conversation, observation and experiment,
forever subject to abandonment,
adjustment or reinforcement

in my desperation
for a closer approximation to the truth.

In my determination to taste
the length, breadth and depths
and all other dimensional axes
presented in offering.

Alert the ET APL.

Monitors revealing
mass destruction
just behind you, up

on the wall
in the darkness, as you stare,
receptive and dead,

into my
ocular silos, strip

me naked, subject to analysis
the complex reactions
in my mind, looking
for something.

What are you hoping to find?

Is it the heart and soul
that you’re lacking,
you beady-eyed

Sadness, fear,
or guilt this time?

Poke and prod
this ape again.
Thorough examination
from soul to skin.

I much prefer
the corporeal feast
to the rape
you enact within.


Never will I
accept blindly
all that they say, follow
the leader

and be the resident
obedient idiot,
so back off,
just get over it.

To each his own;
for me, this isn’t it.

Never will I
go along with all
of you, lose myself
in the herd
or hold it above
the individual, embrace
dissolution in the mass mind
or yield to groupthink.

I’m not
an alpha or a beta
or any fancy, Greek anything.

I’m just
half asleep striving
to be my Self, three eyes
wide open,

my foe, my friend,
my frienemy,

and I must confess,
that’s more
than enough for me.

So just go, leave
me with my soul,
and steal the life force
of any

of the countless
eager beavers
also lost at sea.

I’ve got one
thing you all don’t
and that’s some hope
in individuality;
personal freedom
and responsibility.

In time you shall find
you’ve lived
countless lifetimes behind
to psychopathic, greedy,
fucks like him

and see the light:
the values
in the soul, ways
and rights

I’m determined to live
as, in and for.