Elevate on Your Own.

So high
on yourself it calls
for a 12-step program,

to elevate your self-importance,
such a skewed view,
your rock hard, throbbing,
bulging purple-veined

ego. Seeking
no feedback for adjustment,
welcome mat provided
for reinforcement.

Truth? So damned irrelevant,
comfort’s your only aim.
Whatever gets you by,
but expect no help from me.

Stupid Love & Great Escapes.

Laminated in smeared
and running tears, mucus
and blood. Another black eye,
another lie shared

with those who care
to conceal
the truth like a mask,
to cover
this abusive ass

as you lay all the blame
on yourself, a slave
to stupid love,

as you give
him another chance
and remain in this hell.

And how I wish
you’d listen

as I always do to you,
pack your bags,
lace up your running shoes

before he kills
you one day. I fear
you’ve left
that the only avenue
for your great escape.

No Saviors.

And all the world, a circus
in their prying eyes;
lunatics running the asylum,
blind led by the blind

and for all their chastising,
despite their rolling eyes,
none reached down a hand
to offer wisdom, to guide,

but instead let the children
play with their matches,
let the silly apes take their turns,
entertaining, but no concern,

patiently waiting
for their world to burn.

Illuminate or Burn.

Feeling like a raw nerve.

Overanalyzing subtleties,
entangled in complexity,
feeding paranoid perceptions.

Always fearing for my sanity:
the thread I’ve managed
to salvage and swing by.

Playing the tiresome game
of self-doubt again,
my fucking soul’s exhausted.

See a light there on the horizon,
to illuminate
or burn away.


That I am
explicitly composed
of an ongoing
is not the question.

So bold
the fault line.
Identity, mind:
dual at best,

and my split is wide, yes,
but all too clearly the gap

left behind blesses
us with proximity, specifically shouting distance.

Yet where am I?
Do I even speak, proper?

Am I, the soul,
the true me, the core,
the Original Face, found

between the banter?
Am I one-sided?
Or do I reside

above and beyond?

Between Green and Violet.

Awareness: the core,
the white light
of the soul, the observer,
the witness, my third
person perspective:

my pineal gland:
in spirit,
if nothing more.


Consciousness: the prism
of awareness,
breaking that white light
of the soul

into: moods, states,
psychic spectra

within which state-specific,
and consequential identities
are forged.



Puzzle pieces
broken, dissociated,
beneath, through: a light,

each psychic island
expressed, manifest
in wildly, widely
varying intensities,

constantly shifting,

And where along
this continuum



Somewhere between green
and violet,

according to her,
my Jungian Sophia,
my Native American
Spider Woman,
Spider Grandmother,

but not quite blue:

so either
cyan or indigo.

Show me the spectrum,
blessed alien:
explain classification issues.

Her body light
is green,

so maybe we resonate,
share a station,

or maybe I’m a mix
of purple and red,
a body light of indigo,
a step away
from violet,

from wrapping
up this work,
the end of this road
of the soul,

my next
turn destined to set
my future precedent,
a significant step

the ongoing
World Line of my soul.

Wish that Nimi
would let me know.

So long
here, wondering,
should I just wait
and stay

here, and if not, my Teacher,
where should this
confusing-shade-of blue,


fucking go?

Never will I have faith
again: trust
is kaput.

Not at all your fault.

In any case, m’lady
I could use
the input.

Ongoing Battles in a War of Will.

Immobilized. Playing dead
but forced into the role,
faking it
towards making it.

All doubt in them: obliterated.

All the rest of my life,
a silly dream, now shaken
into reality just before
it seems its about to be ripped
from me. Fear and frustration
of an ensnared soul.

A just universe? What a joke.

No answers, no graduation,
just eternal recurrence
of the same song and dance.

Another veil to suffocate.
More memories abandon me.

Lost to what I’m fighting
for, surviving, snarling clawing
away at what my heart
screams at, subsisting
my own stubbornness.