Hesitation, Reconciliation.

Mine till
you find the grime
you were blind

to. Bathe
in the filth, stain
the way you perceive
you. You are more
than a consequence.

you can compete
for the good,
though it requires
you jumping off
the fence,

systematically tearing
it down
in the aftermath.

you have the will
or the right?

march blind.
march blind again.

Even Then.

In a chemical haze,
I consider:

All ducks in their rows.
All shit together,
All chips fallen where they may.

No counting chickens
before they hatch. Knowledge
via lessons, hard-learned.

Everything in its place.
Even then, would you be okay?

Something deeper,


at the insides,
thirsty, starving
for expression.

Art is my bloodletting.
Sharing fuels my alchemy.

Lonely & Afraid.

them, if anyone. Train
by the model
they offer, let them lead
you in your own

way, along
your paths of exploration.

Test rabbit holes
by educated plunging,

through experimentation designed
with a hypothesis
in mind, trying

your damnedest
to falsify to justify your prediction
regarding its verification.

And it’s only true
to you and scattered

others, leaving
you lonely and afraid
for your sanity,

as either humanity
is in dire straights
or you’re fucking insane.

Fuck em.
You don’t need a guide.

Open your eyes.
You’re in the wild.
Here and now,

spill your heart,
offer pieces of mind:
see if your dark soul shines.

Draw the line,
them why
they should not cross:

all just to see if your dark
soul shines.

the route, ensure
the choreography
and that

all three eyes

are fixed
on the ball.

Deepening, Till: The Kill.

“I recognize
that there is a spectrum,
after all,
but if I were forced

at gunpoint
to make a choice

(and, in this imaginal,
parallel universe,
had a damned good reason
to live, to persist,
if not achieve…)

between one
extreme spectra
and the other, cornered
into choosing

this or that,
one or zero,
the binary

black or white,

I’ll chew, sleep
on it, vow to bestow
upon thee

any oneiric
that creep and seize
so intensely

they’re retained
consciously. Have both

leave me a message
for now.
If it’s important,
they’ll call back

and let
me get them to explain
themselves. And once I got

it, once
I finally understand
(at least all
that is relevant),

I’ll make my calculated move.
Blending, naturally.
Respecting diversity
as a foundation
for demanding they recognize

my soul’s sovereignty,
my free will,
personal passions,
sense of responsibility,

my individuality.

This personality’s
a buried, retained

Truth be known:
I reckon

I’d only call
the dark
back in the end.

It’s the yin
I’m deep

within, despite, due
to the aggressive

deepening till…

the kill.

Still, it procures
the core,
the heart (or appropriate analogue
to the quite foreign
matter), revealing
the sickened,

wandering fish
out of water, sequestered
to the desert, a square

bound to a land
of round holes, extreme
shade of blue

taking hold, looking up
to the peeking

(clouds, but curtains
parting, exposing
the greater play)

in the dark end
of twilight,
catch sight
of those circling vultures,

their passion,
hunger, attention,

your halo,
yet somehow you find

the balance, bend polarities
till they kiss deep, come to devour
each other, leaving

a complete
world to traverse
in the wake,
embracing both

facade and surface


behind and underneath,
where I will

them, it, me,
and consider
the offered directions

as I take
the next

towards internal

Pollution & Space Eggs.

“Why is your shake machine never working?”

The lady screams this into the drive-thru speaker through the open driver side window of her minivan with jarring aggression. It was as if she truly believed this was a conspiracy against her specifically and the injustice was simply too much for her to take lying down. She wanted an answer. Demanded an answer.

And I had one: planned obsolescence.

Things aren’t built to last, they’re built so that they require constant maintenance. New parts, constant repairs. In other words, because: jobs.

They’re built so that after long enough (but no longer) they have broken often enough or severely enough that you feel compelled to upgrade to the brand spanking new version or model. So the cycle continues.

This is what they call built-in or planned obsolescence. And even when things would last, like your phone or your laptop, you’re meant to see them as obsolete, forced to experience them as obsolete. This is perceived obsolescence.

Because: jobs. Because: its good for the fucking economy. I mean, hell, if things worked well and endured, that would certainly be bad for business.

We live in a disposable society. They need you to keep buying, buying, buying, spending money on maintenance and ultimately throwing away the old and buying anew, and so the garbage keeps piling up. And we feel like we’re making a difference when we throw our waste away in trash cans. We feel righteous in our act of frowning, shaking our heads at those who just toss trash out their windows and onto the streets, conveniently blind to the fact that the trash we place in the ordained receptacles doesn’t just magically vanish into thin air. It’s just a longer journey to littering, that’s all. It’s just a more complex way of being a litterbug. Factor in the gas required to pick up the trash and dispose of it elsewhere, it might be better for the environment to just toss it out the window.

That trash can, it isn’t some black hole. The garbage man doesn’t deliver our trash to a rocket that’s then shot at the sun, straight into the heart of our big, blazing incinerator in the sky. No, all our shit goes somewhere, its just that its somewhere out of sight, out of mind, and that’s good enough for us. We don’t want to make a difference so much as we need to feel we are doing so. So we don’t litter, we give it to them to litter for us in areas designated for that purpose. So we can keep all our litter in one place. So we have our shit together, keep all our litter in one wastebasket. Specifically, it’s all delivered unto landfills or dumped into our oceans, where they collect into loosely-concentrated vortices of trash like Great Pacific garbage patch.

And it doesn’t stop there. We don’t just litter the sea and soil. Wherever we go, there we are, with our ever-growing piles of shit. It follows us to the sky and beyond.

While I want us to migrate from our pale blue and beautiful nest of a planet and establish our presence in space, to colonize other planets, moons and asteroids, I would would prefer we don’t extend to the cosmos at large the kind of selfish, shortsighted behavior that’s led us to polluting the earth. Sad truth is, we’re actually off to a great fucking start.

Since the launch of Sputnik in 1957, we’ve literally upped our game when it comes to littering. A cocoon of trash now encircles the earth, an artificial Terran aura composed of screws, lens caps and paint chips, old satellites and rocket stages. NASA and the Air Force has to keep track of this shell of litter around our little island earth to determine safe launch windows. It has long been predicted that collisions between two such objects could trigger a chain reaction known as the Kessler Syndrome that could destroy satellites currently in use and which we rely upon quite heavily, pose a potential physical danger to both astronauts and people on the ground and create a global shield composed of debris so small our instruments would be incapable of detecting their presence. Space missions would become impossible. We would be bound to the planet.

If the human species were to vanish off the face of the earth today, how long until the trash on our land and in our oceans decompose, until the space junk burns up in our atmosphere or breaks ground and succumbs to the elements?

If the human species keeps chugging along at its ever-increasing rate, how long until we have actual continents of trash? How long until earth herself is but a yolk cushioned by her atmosphere, encapsulated by a thick shell of space waste?

Pen, Paper: Completion.

name dropping:
Peterson, Jung,

Branch off from the web.
Explore the twigs
of the branch.

Tail to head.
Finish to start:
depth, structuring,

my rut, projection,
and ultimate enlightenment.

Liberation from this wheel,
spinning now
so wildly. Horny for the spiral,
slingshot now
deeper, both ways all at once.

Been black and white,
tongue teased, twisted,
with yellowing pages, curling,
held up before a crowd
of eyes,

none red.

Do I sympathize,
empathize, follow the light

till I reach that end
of the tunnel
to meet a cacophony,
a sight
too bright for such open
and sore eyes?


At least,
not Only.

Do I live
through, struggle,

then digest, meditate:
express all
that you’ve repressed

so that
you can become
who you really are

before all of those forced
to bear witness and share?

I think I’ll invest trust
in my own process.
Beyond it, confession:

I let
the chips fall
where they may.

Pen, paper:

KPg if Nothing Less.

for control swelling
in this weak

so necessarily reluctant
that has ventured
as far,

to the extents
he is able

his present ignorance
coupled with resistance
to precognition
and implicit reluctance

to just blindly,
with the flow.

Hear the alarm? On cue,
the other shoe drops,
destined for an impact

that puts
to shame the signature
the KPg boundary.

in your direction

of exploration
upon this spinning globe:

yes: only the most deeply
buried survive
this imperative cataclysm,

as well as all
that is essentially


Well, it’ll be
just fine.

Tame My Fire.

Kiss me before
I kiss you.
I’ll make the move
if you refuse to reply,

go on
until you show
me a sign…

Can’t help it, I missed
you and I’m not
ready to say goodbye.

For all
that I’ve cost
you, do you think this tie
has paid off so far? If it turns out

to be a fuse, if it’s set
off by the sparks
sent flying in my eyes,

could you tame
my fire
as I do my best
to tame your own as we both

aspire to the heights
we felt
we were born for?

I’m so tired.

Without you, can I take
anymore? I am
not confident.

Though, to be fair,
that’s never
stopped me before.

Still, I’d prefer
your flavor of discipline,
your investment.

Look Within & Deep Down.

your eyes,
turn them around to spy
the long, heavy shadow
you drag

behind you, stained
with countless points of light.

Toes worming deep
inside the earth
despite the resistance
of determined

anti-gravity. The rest
of you? Wound
in the stars, hungry

for all
that you are.

High time you manage.

Just passed average
high noon, so deal
with your weight.


denial never
lightens the load.

Love, Power & the End of Days.

Far from the cities,
even towns,

let the forest revive
me, let the unobstructed night sky
advise as she helps me root
my soles in this sacred earth,
cricket melodies
and the applause as the wind

weaves through the trees:
all the company we need.

Secrets shared, grooves
between one
another deepened,

no one can break
us, if there was anyone left
to care, save
for the ghosts
that want nothing more for us

than to collide
like this at the collapse
of the mess
we called the world
that was handed down
to them, then handed down to us.

Even if leftovers
of a dying breed,
but death throes
of a
burn bright, die young

we found
something here, grand and unique,
and even if it turns out

to be the peak of our enduring, painful
end of days,

there is meaning
here: for two souls,
anyway, who
moving on, will


in one form
or another, and that changes