Good For It.


never was I normal,
and my attempts to fake
it has led

me to believe I could never
be, so I
endure this spiritual wedgie,
hoping for love

inspired by a synchronous soul,
a passionate,
dreadfully dark and twisted
personality encompassing, serving

a wayward essence,
a dissident consciousness:
an eerie, weird spark,
a lone one

that accepts me as I am
and embraces
the latent potentiality

agonizingly eager to actualize
all I could be

and would fail to abandon
me if I miraculously managed
to embody that dreamy

and if I am

left wanting, I will adapt,
control and evolve

I left you every reason
to, but in
this instance, I beg
you: don’t you dare

doubt me.

Love me. I’ll give
you anything, everything.


Sex, Love & Starborne Seeds.

Let me
mash and smear my lips
against your soft

pair, gliding down, so thorough,
hands ascertaining form
like the skilled blind:

an assist
for the exploratory tongue trek
down your neck
and breasts, fearlessly entering

the vice
at the heart
of your inner thighs,

where I dig,
and wiggle
till I see your light.

Let me bury me in you.

Green light
me so I might
fucking devour you.

of that single scene
behind me, allow

me to penetrate
you viciously, enact the rhythm

calling to me,
permit entrance

to your deep, dark, enlivening
inside, where I at once
hide and let
the consequential bliss rise
as I ride the wave,

me in the safety
of us,

the cradle of the bond,

now, finally one.
Not just
is it what I’ve always

wanted, but I suspect, it’s all
I have, will or would

to start this journey.

You are all I love,
who I want,
all I need:

a long-awaited season
for a hopeless starborne seed:

unless you or circumstance
to metaphorically fuck me
and leave

me empty and wanting.

Rules & Circumstantial Abstinence.

A friend and former coworker recently articulated it to me in this way: “When it comes to women, I just never understood the rules.” I understand completely. I never know if its acceptable to make a move or if by doing so I might irreversibly damage the friendship, even send her running for the hills. There’s always the fear of making her feel violated in the bad way, and I’ve had that fear forever. And it never seems like something that can be asked blatantly. You almost feel like handing them a contract or questionnaire just to clarify the precise nature of the relations and make it all official and mutually understood and agreed upon.

It irritates me because I’m reasonably confident with respect to my people-reading skills until it comes to women I’m sexually or romantically attracted to. Then uncertainty reigns. I don’t know up from down so everything seems like a red light, a No Entry sign over her heart or muff area.

And it was scary enough before all the #MeToo stuff. Now it’s terrifying. Even if things were to go smoothly and there was no evident discomfort, a girl could elect to lie in the aftermath and call it sexual misconduct, even rape, and however baseless, the accusation could ruin my life.

So in that light, perhaps it’s never been a better time to be a pent-up isolationist plagued with circumstantial abstinence.

Of Soul and Ego.

to have this antagonistic, aquatic nuisance
around inside my fluid, fishbowl of a head.

No longer
will I tolerate this cerebral house fly
buzzing ‘round, relentless, serving as a living thorn
in the side of my every waking day.

Undisturbed, unmoved, unreactionary,
I will ascend and resist
the push and pull below,

refuse to engage
with, to cling to or resist, the constant onslaught
of this internal, eternal bullshit.

If I die, it won’t be in the arms
or by the hand of these killer whispers
in my aching head.

Slavery reached it’s end.

I am free.

I have a will and I choose
to rise above this.

I am my soul and can no longer
bear to live
in the chains and bars
required by this.

Wake the Apes.

Descend. Shatter all
their precious illusions.
Make it overt.

Fuck this incremental

Chaos will surely reign,
but we’ll wake up,
be better for it
in the aftermath.

Reality matters.
Truth is better off
known in the end.

Decisions will be made.
Its best for all
if they’re informed ones.

Right now,
we’re just apes
that largely consider
ourselves king
shit of the known universe

so please:
expand our horizons.

It seems to me
we’re headed down
a determined
path of self destruction,

willing to drag the rest
along with us in our fall,
all just to live fast,
die young
as a species,

no matter the desert
of ashes
and debris
left in the wake.

I’m just a madman
in an even more insane land.
For both, the ignorance
only exacerbates.


If most people would just communicate — say something to a person, ask a question, leave a note, have a goddamned discussion to gain some much-needed clarification — as opposed to blindly accepting the filthy webs woven by known bullshit spinners, making assumptions, spreading rumors and talking shit when relevant backs were turned, things would go so much more smoothly, especially when it comes to circles of friends or coworkers.

We’re a social species, so shouldn’t communication be our thing? Why the addiction to drama? Don’t we get enough drama from movies and television? Do we really need to provide such fertile fucking ground for it in our daily lives?

Life and the Art of Dramatic Writing.

There is a need for focus, structure, motivation, all of which sprouts out of the seed of premise. Or so the book says.

No premise, no destination.

Devoid of a destination, you have no sense of the right road to take and you become nauseatingly familiar with dead ends and dizzying circles. Like a hamster on a wheel or an analog clock bound to the wall you might keeping moving — all without getting anywhere. You might pull over and forfeit the game; set up camp in the land of the lost, exhausted by your uncertainties. In any case, you still have no sense of where you are or how to get out.

You are still lacking a premise and you know it. However highly you might value self-awareness, you keep up the battle to achieve and maintain high spirits and fight against the tendency for such self-awareness to breed that abysmal self-loathing.

I need to write better. Live better.

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.