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.


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.

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.

Maybe Insane.

Mysteries invigorate
me, exploring
possibilities, finding hidden
connections stimulates

me, so bring
it on, I can take another flood
of oddities, I can bear
not knowing
so long as I can increase

but I need to know

I’m not insane, can’t bear

my mental stability.
Been at it too long now,
the agony
of self-suspicion.

It’s exhausting.

I need confirmation
that I’m not just fooling
myself at some deeper level,

that this isn’t all
just a conspiracy
against the self.

Ouroboros Girl.

Walking out from behind counter, a vibrant pair of eyes catch me in their tractor beams. They belong to a beautiful girl in a blue dress. She has her phone in her hands and very politely, calmly and confidently she asks me the address, what town she’s in. She’s looking for route 5.

She’s beaming with this intense yet soothing energy. Its compact, controlled, focused, disciplined, revitalizing energy. She reminds me a lot of my ex-girlfriend, Kate, from years ago, but something that also reminds me of that girl who grew up in but ultimately escaped from the clutches of the Westboro Baptist church. Feeling her, it seems as though she’s somehow able to balance her light and darkness. There is this wonderful naughtiness in her eyes, this rich darkness inside that she’s in touch with — but she controls it, not the other way around.

I feel it all, but I ask myself: am I just crazy and pulling this out of my ass?

She has several tattoos, but only one that I feel safe to examine, and its when her back is to me. Between her shoulder blades, there is an ouroboros. My alleged spirit animal or totem animal eating its own tail.

I want her. Ache for her, but this is stupid. Greedy. She’s a stranger and I’m just sexually frustrated, is all.

She thanks me, tapping on her phone a bit before leaving for wherever. Beauty, just passing through.

Labyrinth of a Dark Mood.

Throughout the day, I tried to trace back my mood, this emotional rut I’d found myself stuck in. I tried with all the might I could muster to pinpoint what triggered it or in the very least where it all started.

Idiots on the road on the way to work? Work itself? What was it?

I had been taking Jordan Peterson’s breakfast advice for anxiety: wake up at the same time every day and have bacon and eggs. I had been following the breath in meditation for fifteen minutes every morning. I’d smoked pot. I had jerked off life a madman this weekend in hopes of exorcising the sexual frustration that had been rising to a fever pitch the week before. I had been taking sleeping pills in an effort to achieve sufficient downtime.

Even so, I had ended up like this, and without an identifiable cause. I felt like a sore tooth being tongued constantly by the worlds within and around me. I felt depressed and resentful. Trapped and starved in some way.

Eventually I considered what I have occasionally considered: we feel emotions, we find ourselves in a mood, and then we just invent the reasons. Weave our justifications. In actuality, maybe emotions and moods just happen. They arrive like coatracks upon which we hang our rationalized causes.

Then again: I’ve worked in this job I hate for 14 years, I haven’t been laid in seven years, I’m a year away from forty and I feel ashamed, self-loathing, and constantly fight against my own homelessness and frustration in the face of that, particularly lately.

On break, I couldn’t focus or get absorbed in what I was reading, which was Rupert Sheldrake’s book, nor could I get involved in writing aspects of my book that I’m working on for the thousandth time. Even when I turned my inner eye and feelers towards my mood itself, I found myself psychologically constipated, unable to express it sufficiently. I tried to write a poem so many times that day, but my words just didn’t move me along.

As a matter of fact the last few days, despite the fact that I kept trying, all my poetry sucked, anything I wrote fell flat, any attempt at artwork left me feeling without a shred of talent. Any light I had been able to hold onto in the darkness of my life seemed to have burnt out like a bulb. Still waters run deep, perhaps, but I was stuck on the surface, unable to break what seemed to be an impenetrable sheet of stubborn ice. I felt empty, yet full, which sounds stupid, but even now, in the wake, that seems like an honest way of articulating it. I felt frantic, frustrated and depleted. Passionless and agitated. Nothing grabbed or moved me. Nothing satisfied.

At the end of the day, I was bitching to a manager about how, now that we close at eleven, people don’t seem to plan ahead. There’s no logic to what they do, no foresight or preparation, which is why we never get out by midnight. I find myself judging them and holding it in until it erupts in the form of biting remarks to people or embittered rants.

I’m not a manager or any legitimate form of authority, so I have no right. I know that. I wish my reason would overpower my emotions, but emotions always seem to win the fucking war.

When I got home, nothing I watched moved or inspired me. I took a hit off a bowl, tried to read the book again but couldn’t fall in. Then got the urge to read The Portable Jung again, and it’s been some time. Somehow, that did it. I watched some videos regarding reincarnation on YouTube a bit later, and I fell in the groove there, too. Finally.

What the fuck is my problem?

Release Valve of the Soul.

Do nothing. Just keep saying
it to everyone:

“I’ve got to get out of here.”

It makes
you feel like you’re doing
something, right? So afraid
to impregnate reality

that you force
them to watch
you masturbate
to your dreams
through the telling.

Its all just psychological
of desires
you still fear
translating into action

through a verbal declaration
shared only
with social reality.

Feel the hiss
of the pressure:
a defeated sigh
from deep inside.

Diffuse it like a bomb.
It could have been your rocket
to a higher place,
another space.

Nurture the desire.
Dare to be silent,
to show before you tell.

your trajectory.
Make a map as a guide
from latency to actuality:

the true
release valve of the soul.

Eagles, Aliens & Hidden Observers.

A short time ago my mother emailed me some astounding screen shots she had taken of bald eagles. Aside from appreciating the pictures, she thought it might inspire some artwork on my part, and it certainly did. She also provided me with a link to the website she had procured them from, which I immediately found fascinating. It belongs to the Raptor Resource Project, a nonprofit organization which aims to preserve raptor populations. They set up various HD cameras focused on an eagle’s nest in the the city of Decorah, Iowa, allowing anyone to monitor them through online streaming 24 hours a day, seven days a week.

Certainly, this is not the only project of its kind, but it was the first time I was aware of such a thing. It made sense, though. After all, the less influence we have on the animals we are striving to preserve and understand the more we consequently preserve, the better our quality of understanding, so this is a natural progression.

As intriguing as I found it to be that anyone around the world could hop online and observe — covertly, at a distance and around the clock — animals in their natural habitat, however, it also produced this knot in my stomach.

Long ago I noticed that when any mainstream scientist speculated out loud about the potential nature of extraterrestrial life, they presumed they were of one of two extreme natures equally distant from us. If they weren’t microbial life, than they must be extremely more advanced than us, a Type III civilization that would look upon us and our civilization much as we might look at a colony of ants on around alongside a highway. They never seem to contemplate the possibility that the distances between us and some ETI might be more akin to our relationship to monkeys, octopuses, or even eagles.

And if we can monitor these creatures covertly, at a distance and around the clock through some high-tech communication system beyond the reach of their understanding, perhaps we are subject to similar monitoring by a network of advanced ETI.

As I watch the Decorah eagles on my laptop, I wonder if they ever have the feeling that they’re being watched, as I often do.