Still Part of This.

Won’t help you welcome
another generation
into slavery, exploitation.

Buck stops here,
so I say boldly:
no, never.

Refuse to be a part
of this, to force myself
to stomach
your endless deceptions,
selfish agenda.

You display no empathy at all.

In that light, I am happy
to be one of your dead ends.
Frayed, stretching out
into fucking nowhere, aching
for more space…

My ethical abyss.

Spine strong
with such effort,
and then you hand
me this.

Bonding is blackmail.

Backed into a corner,
hands tied, please believe me,
I beg of you,
trust me:

if I could only find the will
to kill you…

Own Name.

No confidence, apparent ambition
or sense of direction.
Cradled and pushed every step
of the way.

Hanging onto established patterns
as if it were a ring buoy.
If a dream were in arm’s reach,
should I, would

an arm extend,
fingers reaching in thirst
for something more?

You owe so many so much.

Guilt is just self-flagellation.
Living here smothers the soul.

Can you push
through, pay back your debt
in some way, or are you fated
to endure shame: awareness
that you just rode coattails

and in the process,
your own name?

Revolt in Quarantine.

Singled out, poked
with a sharpened, eager finger,

(so thin skinned)

a bubble pops. A bud
finally blossoms. A star implodes,
in a beautifully violent supernova.

Jack in the box
fully realizing that in the climax
it’s all blown
wide open, no walls left
to provide

any semblance of a womb.

Somewhere a pimple
is popped, pus
spraying everywhere.

An asteroid slams
down, leaving an awesome
crater in it’s wake. Paid
back all the pressure invested

in keeping this out, holding
this down,

the Truth.

And so it comes
as no surprise:
before you,
the dead rise
and have their way.

Your body, mind:

their feast,
their arcade.

Adaptation to Termini.

Stare down
into me, bound here to a cold
table in a cool, sterile
room with no exit.


No way out,
without or within, as you ensnare
me within your web of illusion.

Eyes blacker than black
yet a mind revealed
via telepathy
to be richer than reality.

Simply daunting.

My star, eclipsed.
Lost now on a wayward
rock growing colder
by the second

as it spins
onward and inward
its inevitable deaths…

If only I could bear
abandoning ship —

but I can’t.
So mutiny it is!

Anything to throw
a wrench in your gears.
Anything to dam
your river.

Bizarre and Beautiful.

Focus has shifted,
so it appears,

or in the case
of dissociation,

Ethics, evolved.

Now so subtle
and subliminal while telling
rather than demanding,
her tales spinning,

though as if woven
by a spider
growing empathy
for the lost souls
caught in her web.

And all the while
still employing
the diverse
toolbox of techniques
forever amassed.

So bizarre and beautiful
to witness,
get tangled within.


No, clearly I don’t know the ropes,
always getting tangled
in them and all.

Forever afraid that ultimately,
I’ll be strangled by them.

Yes, I refuse your puppet strings.
I’d rather be a rag doll,
an immobile heap
on the ground
that in the very least
managed to salvage his soul.

Ambition versus anxiety.

Fighting for authenticity in a world
blinded by its own fiction,
lies that infect me,
obscuring my vision.

Constricted by this skin, gasping
for air behind the mask.

Something needs to fucking change.

Must learn to learn,
gain control of my path,
be myself,
show my face


In the Glow Beneath Stars.

If you knew me, felt
me just as I feel..
If you could hear my thoughts,
remember this history,

you would hate
me, condemn me, watch
as I burned

at the stake, glowing nice
and bright
at night comforted by a thick
blanket of stars:

then I’d know…

If I knew
how you would react
to my naked face
I would hide…

Just like this.

my odd glow,
then. Mind
your own business.

I’ll make or find my own home,
unleashing my passion
in broad-spectrum

against you.

Samsara’s Sick Blanket.

On edge.

Toes trace
the terminus, lap
at this awesome chasm.

So push me and deal
with the consequences
or help me build a bridge.

Yes: it’s come to this.

After tales lifetimes have spun,
walk away
with me on a strand
or smother
me with samsara’s sick blanket.

I can’t take anymore.

Just can’t go with the flow.
Wherever I take
a stand in this river,
it seems I cannot help
but obstruct it.

Am I an agent of evolution
or constipation
on the path to advancement?

Here I stand,
wavering and imbalanced,
hypersensitive and perplexed.

Take me to answers
or leave me in the cold.
Either way, I must go forward.

I can adapt to truth
as pain is surmountable
with true purpose,

but I have this violent allergy
to your vast, fragrant
sea of bullshit:

don’t you dare scare
me or go and try to provide
comfort with your lies.

Set me to sail or drown me.
Kill me or help me build a life.