Free 2B.

that wind pushing,

from deep inside:
yes, she took
the long-view,

the spiritual
and sexual

reactions it elicited
your covert soul.

Out of the blue.
They see red,

feel blue, you see
the light,
feel everything,

free to be yourself
when you go.


Starcrossed Doubts.

Made my way to this space
through aimless wandering,
stumbling, out of desperation,

like a liberated electron,
a rogue planet,

until finally,
I found my center.

I wore out my wayward,
circular path: predictable

revolution, my ingrained habits
fixed on founding this new
and so clearly personalized
rebel tradition,

however unconscious,
subliminal. Oh,
accursed contents,
dark, unseen:

what rabble-rousers,
to possess
this darkly blessed

In my blasphemous
let me come clean:

though I gaze
into this crimson puddle,

wayward wizard,
mad magickian


my aim
via either reconciliation
or transcendence,

unless one
or either implies
both, in which case

this open-wound potential,
this nominated occupant

accepts: consider
me on board. I don’t want
to believe, after all:

much rather be left
devoid of want with a faith
held firm, strong,

in a vast, deep sea
of nothing:

is understanding,
in knowing…

but it’s simply impossible.
So agonizing.
Sadly, ragingly, so clearly:

Fuck so far passed pleasure
unto blissful
death all my hangups
and my excuses:

doubt is the torch
with which I light my way
along these caverns,

the machete
by which I plow
a path
through these jungles,

the warp
used to cross
the chasm betwixt
the stars.

Cry From a Childlike Naïveté.

Am I just
an eternal child,

like Pinocchio,
Peter Pan,
or The Little Prince:

hopelessly naïve
and forever young despite
compounding experience

in this aging,
blood-bag skin,

all in face
of his lockjaw
on aspirations of independence,
personal freedom,
liberation from suffocating

of authority, doomed
to die as a shameful, wasted,
chaotic mess
once again?

Is there any off-ramp
to this highway
to hell I’m on, or does it all
come down to a choice

between the slow,
agonizing crawl, or pedal-to-the-metal
road rage, no love
for this stubborn ego
in my death-grip, rebirth-release cycle,
no respect
for any life at all?

Is it imprisonment
or self-sabotage?

Is there an answer, a truth
of which I can gain greater understanding,
if nothing else, or only lies
for the offering, no hope
for this world, myself, at all?

Am I not
where I should be,
or, as it feels so deeply
in me, do I have no place,
no true home
to be found?

If it exists,
how do I find
it, and if it doesn’t,
is it best to abandon the quest,

hide beneath a rock,
buried in the ground?

Seeking enlightenment,
fearing my impulse towards darkness.
I don’t need saving, just an open
window of reason,
an offering of light to bring

me around so
that my soles
rest on my own
sacred ground.

me know my Self,
my place

(and soon),

before I just can’t take
it anymore…


Suicidal Seed?

Is this strength,
an immunity
to the zombie virus

that has clearly infected
the majority of the population,

ensuring that I am
a representative
of the band of strange souls
determined to better fashion

a world out
of the coming ashes
of this bitter
and old, decaying world,
this awkward,
blood-bag container:

of eggs
and cum
to dust,

or is this truly a blazing, neon
sign of weakness,
a foolish, pathetic, childish

possessing my soul, haunting

this cosmic eye-blink
of a life, an insipid impulse
blossoming, spawned
from an ultimately suicidal seed:

an ill-advised,
potentially fatal
refusal to adapt?

Advanced. Civilized. Insane.

It’s strange, living in the context of this society and having to find a job. Want a good job? Be a skilled motherfucker. Go to college to learn skills for a particular career — one you might not even be able to acquire, which could suck, as you might need such a job in order to pay off your student loan debt.

No college? Dropped out? Learn a trade.

In any case, it’s a fair question: how exactly is it that you go about getting a job? Well, bare bones, it goes like this: you are free to choose who you are a slave to, if only you can master the art of advertising and can coerce them into such a purchase — because let’s face it, you’re really trying to sell yourself to them through a resume, an application, during an interview, by showing what an effective tool you can be in their toolbox, what a fine and dandy fucking cog you would be in their particular machine. And once you get in, once you’ve been bought, you go on to try to prove your worth, show what a grand gear, what a superior slave you are so as to earn that raise or promotion.

This? This is growing up. This is being an adult.

It’s amazing the suicide rate isn’t higher.

For 99% of our history as a species we lived in small, nomadic bands that hunted, gathered, fished and engaged in small-scale agriculture, wandering about within a fixed territory in response to the seasons, enjoying deeper social connections and far more leisure time than we do in modern society, free from the ills that plague the modern human, our ultimate impact on the environment moderate — but the agricultural revolution, the industrial revolution, where we stand today?

This? This is advanced. This is civilized.

This world is insane.

Dexter Mindset.

Go to work.
Watch your flavor
of fake news.

Attend church.

Build a mask,
you fucking faker:

a costume.

Be Mister Glad-Hand.
Smile at strangers.
Master your foreplay,

then fuck
their brains
out through their eyes.

Despite this:
be negligent to your wife,
a total dick

to your kids.
Live like no one
is noticing.

As if no one cares.

Makes it easy
for me
to slither

in, unleash
my blade

and slit
your throat.

Land-Fish and the Need-to-Know.

Caught fish in a pond,
experimented upon,
then let go

so you could monitor
them remotely,
occasionally engage

in subsequent,

catch-and-release operations
to study
them more directly:

enough sense, I guess,

but, still: why follow
families, why track
these bloodlines?

Who are you?
Reptilian, gray,
mantis fuck:

what are you doing
to me? Who am
I? What am I… Why
is it that I can’t


How can I remember?

I don’t
want to believe:

I want greater understanding,
as I need to know.

Dead Thought (Plea to Reason).

To this clown
on the podium,

either defining a boundary,
identifying an enemy,
or referencing an unseen sky,

words aimed
at no more
then the simple,


dead thought:

of these species-wide
suicidal tendencies.

I plead reason:
let it infect your brain,
so silly and dangerous,

I plead empathy,
let compassion grow
from that old, fertile soil,

carried along
by that sense of self-preservation
and exponential growth
for which you aim,

albeit presently
only in a superficial,
doomed kind of way.

Just your stereotypical
rude awakening.