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.

Ruin, Solve.

Never shall you escape
me. In that alone,
I find comfort. Anticipation
rising: painfully.

I know you through
and through, in a billion contexts
and relationships. Lost in your sclera
whiteouts, swimming
through your luscious, vivid, intense iris,

myself to those blissful, blessed
black holes, wormholes

to countless parallel universes,
time ultimately betrayed
in the static face,

as I still came out the other end
the same, still awaiting
the right moment

to engage, embodying
the force
accurately described

but not commonly
known as the cock-block
to unification
with the cosmos.

Awareness has only bred
an increasingly
distinct, clearly alien soul,
but a deeper love
for you

and all that you are. Never
will I escape

the euphoric, psychologically-unifying
trap you constitute. Every angle
I explore, you prove to be beautiful,
to manifest

as a labyrinth I can never
escape the deep
impulse to truly penetrate,

with the heart of. And a part
of me is enthralled
as the rest is writhing

in agony
that you’re truly blind
to the power
in your hands,

which if you elected
to wield

ruin, solve


Bullseye & Synthesis.

Face it. Just shut
up, get over
it. Open

your trembling arms, clammy
and vibrating fingers
and embrace, accept the fact

that time is speeding
up. Waste not time

so as to discipline
the owner of the lead foot
that succumbs to gravity
and naturally puts unparalleled,

unrelenting pressure
on the temporal accelerator,

as doing so wastes
more of it, which satisfies
the determined foe,
as you’ve framed
it. Instead, in response

to this existential fast-forward,
boil passion that dictates
you won’t waste:

that another blink shan’t
pass you by.

Calculation of acceleration:
you could die at any time,
wake up to find

yourself 89
and looking down
the barrel of mortality.

But will it be with anxiety,
or ease? What would comfort
you? And in the interest
of getting there:

what would it take to satisfy?

When we swing the dart,
that should be our bullseye…


Silent, warm, and in comfort
above the breathtaking planet.

As it happens,
I got here a bit early.

Calm in my isolation,
awaiting your inevitable presence,
true and type-of-blue
in my nakedness,

no one to witness.
Only I know, though I offer
you fuel for suspicions.

Always knew I’d die a thousand more times
just to bring
you here to dance
with me in the freefall,
swim with me in the stars,

to let my glow bathe in your light,
to show you, far beyond all those needless skins
we crossed and tangled our mutual wordlines in,

the kind of beauty, freedom, and endless depths of meaning
you always reminded me of

when we were both lost, angry and sad,

and I finally got
to see and be around you again.

In this space
free of circumstance,
we will meet,
and then…

Closer to Being.

Struggled with the Shadow,
so on it goes with the Anima.

Elevating above the battle,
it’s clear to see what strategies
constipate the route to synthesis.

For too long engaging
in the struggle with oppositions,
now getting between, behind, below
and finally rising above,

I see them for what they are
and what I am not.

And I am that much closer
to being who I am.

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.

Drunk on Emotions.

Back in the days when my friends and I would go bar-hopping in a college town on the weekends, my frustration and embarrassment with myself began to grow. Behavior always seemed appropriate enough in the midst of inebriation, but on the day following our drunken meanderings and shenanigans darkness would fall on me — and it was like a thick, heavy blanket. I would frantically message or text those I felt I’d been a douche to, silently vowing to myself to behave better next time. Invariably, however, the following weekend was no different.

Wash, rinse, repeat offense.

In my more recent descent into alcohol, much the same thing occurred, only now I did so in the privacy of my own apartment and with respect to my blog. In this case, however, I suffered in silence and, in the clarifying light of sobriety, would ignore my drunken posts — typically poetry — and more rarely felt so ashamed I’d privatize or delete what I’d written and posted while under the influence. I only thought twice if I got a “like” or two.

For a long time, I would pretend that this circumstance required the ingredient of booze, though it’s now clear that this is far from the case. The same damn thing happens to me when under the influence of a mood or emotion. Joy, anger, fear, sexual desire: these were all intoxicants that breed precisely the same circumstances. I say or write something when I’m angry, for instance, only to feel like a fool when it wears off — now intoxicated with guilt, shame, self-loathing, depression. It feels as though I ping-pong between diametrically-opposed mood-dependent perspectives. And be it mood or booze, I think that’s precisely what it is.

The only way to solve this dilemma so far as I can see it to achieve some plateau, some stable baseline of consciousness which I unfortunately appear to lack at the moment save for brief periods separated by emotional roller-coaster extremes. Meditation helps a little, though I should probably do it more. Medication may help and perhaps I should get on it again. And neurofeedback would be awesome if it was both affordable and available.

I’ve got to do something: the oscillation is getting exhausting.