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Feb 2017 · 777
Islands among doors
It's ironic
I make doors all day,
but i never get to open them.
I see hope in a sea full of island-men
But  none of them will send for it.
Jul 2016 · 831
syllabic stitches
Script scratched on the sinews of my soul
Lips echo with sharp words,
I slipped away where nobody would know.
I cried in the bathroom.
I didn't want to hurt anyone.
I didn't want too be feared,
Or hated.
Face forced into a ticking ,twitching smile
Fake gestures ,stiff posture, a throat full of bile.
Linguistic cuts,covered over with syllabic stitches,
Words have cut,and words have healed him.
May 2016 · 804
a soul's self seeking
Body brimming with sensations.
inhabited by aches built up from ages.
You are only twentytwo.
But you're ancient soul,
And I hurt like you.
You've seen much
And known much beyond what you can speak.
You're bent double in the dirt,
But no pained sounds scratch dry across your lips.
Instead, this drumbeat.
Permeating the air with your presence.
Your ancient cadence and effervescence.
Its ever present
And it lingers
Tingles tinged with nectars sweeter
Converge at your coming,
At your going
They scatter to the four corners of the earth.
At Vesper's whisper, one evening far,
You'll find your star-singed edges
Returning to where you are.
You shall know yourself.
May 2016 · 1.1k
writing reasons
Do my words satisfy anyone?
Not you,not me.
Writing for satisfaction is not an option.
I write for expression.
For description.
For discovery,
For decryption.
For fantasy,
For religion,
For analogy,
For inscription.
For acknowledgement,
And for knowledge.
For rendition,
For depiction.
For sleep,
And resurrection.
May 2016 · 651
cost\benefit analysis
I beat back the worry And the wish for me.
I provide you with a taste of my presence and my words.
I sate your hunger for my attention.
And then I recede into myself.
Ever I am in flux.
Are you hungry,am I tired?
Which need is greater?
How can I give to you what I do not have?
I hide my emptiness by hiding it at the bottom of my perceived depth.
If I seem deep, of is only because I'm digging the hole.
And I cordon off an acre around it,
Because God forbid somebody fall faster than I can dig.
Once you get to the bottom of me,
I'm just like everyone else.
Empty.
Hungry.
Lonely.
Trying to fill myself up,but unable to find what fills me.
Trying to sate my appetites,but they always grow.
Trying to feel known,but torn between hiding and showing myself.
Happiness evades me.
I am colored pervasively by my lack.
I shy away from sentences.
In the spaces where words should be,but aren't I can maintain my anonymity,and shore up my unrepentance.
  When I speak in more than snippets, it becomes plain.
I am as broken as my preferred pattern of speaking, of writing.
If you look close enough, you can see it.
It isn't as clever as I wish it was.
And sure, its effective enough at soliciting a fleeting feeling.
But what good does it do?
I like to pretend that I want to be known.
Really, I am hiding just out of sight.
Around the next corner on that daily walk where we sometimes collide.
  In circles of other people you know.
You've seen my face, you know my name,
youd even say you know me.
But if you were asked who I am, you'd hesitate,
with a catch in your throat, and a half reassuring-half derogatory smile.
" well, you're.. You" you'd say.  
And no matter how many times you're asked, you'd repeat it.
For days,months, years.
I've watched it happen already.
I'm not sure if I haven't taken the trouble to really introduce myself,
Or if you haven't taken the trouble to realize that I am not just
Some whimsical syllable
Plastered on my shoulders
From birth to now.
And now, we don't have time to be sure.
Ringing of raindrops on a tin rooftop
Tintinnabulation, wrapped up in lightning storm vibrations
A fickle thing-be it friend or foe?
Until I'm wet I never know.
Is it the rain that changes?
Or is it me?
Is it the cage that cages Captured wings?
Or is it the bird inside who has forgotten How to sing?
What is this hocus
With a pen?
I cast your focus there,
Now,then.
Upon a prec'pice -
I'll push you off,
Into the pathos
I have quaffed.
Apr 2016 · 653
A tired love
By the cadence of my steps,
A jilted lover shall know death.
And if in morning she shall wake,
She'll know her lost And lonely mate.
We trail and trek,down unto doom,
In lengthy night and shortened noon
We Lovers hold each others hearts,
And trip,and choke,
And break, now hark:
The cadence comes, hers matches mine,
We cuckold be: by loves fair shine,
Know only bends and shattering,
And we grow tired, wait,and see.
Red
Apr 2016 · 1.1k
Flashbacks and tacobell
I'm nearly catatonic.
My eyes shift spasmodic in their sockets.
They're closed, and it's far too quiet
for the racket ripping my inner eardrums.
Reliving the sound of grim acceptance.
Slack faced,in the blackness.
"I guess this is it".
I said it then. And I say it now.
  Didn't make a terrible difference,did it?
Gifted quesarito wrappers are
halfheartedly crumpled in the floor.
I was dead, I died, I'm dead once more.
Apr 2016 · 416
Unformed faces
Thick ticked scratches crash across all silhouettes
Flickers of faces and vestiges of voices,
Who aren't quite people yet.
Rustle the pages, turn as I write
Blistering, shimmering, radiantly white.
Nothing to nothing,
It comes and it goes.
Traces,and ages,
And nodbody knows.
Apr 2016 · 310
color and squalor
Spinning,and sinning.
Trying to retreat from a repeat.
I need to be revived but so far only get deeper sleep.  
summer shimmers from a subtle spring.
I cascade into the evergreens.
Their color and my squalor are the only things that never leave .
Apr 2016 · 368
Labrinthian mind
I'm trapped in my labrinthian mind
Attempted Rehabilitation has shaken me into self delusion
My submission is to seclusion
I'm cut off from my self in entropic confusion
Inevitable walls rise at emotions first mentioned
Truths I've obscured through divisive contention
I argue with my self. . . no I don't.
Its hard to pull myself apart
But I must
Divide my sins to see my heart
Jan 2016 · 340
new year, old uncertainty
what gravity, and where has the gravity gone?
when yesterday a new year dawned -
I asked myself this question,pained,
and answered with the things i've done.
I blame myself for our pummelling decline,
though in part, it be yours beside -
i could have, but didn't-and did, but could not have -
many things that made the difference.
And i lay there, wondering if ever i would feel as heavily entwined,
as when first your gravity became mine.
and feared - that never again - should i be tethered -
by the few invisible tines that held me to this mote of dust
I fear free fall, up into the sky.
And all i can do is lay here, and fight the lies, while we cry.
racing, cascading, my brain is aching after tasting
the bitter, bittersweet, sweet, teas
my thoughts are teased out of caffeine
and sugar
they vibrate and hover between my skull
and grey matter
and they shatter
but they matter,
reshape, and they trace through ages of filters
shot glasses clink together
the hiss of flames from a lighter
licking a propane stove
the sparks, as i am taken higher
by the tear drop traces of bitter liquid
the sensations that i love
crashing against my silence clad hubris
a song sang sweetly across my tainted tongue
that's painted numb
i'll grasp this tightly in my fist
this  moment of quiet that has begun
it fades quicker, is lost faster,
than bullets blink from the barrel of a gun
than suns set, than cars wreck,
than one breath becomes none
w jason and indigo
Nov 2015 · 601
dagger sharp roses
it nonsensical that i'm cynical
when love has always been  my pinnacle
i created a false dichotomy
between being loved and never being hurt
but that's just it, loving takes a lot of me
and it's covered me in years of blood and dirt
but that can't bury it's worth
i plunged my hands into the earth
expecting a dagger that laid dormant,
but the beauty that i found was stark, and storming
sharp, and thorny,
but with petals too, uncurling
not yet in full bloom, but soon
A  white rose will come under another moon
licked by drops of blood,
pricked from my fetid wounds.
my path is satiation
rage is my recreation
no more delineation
i crave your liberation
im caught in my own mire
bound up by my desires
cage of my own creation
im stuck between relations
sacraments and medication
breathed into my being
divisions my denomination
emptiness is what i'm feeling

all my hopes ive been misplacing
i lose my head in circle tracing
lines throughout my thoughts
fight to twist, untwist, each place they cross
i guess maybe i'm lost
and so i look for signs
create them where they're not

they say that desperate times
call for desperate measures
im so desperate for pleasure
i mistake it for pain
so hungry for help,
i could drown in a drop of rain
so take me deeper
i'm already under
what more is there to loose
ill breathe in fear
im underwater
this is the death i choose

sacraments not meant for tasting
ive spent my whole life chasing
but my life and self are recreating
and my guilt God is erasing
Oct 2015 · 410
young and alive
weight behind my eyes
i'm tired
tum tum drums and craving cries
music in my ears
words whistle-swish through my brain
i'm thinking
I have never felt this way
and I'll never feel the same
so Just this once
this is what a moment is
passing to the next
just this once
and then i'll let it slip
sleep will subtly sweep me down
and then i'll lose my grip
sight will  fade out of my eyes
my head will be a cloud
but for now...
for now Im young and alive
Oct 2015 · 756
forgotten pendulum
I do not exactly know how i lived. But i did. and I do.
I do not know what it means to live, and yet i have, it is true.  
I am a pendulum, forgotten by physics
I will never not swing.
I will always sing through the air.
and when I'm here, or when I am there
I'll always live, though it's never fair.
Oct 2015 · 335
child, come out, and uncurl
little one
huddled, hiding
in that place
i only ever arrive at
by spiraling

why is it that you fear
everything?

come out.
It may hurt.
It may not be safe.
But here
you can uncurl.
Sep 2015 · 592
thinking in adrenaline
I will try.  I don't know that i will succeed.
To describe the things that went through my head.
I was there. And somehow i knew  turtle was beside me. but only for a second.
then he blinked out of existence.
and the sounds...they crashed together. they  became so loud that they were indistinguishable from one another.
then nothing. quiet.
only pictures.
pictures and questions.
remembrance.
i wondered why i was where i was.
i saw the succession of choices, mine and other,
that had placed me.
i wondered if it was the end of everything.
i was crushed by the subaru.
it flattened me into the ground and kept rolling.
but i was sure...that i was done.
everything...all of it...
pictures so quick their edges  werent in existence...
this.....amalgamation of my experience...
looped through with slivers of my dreams..
all ******* in the ideas of what i wanted to do
what i dreamed
what id do different
what i never got to do
who id leave behind
how  it was all my fault
how i cost them me,
how i would leave a void in them that nobody else could fill
it wasnt how i wanted to be rememebred...
but at least they wouldnt forget..
i became for some, what no others could be.
it wasnt much. it wasnt even enough.
id die with many regrets.
and id die young.
god i was young
what was i thinking
yes..i was stressed...but relief wasnt worth this
id go through a thousand days
a thousand times *******
if it meant i could have just one more..
not even a good one,
at all, any day would do
i understood my dad
any day above ground...
you know how the saying goes
i wondered if it was like this for him..
maybe not full of adrenaline...
but perhaps he relived his entire moment
as he slipped away
would i see him?
what was there?
i didnt see any light..
i didnt see anything for a minute..
i was so deep in my brain..
i was this kernel of thought curled up inside of my skull...
buried...beneath all else..
i shrunk....into almost nothing...
i faded....and then from blank,
back to seeing.
am i ...alive?
i...i was crushed..
i...am i bleeding?
can i breathe? is anything broken?
blood from my foot.
just there.
can i move?
i can move.
HELLLLLLLPPPP
HELLLLLPPPP
SOMEBODDDY HELLLLP
CALL 911!!!!!
BRENT.
where is he?
okay i was thrown out...
theres lights.
thats the car. check it.
is he in it?
is he trapped?
run down the mountain.
there are briars.
go around.
push through. just get there. doesnt matter if you get cut.
he isnt in here. unless hes under the cooler.
move the cooler.
okay he isnt in here.
where is he. i dont see him. was he throiwn?
call out.
i yell. nothing
wait.
a moan. which...down there.
there he is .
i see him.
diagnose.
can you move?
talk to me?
can you breathe?
is anythign broken?
are you breathing?
hes talkign in circles.
not good.
better than nott alking.
but someything is wrong.
i smell fish?
pat him down. feel for breaks.
can you walk?
let's get you out of the creek.  
up the hill.
we have to get out.
how.
i cant see a way.
some strangers are here. i dont know his name.
ask.
is 911 on the way?
good.
can they find us? how far?
where are we?
i dont know the area.
can you find a phone?
Sep 2015 · 326
In shock in the gully
where are we?
what the **** happened?
did i wreck the car?
is the car ******?
I have to get to meg!
who am i?
who are you?
where are we?
what happened?
did i do this?
i'm so sorry.
does meg know.
is meg here?
i have to get to meg!
cody, am i dying?
are you cody?
who am i?
where are we?

I answered, unsure of so many of my words.
turtle
Irony is when you can only come back because you finally left.

Here I am.
Sep 2015 · 304
A deadman wrote my epitaph
I won't play the victim,
my head is made of stone,
my feet are made of gravel,
this dirt is all they've known.

"Here lies a poet, lost in his own head,
not knowing hell from heaven,
nor life from being dead."
Sep 2015 · 365
unfolding
watch me unfold,
from my contortionist dance,
swallowed by sound,
my vision most entranced,
senses overcome,
so that hearing is erased,
every picture detailed,
i remember every trace.
and we rolled over in circles,
and i went graceful through the skies,
surroundings settled into slowness,
as my brain shattered in the whys
for the briefest moment i knew i died,
and i woke,
after seconds,
five?

I am a spectator.
Sep 2015 · 295
sleeping in a scar
I'm wrecked
Pardon the pun, ***,
but oh, you love it,
and humor is the best i can do to shrug it,
that fact, hanging over my head,
the dread, the lingering thought i'm dead
the smells, the way they grab me by the throat,
the visions, the way they make me choke,.
swimming in my every moment,
ever since my crashing fall,
wondering if i ever lived,
if i ever lived at all.

and **** i have to face it,
but when i do my heart races,
i swear my ribs are folding into places,
that they never should have been,
and my chest is heaving quicker,
or is it caving in?

traces of the trees escape
the ever wandering eyes
of drunk teenagers camping
and all the other passers by

remembrance of my end or birth
i'm not quite sure anymore
but i know i've been there before
surrounded by the dying leaves,
embedded in the earth
sleeping in a scar,
awakened by my thirst.
Sep 2015 · 1.2k
Tantric sex with life
I can't be apathetic,
frantic, engulfed in the hectic,
overtaken by stasis,
stuck in this tantric,
****** by life position.

ANd i tiptoe to the edge,
looking both backward and forward,
wondering which direction i go,
will i explode?
am i already, is ..is...
this...ohhh my God, what the **** is happening ..is this,
is this it?

But if i sit here,
maybe it won't end.
Maybe i can hold onto the pleasure...
I end with the release
I live with  the questions,
what was it worth?
can i create something worth anything?
I keep smelling dead things,
and fire, and smoke,
ammonia, and ****...
I wonder if I'm dead,
or am dying,
If i'm laying there in the gully,
where his subaru crushed me into the ground,
if my chest has caved in,
if i've been moved yet,
leaving only a stain in the dirt
and a crash path through those frail little trees
How am I here?
and not there?
That is where i ought to be...
is this some hyper realistic dream?
has this already happened?
or is it happening?
and how the **** would i know the difference?

I will live this life as if i haven't yet,
make memories that matter,
even if i am already dead.
It is the best i can do.
Jun 2015 · 1.7k
Blackboard Brain
i forgot how to write
but there's revelry in spite of me
sounds and words inside of me
semantics trapping happily
sentiments tapping rapidly
on the inside of my skull

slowly i am lulled
inevitably pulled
suffocated slow
by lies as cold as snow
piled up in banks
as high as memories
of sour smokes
and trusted snakes
of shattered hopes
and forlorn aches
wounds i forced forgotten for ages
creaking out of their cast iron cages
locked no more, instead released
from tired hopes for truth
and worn out wakes for peace

over the candles,
across the white cloth'd table
I sip coffee as i stare them in the face
with a soft glance,
i slip into a subtle trance-
empty space on which to paint
the blackboard of my brain.

And there
maybe chalk will wash away in rain.
I was in a headspace where i had not written much or well for quite a while.  Standing in the shower, i thought "i forgot how to write". To follow came  the second line. then, formulating the meaning of such, it lead me along the idea that writing is incessant in my head and becomes a blur that needs to be let out. Its not that it isnt there - it always is. Rather, it is discerning the words from the amorphous mass that is the challenge for me as a writer. All the words and thoughts and emotions i possess boil under the surface in my brain. I often glance down from  above, and see nothing but a smoothe surface, ignoring the creatures there in the deep.

This time, i think the happening that lead to my not writing is in y havign been unable or un-ready to face wounds present in myself, fromt hings ive done, lies ive been told or told, of people i thought honest and true to me turning out to be frauds and transients and leaving my life.  The idea of sipping coffee with your hurts always comes back to me in times where depression is strong - thanks to a friend of mine who said to me something along the lines of "sometimes we dont need to solve our problems, sometimes we just need to sit and have a cup of coffee with them".

The blackboard brain bit is the way that i think in images and connected concepts- the same way i imagine a chalboard would be useful in illustrating- and a place to illustrate the details of each wound as i give them the attention they deserve. The trance that comes with trauma. The way it can empty all else from the mind and become the sole focus. And finally, the way that, hopefully, facing, illustrating, and looking intently at each, will assuage the damages.
she likes my black box brain
i chalk me up to chalk lines, it's proof i'm just, insane
i keep her head spinning
in the way she likes
edges toe-tested
like cold waters on summer nights
she loves my scoundrel heart
i love not having to hide
we have to work to love
but then our hearts collide
we feel some tensions now and then
unexplained rhythms when we remember where we've been
continuing adventures, and visiting old places that have become new again
the only days wasted are the ones we are apart
because even boring ones shared between best friends
are worth getting up, and not giving up
and now is where it starts.
Begin. . .
I will be divided over peace if that is what it takes to uphold it.
But I am divided into pieces.
The back and forth of hard to decipher decisions.
I know what i really want.
I want to know what i really want.
I hold the bill and i have sold it.
My soul was paid for with blood.
The proof is stamped on the bottom of my being.
on the rock i rise from there is a word-Tetelestai
It is finished.
It is pricy and it is paid for.
The price that he laid on the table to purchase a ***** is remarkable.
I  still catch my self trying to profiteer pennies to afford
to buy myself a shiny new soul,
i still stick my hands in places they dont belong
It is finished, but it is old,
Today I am in the stranglehold of silver,
that i wish was the guillotine of gold.
So i throw it back in the face of false promises
and try again tomorrow.

Why?
When,
Tetelestai.
vision blurs, head spins
the lenses in my eyes **** and whir
distracting me from my thought
and capturing me in it at the same time
this is the first time in so long
that i have torn open this wound
and salt seems to have been packed in it ever since...
since we still spoke

i hurt...i have to steady my self to keep from shaking
i havent had a panic attack in months but
if im not careful
i will...
lose it
i was happy thirty seconds ago
but then i
stepped into the wrong place in my brain
and stains of trauma soaked into my spinal cord
and ran down ...getting caught in my lungs

my lungs are already heaving shallow breaths
from being filled with sixth sick day phlegm
..but this...
this is not because i enhaled lye
or took a quick dust bath in it from carelessness

oh but it feels real similar
i dont want to relive anything
i dont need you
but because i still care about you
and i cannot pretend that i dont
and i cannot hide this from myself any better than by shoving it to the back of my mind from whence it occasionally
hop skips onto my
frontal lobe or
my poor misled and overstimulated
amygdala  
and plays with all
the deep and primal waves of tangible
tryst-torn
in my soul
kind of ...

what is this ?
dealing with an old wound, chemicals
The sky is gray. Everything is gray really. The ground is grey brown. The the trees are gray green, and the sky is gray blue. A lonely man jogs beneath me in the cold. Most everything is still save for the gentle swaying of trees in the edge of my panoramic window view. There stand in the middle of the lot two trees that have traded their resemblance to stoic poets for the whims of the winds. They make me wonder about my brother. I remember how he used to mow the lawn on sunny days, rhythmically flexing his jaw as it rang with the vibrations from the machine at his fingertips. I remember the smell of fresh cut grass. I wonder if he was as trapped in his head as those other autistics who prove to be quite sentient. I imagine holding a conversation with a brother who is more intelligent than i ever imagined. I wonder how he's doing? I havent heard much about him since he tried to **** mom. Ticking time bomb. Set free to nurses in a hospice center. Released into the hands of a familial tyrant bent on pimping my brother for pills and potential children. Fake flower petals nestled in the window attempt quite faintly to soak up the silver sunlight. The sun is lazy today. It hasnt taken the time to run around the sky and warm itself up. It's laying asleep in a bed of clouds and contrary to what people say about them, i don't see a single silver lining. Just blurred edges. But somehow they manage to still be beautiful. They are a tired sort of beautiful. Cold stones lie in a shallow grave atop the rooftop awning extending from the outer edge of the building. They are splotched with tar and mold. Rainwater takes it's toll. The trees are tipping again. sideways and sideways back again. They seem to be fond of that tick tock triage. Much like mine. But i am less fond. Mind goes back to autistic rocking again. Sometimes i feel like my heart does what special needs people do on the outside. If my heart had a mind it would no it were in a cage consisting of cracked ribs and the dreams of a miser. If it had fists, depending on what day it is, let's say a dreary tuesday, like this, it would likely lay down on its wall hung mattress and resign to twiddling with it's thumbs. If my heart had a tin cup it would rattle it against my ribs. I would feel it in my spine and try to remember why i was built this way. But my heart doesnt have a cup, so it's thirsty, and restless. Without instrument. on days like this i would rather stare straight into the face of a room more brusque, floor covered in dust and hinges tinged with rust than to pretend that i am blemish free. on days like this i would prefer mongering war with my self and wallow in a pile of my own pelts, flayed from me by my own sharp words. The truth hurts. But tomorrow. . .tomorrow. . . who knows, i might hang some curtains.
Dec 2014 · 727
i feel everything deeply
where one may take a heartache with a swallow, i take it with a hand grenade
Dec 2014 · 528
summer sword fights
Sword fights are fun
and we were idiots
who had drank just a little too much whisky
i cut your knuckles, and you wanted to keep fighting,
and you wanted to keep fighting so much that you waited,
and you waited weeks,
and then you threatened my life, my dad's old rusty craftsmen wrench in hand,
and i left.
Dec 2014 · 718
Clove kisses
Clove kisses saturate remembrance.
The peaceful taste of antiseptic.
And  the smell of rekindling embers in November
Fires stoked with seasons.
sneak through my nose to rest on the back of my tongue
The autumn is screaming with the call of leaves dying,
But oh, they smell so beautiful,
and we are so warm.
While you were here, you barely let go of my arm.
edits: the taste of peaceful antiseptic
inserted 5th line.  
changed tense of "screams" to "is screaming"
Dec 2014 · 675
Summer Trauma
Writers run dryer when their dreams wax dire, families fade and push them away. Nothing left for them anymore, nothing but sore skin where they're scratching their brains. Traces and stains of soft serene sayings, st-stutter and shatter, stay stuck locked in a safe where it's all right to be tucked tight children latched in a vice. Poets stuck in their heads know what that feels like. Locked up when you should be swimming in soft sleep, but tough, paranoia penetrates, sleep deprived ticks take you hours to shake, slumbers escaped until light takes night and nightmares shatter headspace. Waking up is a sweet embrace when you spend sleep reliving pains, remembering shouting and spit spraying from faces, feeble praying and echoes of voices saying "it's not the same" Thoughts flitting and flaying psyche from physical frame as trauma is replaying in the background of your brain. Fits of fear fraying sanity, filled with shame because of weakness and frailty, I'm a poet on the verge of insane.
forgiveness is saving
after days turned years turned months
turn into time thats turned to dust
cleave we shall, and cleave  we didst
and in a kiss, we both find rest

if i could live inside this kiss
i wouldnt mind being a tangled mess
like tracing hands tangle in tresses
tingles  tickle through my lips
edges trailed  with tastes i cant forget

it wouldnt matter if i were more or less
because  kisses of both leave traces tasted
smiles and souls are doubly  mated
truest hunger with truest touch is sated
mind encircles mind in bliss
and hands  seek  places they fit best
finding curves and cravings,
slipping between fingers,
and lingering tender. . .

This love. . . I remember


If we could live inside a kiss,
well love we'd know and live in trust
for much of both are inside this
and moments lost are gained with haste
come rushing back to brains unleashed
from hidden places in the flesh
this beauty rises quick and feasts
let us not in weakness birth a beast
rather shake our fists at foolish lusts
and love, and live, within this kiss

in old love burst anew and threshed

a seed sprouts sudden in my chest
what in a year became a ghost
in a moment crashed
from corners to crest
i remember this thirst

in passion pulled from autumns past
we spring alive in fall at last
Oct 2014 · 1.2k
Baseball bats give me wings
I am wisened by my wounds.
My thirst is sated by monsoons.
Scars teach me lessons.
Fighting for peace is my weapon.
Every memory changes a sliver of me.
Through time, i've turned into a motley pinata.
Pieced together haphazardly.
But i know what its like not to be afraid of taking a swing
and i know what its like to fly
because baseball bats give me wings.
stark coal tables that deny, to respond
entrenched in my own emotions,
places that seem as hopeless as
holes in the whole of germany,
otherwise would just be tables
but they arent
because as i ask questions again and again
it is they that shatter the sound waves,
they who break through to deny any lasting echo,
they who seem to forget that i asked any question at all.
They are traumatized men, attempting to unsee gunfire
that broke through their best friends hearts
that is what these tables are
naturally catatonic, or in the throes
of post traumatic stressful flashbacks that
snap back inside my head like
I was there too
Nova gas tastes like bittersweet memories
Bittersweet memories taste like gunpowder.
Like pennies.
like pens  that ive chewed through until the ink bleeds into my mouth
They leave open wounds in me,
i wound writing utensils.
Seems like we all value leaving our mark.
by scars, and by
ink sinking into skin and hearts.
Every man makes flesh his canvas.
****** is making a habit of starting many projects and never finishing any,
slashing strategic gashes across canvasses with no past infection,
unraveling every cotton fibre from the edges of that single stroke,

Suicide is scribbling every ounce of inspiration on a single sheet,
until you come to its end.


I , am guilty ,
of both.
Sep 2014 · 1.5k
Oh God, I am a slave!
It stirs my soul to say I am slave,
for thee, daddy, I shall mock ideas of freedom
cast forth by common and devilish cultures,
for thee i shall embrace another sort of freedom,
freedom under constraint,
constraint willfully chosen,
by infinite grace, ever applied in totality, to me,
freedom that says,
before I was a slave to sin,
now i am a slave to righteousness,
and joyfully so,
for being moved by your spirit,
i am ever able, when before i was helpless,
to choose that which pleases
the abundant master,
the master without end,
the existing one,
El Ro'i , the God who sees me,
me a slave chosen as friend,
me a friend adopted as son,
me a son lavished as heir
to that which i deserve not an inkling, or mite,
not jot, nor tittle,
not a word or breath from your lips,
none of that which you spoke or breathed into being.
Oh, God! I am a slave!Ever shall I be!
Thank you master that i be, ever slave, ever to thee.
Sep 2014 · 381
as above, so below.
People's lives are like far away places
and all we can see are their faces
and faint traces and flashes
of their soul when it seeps through the cracks
because it crashes at it's outmost edges.

It's as though we nearly think
that their soul is what they do, but no
and neither is it who they claim to be, or show,
it is where they have been, and where they shall go.

We gasp for air,  we grasp it there
that others must breathe too.
Somehow storms still shock us with their might,
somehow even when i dont want to, breathing feels right
Somehow i know that i was breathed to life

somehow sparks that set afire,
though they consumed all i was,
became small sprouts of life to spire,
from the hardest dirt i'd ever seen,
when i was the worst man I had ever been
they stalked my essence in the ashes,
saw through all of the smudges, scratches,
held me up to light and saw,
an image etched, demanding awe,
there it was, but with blurred edges,
the image of My god implanted,
seed within my soul to bear,
the harshest winds, the hottest air.


So, as above, so below
even stars search for somewhere to go
In me, i see my friend,
In my friends I see my end,
in my end i see beginning, so long as the earth is spinning,
and when finally it stops,
when we've all forgotten clocks,
then in heaven as on earth,
shall we know that all has worth,
and remember then shall we,
all the roots, of life, the tree.
Aug 2014 · 445
Sixty
SIxty suns to turn around the sky
sixty sleeps to cyle through
sixty nights that Ill ask why
sixty shapes I do not know
Sixty choices my heart choooses
Sixty ,sixty til and then to spend
sixty,sixty, sixty again
until sixes turns to eights
tipped sideways before its too late
I beat my chest like it's an oaken door
praying you'll crumble it to dust on the floor,
You said knock and you would open,
and i have been stuck  placing my trust in the hope that
Youve never been hard of hearing, that
you can shatter skies and ceilings
when I am consumed by what I'm feeling
or left empty without any passion
If I saw my life flashing before my eyes
the essence of my vision and my cries
the substance that is my sunlight
spilling over from the crucible of life
Is your name, your face, and your price
You died, but you live
And I am like a well when I am well plugged in
i overflow with the tadbit tastes of you and my head spins
I explode from my chest in Joy that steals my sleep
But I am more rested in the morning than when I sleep for a week
Truth boils inside of me begging to spill out,
and my tongue takes up courage to love words, and sing again, and shout
My soul is freed in vulnerability
When I am undone and refuse to nourish fears out of self protective instinct
You remind me, that they ripped everything away from you
your clothing - even your skin -
your viscera seen by any who dare scan the skyline
Tagged to trees of terrible purpose and beauty
as clear as the sign that mocked you  and the crowds that did it
You love even those who resent it-
Love I mean -
Your are the realest thing that's ever been.
Aug 2014 · 481
Tantamount to thin traces
Tantamount to thin traces, and graphite smudges,
hidden between pages,
messages in a million pinpoints, like a grand connect the dots,
secrets I'm smitten with in subtly hidden scatter plots.
Run round about my every thought,
and when i cannot sleep or dream
the dots turn tracers, light a stream,
like fireflies in summer heat,
forgotten by my fumbling feet,
and feathers fell on tufts of grass
through hell for you, your life my last hope
through the valley of the shadows twas your name i spoke
and shattered sky with good vibrations
I know why your name has shaken the nations.
Trees of electricity, split down through the sky this eve,
and I lay here remembering,
the way that apples split eve and adam
the way that snakes from first aeon spit venom
I remember because mirrors exist
A heart that traded true love for a tryst,
But you forgive me even this.
Aug 2014 · 347
messages scrawled on walls
I always care when I am bitter. I always long to see you when it hurts to.
I always fight to the moment i have no more breaths, even when i forget what light is for the clouds above me. Sometimes I stumble when I step, But i always step. I might forget who I am , but it's because I am not who i was. I nearly never say I'm reaching out when i throw out my hand in hopes you'll catch it, but my palms have learned how to fly. I forget yesterday sometimes as soon as the sun sets, But tomorrow is worth it, just like the sun will rise. Love is worth the fight. Love is the only thing that never dies. I only ever wanted violence to keep the peace. I only ever stayed up late to escape sleep/ I only ever tasted fate when i washed your feet. I held a few hearts in my hands before, and i dropped them ,shards of red stained porcelain on the floor. I never was real graceful until you poured me full of grace. I may wear a mask sometimes, but I always long to show you my face, Sometimes i drink something bitter, because to some it's a sweeter taste. I may sit still, because in being slow to anger i win the race. But I'll never give up searching, wandering, and wondering, even if I slow my pace.
yeah, couldn't get better than this,
i've got a creak in my jaw and the sun in my fist
i woke up quickly  in the haze and the mist       (
it cleared up quicker  than the moments ive missed
it lasted no longer than a blink and gasp
woke up drenched in the morning light
woke up sweet so it wasn't  a fight
Got God on my side , and the day at my back
rest these young bones, and old soul, when they creak, and they crack
when they're weak and they lack
Yeah it couldn't get better than that

the sun's still barely shinin
but this evening i've got a feeling
God's changing futures I'm not seein

It's that red-gold glow that i'm hungry for
keep eatin and keep eatin more
you  keep on feeding
and ill keep on keeping
on,
I'll keep on counting
by ones, by ones
one, two, three, four.

(don't throw them pigs no pearls they'll crack their teeth)
(and mud is only deep enough for mudfights if you sink)
(and mud throwin and dirt rollin make everybody stink )

It couldnt get better than this,
it couldnt get better than that
Unless it lasted till after the fact
replay, take a free day
and for once give up the map
it couldnt get better than that
Jul 2014 · 416
The inconsolable itch
The wayward man, the wanderer, he with the restless feet , the inconsolable itch, the ever longer longing - he is every man. And i find, that this is due to our origin. We know we are meant for something more, different, better. We know that to be boxed in is death. To lose freedom is death. And we live in homes where we don't see the sun, and we are caged by everything we've ever been told, and everything we have ever thought about everything and anything. They all wrap together to the place of our thinking. Yes, there are redeemed men. Their chains lay broken open on the dirt. But they still stare at their chains. Knowing that in some way, they have not yet escaped the mark they have left. This is life. This is to be fallen. This is not what it was to be human. But this is what it is. We must move on. And in this life we will not escape it, but one day, we will arrive at home. For now, I am a fox with no hole - and to have the courage to keep seeking the sating of the hunger placed within me by the divine creator is greater than allowing my self to sit in prisons of my own making. Instead, when i dwell anywhere, i will fight to dwell in this.
Jul 2014 · 476
Hungry for your every word
i pray,  meet me there tonight,
somewhere warm and out of sight
a cabin hidden, high in hills,
for many millenia of thrills

two lives there intertwine as they run
in mountains, valleys, hither and yon
imagine then, the heart's rejoice
if eryyman heard such a voice

ring out below, and well up deep
love unhidden, life to keep
the summer night, turn spring, turn fall
the skylark sing, the night gale's call,
the flowers rise, the leaves subside,
and every note, of song of bride

continue on, eer play what's wrote
from first second on,
i devoured what you spoke.
Jul 2014 · 533
Conglomerate thoughts.
I know of no man who is completely different from me. I own commonality even with my enemy. I find it there, deep, sometimes hidden, but never missing, in his humanity.  

For the sake of love I suffer much, and say “my pleasure”. I mean it.
Sometimes it is harder to mean than others, but i mean it.

Ah, when we come to the moment of the shattering of the mind, so many are afraid to fall off of the precipice. But friends, sometimes, a little insanity is the remedy. It is not the breaking of your reality, it is being freed from a cage you never knew you were born in.

I was not inspired by some grand thing that only i could grasp. I was inspired by bits of simplicity and truth that can be touched by any living person. And perhaps more so the dead.

Have you ever seen a normal person? I , for one, have not.
Everyone is strange.

Tonight i step from boxed in room to balcony. I spy the moon, and i understand that it has missed me. I have missed it much the same. And i do not wonder, but i know, that it is but a sliver of the way that i have missed you . You are more to me, even than the moon. Were it not for the moon, i would be lonely tonight. Were it not for you, i am not sure if i would be, but if i were, i would not be me.


I wonder if it isnt true that every act of love carries the risk of betrayal. And  for that weight is more beautiful. Perhaps some would call me an enabler, but i am simply a lover.

I am hungry. Much in the way malnourished children are hungry, and widows are hungry, and  every man is hungry. There is ever a hole in me, but ever is it being filled. I find this to be but a single blessing of eternity. I am sure that there are many more.  

Everything may recede into chaos, but my heart climbs to bliss. Everything may descend toward death, but it is to life i rise. Every moment may pass by as but a breath or a vapor, but a lifetime is worth living if it is lived rightly.  It is the summation  of those fleeting moments that become something of signifigance. Whether to ourselves or to those who we brush by in the ephemeral.

It is not over. It is never over, but it is finished. Complete since completeness knew itself. It, or he, if you so please, has no beginning, no end.

Welcome, to the grandest of adventures. Only wait and see and you will think  of me as a liar and of this as my lie. Go, do, and you will know me as truthful, and this as my truth,

I would say that thoughts assault me. But smoothely they do glide over my skin. They shrink to  encapsulate and caress, they slide into place and there come to rest, not weighty but tasty, and light, filled with opposite ends of worlds, and outlines that spin dreams, of families, and futures, and cute little girls with freckles and ginger curls.
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