What is life without something bigger
Are we at the top of the food chain
Or just larger than life
Or to obsessed with it
These mentalities are exasperating

Philosophically speaking

We’ve barely scratched the surface
Of what is called humanity

Honestly

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud,
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is ******, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
      I am the captain of my soul.

The 21st century love,
equates a list of lust,
a games of hearts,
the legends of *****.

The 21st century love,
is a poisoned arrow,
It sets cupids on fire,
the heat of unrequited love.

The 21st century love,
puts the women in a sack,
It ***** and pounds to dust,
the lost remnants of trust.

The 21st century love,
puts the men on a pedestal,
A rotations of repentant cycles,
the ride to the very end of the pit.

The 21st century love,
is not a salvation that hits the crowds,
It has slowed and slugged us down,
to see the sand blown ****** haze.

The 21st century love,
has an impersonal high of lies,
a hay of burnt passion that fades,
an illusionary bewitched dedication.

The 21st century love,
a reaction to survive in a new world,
give the body and preserve the heart,
Keep your mind and enclose the soul.

The 21st century love,
it's a jungle of reservations,
an ace of diversity and availability,
guard your all littles ones.

There’s too much air to breathe here.
A swirling mass of emptiness heaves through the crowd’s lungs.
Stop.
Won’t everyone just *******--

Someone sings at the bus stop just outside my window.
Wires hum, ignoring the melody that person has so carefully constructed.
A hiss.
Rising steam.
An abrupt end.

Another listless night.
A beetle flies in through my open window.
It takes me twenty minutes to help it back out.

I think about wandering the forest.
But am too scared to confront loneliness, and the frailty of human existence.

There is a gap forming already.
Here.
A dialectic that seeks to sublate my very identity.
Subsume those closest to me.
Until I am completely alone.

There is a bush down the street which is in bloom right now.
I think the sun is too hot.
The flowers are wilted.
And the pavement is littered with dead bees.

Voices.
An exchange.
A language game.
Two horizons meet, merge, melt.
‘Wait--’
The horizons drop.
If only for a moment.
And the abyss is revealed.

The only universal in this world is that we are all alone.
Trapped in our own understanding.
Forever interpreting one another.

I am waiting for the day the wind carries me out the window.
Perhaps it will never come.
Perhaps I will live a long boring life amongst friends, family, and all those people I despise.
Oh well.
No point, either way.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

little dark girl with
kind eyes
when it comes time to
use the knife
I won't flinch and
i won't blame
you,
as I drive along the shore alone
as the palms wave,
the ugly heavy palms,
as the living does not arrive
as the dead do not leave,
i won't blame you,
instead
i will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room
the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.
little dark girl with kind eyes
you have no
knife. the knife is
mine and i won't use it
yet.

Love isn’t a good morning text
Or some other slanted
Minuscule gesture
It is a presence looming
Craving to capture you
Envelope you in your entirety
But here we are waiting on a rose
Or a gift
A letter
Perhaps if that’s what love has become
Then I will hope I find something better

They talk about love like an atlas
Places visited
Things done
Like love is a line between new places
And they often forget
About everything in-between
Destinations, fascinating and beautiful
But really how did you get there
What about all the wrong turns
And nowhere towns
Clear travels and gravel roads
See
Love isn’t an atlas
It is the rumble of the tires
A window rolled down
A road trip breeze
So forget about where
And ditch the map