Sitting at the kitchen table with my father
discussing the importance of the questions
I must ask a dying man.
He says
the answers will die with him, you know.
The answers will die soon, too.
He says,
I am the only one he'd release them to,
the only one capable of fishing out
all those repressed memories
of an only brother
who took his own life decades back.
He strains to put emphasis on a diminishing time frame
choking back tears
for the inevitable loss of his
father in law
the father he chose
whilst I'm flashing back to twenty minutes prior,
discussing his detachment from his own father by blood.
I am sitting at the kitchen table with my father
It's 1 am,
and we are now both choking back tears
discussing the questions I will ask a dying man.

Jordan gave me rose quartz prayer beads. Freddy picked me up and spun me around.

I kissed the beads and kissed my hand and blew it to the stars, over and over again.
Thank you universe, for the kind hearted people you have dropped into my existence.
Thank you universe, for the good music, the good ****, good wine, and good company.
Thank you, for the smiles, the laughs, the cigarettes, the numbers given out on backs of receipts.
Thank you for the swing sets, the campfires, the coffee and tea, the cars we drive around in.
Thank you for emotions.
Thank you for the feeling I get when someone kisses my forehead,
the feeling when someone compliments my smile,
the feeling when I notice the moon for the first time that evening.
Thank you, for the moon, the stars, the clouds, and the autumn breeze.
Thank you for the sounds, the crickets, the leaves rustling, the clinking glasses,
and the sound of small kisses.
Thank you for the snort I get when I laugh to hard.
Thank you for the bass, the guitar, the drums.
Thank you for the shouts, the soft spoken, the loud, and the whispers.
Thank you for the doors, the staircases, and the windows.
Thank you for everything that ever was, is, and will be.
Thank you for the indefiniteness of the now.
Thank you for everything.

I once read in a book, that the likelihood of our proteins folding just so to make us what we are is comparable to that of a twister rolling through a junkyard and assembling a jumbo jet.
This is something I like to remind myself daily.
It is so miraculous that we are here today to experience everything and everyone around us, and be able to document and share it.
I hope one day someone can look at my photographs and writings and feel these immense and overwhelming emotions that I feel in these moments.

My room’s a disaster, and I am positive it is a reflection of the current state of my life.
But, I mean, what do I know?
My life is nothing short of scawompus.
And by golly, let the wild rumpus begin, I shout- to the heavens- instead of taking the time to clean a few things up. Instead I linger, just oh, so fed up.
What do I know?
I know for certain I am not the only one who would rather relinquish their life story to a stranger at coffee house than to their best pal on occasion. Truthfully, that’s probably a factor in humanity’s perpetually loneliness, makes me question the reality of godliness,
But that’s another talk for another day.
I know, oh boy, I know we’re all just lonely ******,
and darlin’ ain’t nobody's life more glamorous than yours,
just step out of your head for a moment.
Because it truly is gorgeous out here, there is every reason to fear, but also every reason to simply say **** it, and lie back and enjoy the view.
But what do I know?
I know it seems askew, but the beauty lies in the few who learn to appreciate the new.
Oh, what do I know?
Oh yes, I know I am **** crazy, and **** weird. I know this because I am reminded daily by my family, friends, and coworkers, but I am also **** happy for how depressed I am.
But then again, what do I know?
Let’s be honest,
I wear my whole life on my sleeve and still, nobody ******* knows me.
And I think I’m badass. Skanking at ska shows, waking with "oh no"s, what am I doing here?
In a strangers house after a night of fun and honest to god I am still bummed.
For whatever reason, whatever I may conjure up, and I am left here feeling like i’m still floating up,
Up, up I am drifting
I am a drifter
And I still don’t know what it feels like to feel
I am a ****** to life in so many senses
My senses are unfulfilled,
But I am scared senseless of what my future holds.
And what THE HELL do I know?
I am undeniably bewildered,
Nevertheless, aren’t we all?
In that, who really KNOWS anything these days…

East, they said,
and east we went.
Onward, upward,
to what they called "The Ruins" at the mouth of Emigration Canyon
A failed building project that left nothing but a few giant curved brick walls.
We parked our vehicles and trekked up to the top of the highest wall.
Cracked open a few brews, sparked a few smokes and gazed.
We gazed out upon the twinkling lights of the Salt Lake valley.
Our view extending to every point of every mountain top creating a giant bowl of glimmering city soup.
I took a sip of my beer, a drag of a Lucky Strike,
and leaned back, my focus slowly fading from the valley, and directing itself upward to the vast sky, obstructed only by a few purple clouds.
The stars were bright and visible that night.
Maybe it was the cigarette, but in that moment I felt remarkably lucky.
The small talk, and jokes made among friends,
The beauty of everything now in sight,
and knowing how it was once nothing.
The thought of every light we could see from the valley containing people, currently living their lives,
We pondered,
How many people are crying?
How many laughing?
How many dying?
How many being born?
Reborn?
Our lives are strikingly meaningless,
And how beautiful is that?
The coyotes howling in the distance reminded us that the land was not ours to keep,
only ours to visit.
We had taken in all we could, for the time being, of an illimitable world.
We ventured downward, west,
and back to our lives,
insignificant as all the rest,
and tried to hold on the the feeling of being above it all.
Being
Boundless

Dry skin,
like wine soaked paper evaporated.
Festering, tightly wound minds.
Failed attempts at human interaction,
we coexist like cars
cooperating without concern
yet never do we touch.
Coming to terms with my cold-hearted,
cynical
insensitive ways.
I am this way,
and I don't matter.

I hope it left a scar.
Like the metal gate on the farm to my left hand as I carelessly swung it open.
Like the hard dirt and rocks at my cabin to my knee as I came bellowing off a dirt bike when I was 9 years old.
Like the surgeon's knife to my upper lip in attempt to repair my birth-given defect,
no,
not that one,
that was to clean of a cut.
I hope it cut you deep,
and the wound was not properly cared for and got infected.
I hope you picked at it for weeks before you finally gave in and let it heal, and even then
I hope the scar of me will haunt you for the rest of your life.

Do we truly inherently pursue companionship limited to one singular human?
Or has the idea simply been romanticized through generations,
allowing us to believe that from creation
we have a soul mate,
a sole mate.
I can't imagine it is my fate to be chained to one single human;
I seek growth extending much further than the arm span of a solitary being.
Nobody has all the answers,
nobody has everything.
Together, we are everything,
everyone is everything,
and everything is one.
Monogamy is dead.
The question that haunted me
ever so frequently has been resolved.
I have evolved,
No longer will I query,
who is the one?
I am the one.
We all are the one.
Everyone is
one.

Today it took me two hours
twelve markers
half a roll of paper towels
and seventeen redos
to fill a whiteboard at my place of work
Today I counted steps
in the sidewalk blocks as I walked
1
1, 2
1, 2
1
only having to backtrack and repeat
twice
Today I stood in the tiny wooden doorway
of my apartment's fire escape
for the entire duration of my cigarette
terrified to step foot on the steel grate
all for fear of the lightning in the distance
because after a brief ocular inspection
I was so certain
that there is no god ****** way this building
is up to code in that regard
Today I couldn't help but wonder
what ever has happened in my life
to once again trigger
these neurotic thought patterns
that plague me from time to time

I cannot remember who used to call me Darbels.
A dorky nickname, that somehow I adored.
I can her the voice faintly in the back of my head,
but I can't seem to figure out who it belongs to.
An old teacher, perhaps.
A childhood friend's father?
A good friend I once had?
It's driving me mad.
I am losing my mind,
and all I want
is for someone
someone
to just call me Darbels
again.

I want my chance.
I wanted to bask in the sunlight with nothing but your company; I do not seek any more than your being.
I want you to see me shine, to thrive in my comfort zone, and soar outside of it; I want to quit the chit chat, I despise small talk.
I love long walks, and you would have never even known.
I don’t want to be looked right through, like my glasses reflect you and your choices and our voices fade into our own minds and neither one of us can conjure up a way to unwind and speak of our passions, our inspirations, our fears, and not just simple the weather.
Could it really hurt to test the waters? I am sick of questioning myself; am I trying to hard? Just give me a way to measure the depth of your interest, have we sparked a match, or do see me as this cesspool of unwarranted emotions and insecurities? Because I look at you and see so many purities, but I see the uncertainty as well. Yet, I still can’t get a read on what it is behind your shell.
Show me bits and pieces of yourself, and I swear I am willing to try and piece it together, but you’re giving me nothing but pieces of alternating puzzles - yeah, I have put together an entire cloud, but this, over here, looks like the ocean and this, this is definitely part of Mount Rushmore, and I’ve no ******* clue as to where any of those pieces connect.
I don’t know why I set myself up for such failure. I want to know you, but the mystery is your primary allure. I want to know what is beneath your trademarks, the dark parts of your eyes, your evident demise, but at the same time, I am terrified. I don’t think it could shock me, I can work with outrageous. But, I don’t think I could handle finding out you were mundane; a bourgeois creature.
Alas, I am stuck in this loop, of wanting all of you, but at the same time, none of you. Tell me, how does one keep a mysterious persona?

Are you sought after, my dear?
Are you one to catch the eye of all those around you?
You're mysterious, yet vulnerable.
You are intimate, yet appropriately distant.
You're the perfect mate,
A catch worth catching.

Enthralling as you may be,
I'm left wondering...

Just when will it be my time to be the catch,
instead of the lonesome fisherman.

This city is ******* the life out of me,
in such a fast and glamorous manner.

I want to run away.
Wanderlust does not even begin to describe the extent of what I am feeling.
Cabin fever, no,
I have cabin flu.
I am coughing,
and sneezing,
and wheezing bits and pieces of my soul amidst mucus in my lungs.
I am losing myself,
stuck within the confines of every habit
and being
that has overtaken me and I have grown so accustomed to over the years.
It is time to cut ties.
Be alone, and free.
Isolation is the key to discovering the authentic me.

Sparse is the lure of a bourgeois creature.
Give me a chance to show you,
I am
anything
but.

To anyone who has ever been lonely:
We are all the same.
Tell me,
Why are we unable to manipulate this to our advantage?

Out of my league, I thought,
so desperately I would seek one's eye.
The steps I took to better myself and find myself "worthy" of the attention those like you posses
were immeasurable.
I've come a long way, seeing now that those steps taken were truly for myself.
Seems almost selfish.
Getting to know those around me who seemed
out of my league,
was humbling and uplifting.
I am beginning to see that the entire concept of being
out of someone's league
is utter *******.
We're all just people, seeking the approval of others.
Connecting with somebody isn't about rank, it is about mindset,
sympathy,
empathy,
and open minds.
Upon learning these things, the loneliness I once new was obliterated.
Yet,
an entirely new loneliness began to form.
A loneliness that seems
more
distant,
unsolvable,
and perpetual.
A monotonous loneliness, that everyone seems to carry a piece of.

I've been losing sleep
this past week or so
despite the fact I could never blame him
for the bags under my eyes
sluggish demeanor
I'd rather be up
sleepless
in my own home
despite the floorboards' creak
in a tiny apartment
with room mate silent
in peaceful slumber
I'd much rather not disturb
all noises heard
with every step
I take to the door
to inhale savory smoke
I'd rather move quietly
in my own home
because at least the cold steel of the fire escape
is soothing in some way
And although he's miles away from
the reasons I struggle to lay my head down
I'd rather be restless on my own
I'd rather be restless alone

You hit me hard, in the gentlest of ways.
Your vibe was warm, and begged me to stay.
I don't know how I drifted so far away,
Your embrace kept calling, still my mind lead me astray.

Infatuation had become the only type of love I knew.
I never thought I could leave such an impact on someone like you.

Wrapped up in my own emotions, I never even thought to ask you how you felt.
...And when I finally did, your response took me aback.
I was shocked, to say the least, to find out the extent to which you were changed by my presence in your life.
I am honored,
and humbled,
and realizing now my ability to impact those around me, the same way they've so effortlessly impacted me.

"I am really glad I met you" he said to me, completely unaware of how lost I might have been if I had never met him.

Images of pills peaking out amidst *****
lying perfectly in a porcelain nest
shining like stars in a still night sky
are flashing before my eyelids tonight.
Memories
I can't shake.
Putting all that I've got into change,
forgiveness,
redemption.
So just how many more mornings
of coffee, cigarettes, and the daily newspaper
how many more mornings will it take
for me to stop imagining my face amongst others
in the obituaries?

It's when you wake up.
It's the first inhalation of breath that brought you back to consciousness.
It's the first physical sensation that occurs,
The first thought that sparks.

It's how you wake up,
be it tangled in another's limbs,
when you kiss despite morning breath and dry lips.
Or be it promising yourself you'll get back to bed as soon as you're able,
Trying to convince yourself you're still stable, and that you'll make it through another day.

These mornings blur recklessly,
I hardly remember who I am.
I am ready to wake up feeling home again.

Writing myself encouraging notes for the morning, knowing I'll need them to get through the day;
Is it crazy to talk to yourself in 3rd person through means of ink?
I've been finding myself more neurotic than usual.
Lists and notes help.
I swear it's not a self esteem issue,
I assure you of my confidence,
But I just cannot seem to figure out why it is I've sparked interest in so many intricate and spectacular people.
I've come upon so many outstanding friendships.
Sometimes, I'll admit, I forget to remember the vast support system I've found myself immersed in.
I have the ability to soar through the day, wearing a crooked smile, my personal notes in pockets, and friendship in my heart.
I must only remember not to forget.

I am sitting here broken,
angry,
and hurt.
Your words replaying in my head over,
and over,
again.
"I just don't care anymore."
And every statement that escapes your mouth is so far beyond me,
I cannot even begin to grasp
just where it is you are coming from.
I am here thinking back to every moment we ever shared,
where I lied naked in your bed,
drenched in vulnerability,
and tried with all I had to express to you the extent to which I cared.
How someone can so easily blatantly disregard every instance of such intimacy I cannot comprehend.
And for some reason, I still wish you nothing but happiness and success,
in all your life's endeavors,
especially romantically.

My vulnerability comes as that of water from a faucet.
I cannot deny the devastating droughts I've put companions through,
nor can I deny the massive floods.
There is no certainty,
no measure,
no average
of how much of myself I may give.
The drought undoubtedly got to you, because
you took a hammer to my clogged up,
****** up
faucet,
and pounded relentlessly seeking everything right then and there.
I don't see how one could have anticipated anything less than the broken,
spewing mess you created.
Now all that's past, without a moment of regret,
but darling, the damage still lingers.
I'm sitting here broken, a leaky faucet,
that can turn neither fully on or off,
waiting,
ever so impatiently,
for some kind plummer to appear with a wrench.

Now, don't be discouraged, as for now I am okay.
I've found a fellow to appreciate this mess for exactly what it is,
I've been given time,
affection,
void of obligation.
A fellow who cherishes every drop of vulnerability,
every drip,
drop
.
drip
.
drop
.
.

A fluffy skunk scurried across my path
Startled me greatly
if he could
he would have laughed
at the misfortune of the dog owners
who's K9s startled him
to the extent he startled me
enough to make him spray
all over
his putrid stink
coating the pups
who now so badly stunk
what a maniacal skunk
who seemed as though he had not a care in the world

High highs,
and low lows.
I wouldn't have it any other way,
I dare say, I have never felt more alive.
Casual Thursday identity crises that are anything but casual,
a relentless battle with self.
Regardless, it's time to saddle up.
Get out of your car,
relinquish the cigarette smoke and anguish,
we've all got **** to do,
and so we abide.
I am biding my time to unbind my euphoria.
A moment so clear and distinct,
where it's 2 am, the coffee house is closing,
and we've still so much to say.
I am well on my way,
despite the massive lack of sleep,
coffee and cigarettes to eat,
and it's better than a five course meal.
Optimism and bliss, for an instant,
that feels perhaps, in perpetuity.
Intermittence of all that was ever felt,
in greater doses,
to feed an addiction
of high highs,
and low lows.

I know what I'm worth.
From death to birth, I'll have possessed value for self,
I will not be placed on anyone's shelf to sit and gather dust.
I will not play games,
and I'm not ashamed,
I am not here to be framed and hung on a wall.
I am alive.
Possesed with thoughts like bullets,
My gun is aimed, cocked, and loaded,
Ready to fire at a pin-drop.
I won't be dropped,
like your cigarrette butts,
chucked,
left for the wind to decide my fate.
I am worth more
than a text message
I am more
than small talk
I will not be fooled
when you tell me I am the coolest person you know,
Because you don't know me anymore than the gentleman making your coffee.
Your words mean nothing,
when used in such numerous repetition.
And I'll be ****** if you actually petition
to listen to what I have to say.
I know what I am worth,
and it is strikingly more than what you presume.

Words, so ever fleeting.
As I lie here, romanticizing memories of all bonds ever formed between myself and another person,
I realize I rarely look anyone directly in the eyes.
Perhaps those moments when I allow myself to do so
make real the emotions that've been evoked.
Words, so ever fleeting,
only moments ago I had the perfect combination of them
to describe the exact same thing I once saw
in every past lover's eyes
that exact same thing
that broke me to pieces.
Now, tonight, in the dim light of 1 am
is a montage of every spark of emotion
that I've ever evoked in a person,
first of love,
second of sorrow.
Now I wonder if I'll ever look another person in the eyes,
or if this realization has concluded said montage for good.
Who am I to seek such refuge in another person
when I can't find such solace in myself?

I want to tell our story like I thought it to be,
though I know it'd be more romantic than the reality.
There is still a part of me that wholeheartedly believes I'll never quite get over the idea of us as lovers.
Though I know that time heals all wounds, our hopeless infatuations will cease, and one day I will forget you.
I wanted to give you everything,
though I never could give you myself.
We both knowingly built our home atop a foundation bearing so many deep, deep cracks,
though we watched it crumble, together, hand in hand,
and it was so very peaceful.
You held me whilst I sobbed the moment I finally put an end to our romance.
And the kicker is, I had never felt so close to you as I did in that instance.
I loved you,
though I never told you.
And you loved me,
though we never had a chance.

It is simply not right
The way the mind can go from a state of complete
apathy
From being so far away
From not giving two ***** if the world around you
happened to disintegrate
To being so enamored with all that surrounds you
be it loved ones
or simply the feeling of fresh September rain
to the point of fear
that all that is good is fleeting
and could happen to disintegrate
in a flash
before your very eyes

I'm slipping,
gripping for dear life,
what it is I hold so close.
I am almost
almost nothing,
almost something,
someone
somewhat stuck in your back molars.
I beg to be swallowed,
I've been chewed up enough.
It has come time to release this grip,
this grip that's been all I've known for seemingly millenniums.

You were my very first memory, as far back as it goes.
Playing in the grass of the backyard, the day we brought you home.
Through the years, you became such a constant source of love.
Our long walks kept me sane, helped me find much needed clarity, for years, and years.
16 years, you were on this earth, a long, loving life.
When I met you in the vet's office for one final goodbye,
You looked up at me through foggy cataract eyes and strained to wag  your tail.
I'll never forget that last look you gave me,
so loving,
so peaceful.
You were ready.

"Don't be dismayed by good-byes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetimes, is certain for those who are friends."

Rest in peace Mocha dog.
I will always love you.

Whiskey to warm,
Menthol cigarettes to cool.
I don't ever want to leave my bed.
We are killing ourselves slowly.
We are already broken.

Insomniacs
Ain't no rest for the wicked,
But my mother says nothing righteous happens after midnight.
I don't know,
Maybe that's it,
I like being a hooligan.
I must like to feel young again.
But wait,
I am still quite youthful.
I've got a great deal time,
Too much time,
And too much on my mind.
I disregard my adolescence in the depths of my brain,
Because hours feel like days
When it's so ******* late and you're still awake.
There's so much emotion erupting from my soul, my pith.
Not enough hours in the day to contain it,
But I feel as though I can hardly maintain it.
I'm losing my ****,
I must get grip,
It's 2 am, and I should probably quit.

Swinging aimlessly at the ghost that haunts me
dissipating between fingers of tightly clenched fists

I am now stepping out of the ring to attempt to gain some ground
I've fought countless rounds in a seemingly endless match,
the score's tied
dead even
and somehow it feels almost worse than a loss

Eyes fixated on that trophy
embossed so elegantly
"Happiness"

Shake off glimmering beads of sweat,
wrap up ****** knuckles
once again I'm fixed to fight

Next round's, once again, a bust,
still steady,
we're neck and neck

Hop out the ring,
Discouraged, remain hopeful,
look closer,
the trophy reads
*"Death"

"You get this smile," he says, "one that looks like you may just ****** everyone and enjoy every moment of it, but it's cute and calming at the same time."

He says, he likes the way I wear angst, and awkward.
He displays emotion like no one I've ever known.
Lying with him is somber,
and beautiful.
Lying with him is comfortable, is home.

Every fiber of my being is screaming
Push him away

Reciprocation of his investment frightens me like needles in my spine,
I am fine
on my own.

What scares me is not being let down.
But, I could not bear to let him down
again.

Lonely was once only caring for someone, and them not caring back.
But what is to be said about having someone care for you, and being incapable of caring back?

Numb, is a special breed of pain.
But I am not giving up this time.

High risk, high reward.
Just like the stock market.
You don't always get back what you put in.

Clarity,
it seems, almost, a rarity.
These days, I find it difficult to see things for how they truly are.
Being up on this island is soothing,
the ocean, every tree, is oozing
relaxation in the purest of forms.
Island time is slower.
At an elevation lower
than 4,000 feet, I find it so easy to breath.
I'd so much love to show you
a life that can consume you,
enthrall, relax, and doom you
to never want to leave.
Run away with me, to the Pacific Northwest
I swear I'm at my best,
and I swear we'll never look back.

Smile darling, it'll all be over soon.
You will move away, start over.
You will find a lover, to keep you warm at night.
You will fill the gap with glamorous people,
meaningless possessions.
Smile darling, you can seal your sorrow in mason jars.
Keep it safe, neatly tucked in the dark corners of your grandmother's storage room.
You can leave it behind whilst you travel.
Soon enough you'll be able
to breath.
No longer will it fester, eat at you in dark hours.
No longer will you feel everything around at high volumes and slow paces.
Smile darling, because you are living to die,
no longer are you dying to live.

I am a mere spectator of the wisdom and debauchery of the world and lives around me.
Lost in speculation, my field notes are scattered and undated.
My prerogative and destination remain unknown,
I remain lost in the research.
I am still searching for some sort of certainty
in surroundings and a mindset so fickle.

When I get in these moods
I find so much beauty in decay
there is romance round every corner
in boarded up windows
in smoke rising from burning buildings
in flickering florescent light bulbs of gas station bathrooms

when will I realize, my life is not a ******* film,
a gathering of beautiful moments
be they of joy
or that of decay
no, it contains all bits of time
dark and sorrowful
thrilling and story worthy
tedious and boring
but more often than not, lacking beauty of any sort

but it is so very much like me
to focus exclusively on small details
rather than acknowledge the levity of the entire situation
how it weighs on myself
how it weighs on others

because a family once lived behind those boarded up windows,
before being served an eviction notice
and someone's grandmother's photos were lost in that fire
and the needle in the trash of that bathroom is someone's last and only reprieve from this life

I want to write
like music makes me feel.
So strong, so profound,
meaningful and free.
I wish to experience life
like a cinematographic masterpiece.
Every detail precariously perfected.
Every color, every scene, flawless.
I want to view the world
like a surrealist's painting.
Abstract, and pleasing,
Intriguing,
knowing there's more than meets the eye.

I need something to set fire to my inhibitions
so that I may run away again
void of that guilt of all I leave behind.
How can I cut ties
whist knots are still so tangled?
How can I burn all bridges without the fire consuming me?
**** it,
let's torch it,
burn it all to the ground.

I cannot be touched through your computer or cellphone screen.
Because, I am more than a profile. I am more than a few lists of music, movies, and books I like. I am more than a few cell phone captured photographs shared with “friends” most of whom we don’t even speak with. My love life is more than a relationship status. My taste is more complex than a list or two.  Our beauty cannot simply be captured and put on the internet. But alas, neither can most of our flaws. I cannot read emotion from words on the screen of a cellphone, nor can I express it to it's fullest extent. It is not real. I am a gal who must be experienced first-hand with smell, hearing, and most importantly touch. I am all I am, in person; nothing more, nothing less. Take it or leave it.