trying to find the answer,
to the universe,
when it is not a question.

trying to find peace,
solace and purpose,
but finding distraction.

trying to love
the self-loathing
and bold narcissists

trying to find god
in the fine powder
of a street chemist.

trying to find comfort
in hard people,
but finding indifference.

trying to find words
out of turned backs
and stoic silence.

trying to find the way back
when I never
even departed.

trying to find courage
and finding only,
the faint-hearted.

trying to tell the truth
when someone only asked
for a dare.

trying to find a god,
who may or may not
even be there.

And although most days
I find myself deep
in sorrow and mourning,

I would not barter one second,
trade one moment,
for anything.

The vindication of violation,
is etched in our ecstasy.
The insatiable invitation
Looks on longingly,
to be accepted with no exceptions.

Twilight tinctures transforms
to mild midnight musk
by anatomical alchemy warm
In the dark discord of dusk
Our communion is calculated.

Only hedonistic heat
can melt the polite pretense,
Our dialogue is discrete
Left in static suspense.
I dissolve into your delirium.

The intimate impalement
gives way to grotesque gratification
To cure the ancient ailment.
We ignore the implications
Of this meeting meaning more.

As I ride to robust rhythm
My ****** is chaotic
Our communion is christened
in a cry exhausted and ******.
The vulnerability is voided.

Sanguine sighs give way to
Languor in sated lust.
Sweat drops like dew
Upon my breathing bust.
The distance develops once more.

Susceptible to supple pleasures
and carnal desires.
I should be home writing and yet
I try to find my pen and paper in the night.
Ending up in the back of a van,
while hands dig around for kratom
and mouths dig around for justification.
There are so many balloons in here,
I thought it was a party.

A man tilts his head back salivating
and yet I feel unworthy of his presence.
Why did I want to be kissed?
I remember the grabbing,
pulling, biting, panting,
but never did his lips graze mine.
And yet in the ruddy afterglow,
I thought he loved my words too.

A girl spells out her dreams in ink,
her hand moving like it means to catch something
on the tension of water
and I wonder if she ever will.

I find myself sober,
and yet envy the drunk.
We each believe the other,
is not living life.
What evidence do I have,
that I am  not wrong?

Every day is Halloween,
when you recognize the costumes.

Why did my pen and paper lead me here?

I went home and collapsed in dreamless slumber.
I awoke to mascara running and lipstick stains,
a reminder that my job is to be a comedian
for the universe's cosmic giggle.
I reach inside myself for the divine,
but find tacks and taciturn excuses.

I slept for an hour but wept for a day.

Is coping the new
celebration?

The rain drops drizzling
On the aluminum awning
Reminds me of the way your hands
Would gracefully tease piano keys
And make the most beautiful sound.
A man so kind he makes heartbreak
Taste like honey and settle the same way
On your tongue,
A sweetness savored,
from a sour savior.
I sort stale feelings like recyclables,
But can’t bring myself to throw anything away.
The way your floor is littered with pens and pennies,
Makes me think of how when you arrive home,
You empty the day and your pockets onto the ground
In a most imperfect fashion
When you are alone.
A crack in the mask
And a chasm in façade.
I deserve you,
Whether that is as a consequence
Or reward,
I will never know
For so bittersweet it has been to know you.

The executioner showed no pity,
With an axe as sharp as tongue
And he guards his blade,
And the choices he made,
While maidens prefer to be hung.

He condemns the dark witches,
With a stroke swift and sure.
For he has no time,
To forgive the crime,
Of the enchanting scarlet ******.

And of all the guilty harlots,
One did catch his eye,
As she was brought to the block,
He thought of his ****,
Despite her end being nigh

As she lay her neck bare before him,
He had let down his guard,
And though he felt it was love
He put on his gloves,
And swung the axe twice as hard.

My arms were crossed,
And the stars were crossed,
So I was cross
That you crossed me
And I crossed the line.

Flowers withered
At your august speech
And at August’s heat.  

Your love is bed sores.
The clothes I’ve worn
Still adorn the hardwood floor.
And on soft, sad nights
In the dark I was sworn
to selfish secrecy.

YOUR NAME IS IN MY HANDWRITING
I have made the image of you,
I took it and made it mine own.
Your essence filtered through my view
Your old scent, but not your cologne.
I never liked the way you wrote.
Heavy heathen handwriting
Hedonist mind through spoken quote,
That will leave the body writhing
And render the soul in shivers,
Out of fear or love I don’t know
My lip continues to quiver.
And then you strike the final blow.
I find myself brought to my knees,
Though my posture is of prayer,
The cross is barren and empty,
And I find you no longer there.