Some aesthetic, some anesthetic
were it my life flow, floating
through spheres by which
I conceive of the world,
Each with its gravity
and our lifelines
traced in the minds
of others. I used to live
like I was in an episode of
of Skins. Spirals move in and
out of view while I wonder how

It is known
You can never hold on to
an adventurer

and she was one

And she was gone

and he stood by the window
and smelled the
guitar she left behind,
not knowing how to play it

A girl like her
travels around the world
like a sailor and
loves many boys and men
and they never forget her

The one mistake
they all share is
trying to lock her in their
world

It’s like trying to
capture the sun’s light in
a bag and take it
into your dark house

Women like her
are responsible for
men who call themselves
romantics and write love poems
and dream

He struck the cords
of the guitar
once. Looked out
the window. Warm, sunny day.
Streets busy with children
running fast, passing by
adults who walked slow

from the violet cloud above
God stretched a
hand and passed down to him
the dagger with
a blade made of frozen ****

“Take this,” said God, “and pose
yourself at the
gates of the school. Offer to
clean the
students under the fingernails
and toenails with it.
Now go.”

He woke up when
the mongrel dog whose tail he grabbed
and squeezed and pulled
started to cry and bark
and turn to bite at his hand

He screamed and backed away from
the poor thing
and watched it run away

He looked at himself

Naked and smeared with soot
and mud and whatnot

He looked around him

The landfill
just outside town

He fell to his knees

****, those were some good mushrooms

He stood and walked
back towards the town

alone she sits
braving the intentions of the air and
the shadows within the starry night.
waiting for
the thoughts to pass her by
in the comfort of her own silence.

Its warmth apparent,
Those chill serotonin kicks
in the absence of close friends

I feel so lost
in my empty city
on a Monday night
as cool summer airs touch my brow, anxious habit
leaves my skin, and though I am not whole
I have found it again. I pass through
my old university campus
into millennium park, I listen
to Lake Control and feel this city
run though me, tethered memories
and fragments of my being, scattered
across a world I live in, and these words
I've given are all that remain of my moments,
Time spent about this town, which I share now.
I wanted nothing more
than to escape
into this

What does it mean to wander one's city,
Following paths that appears rewarding?
Where appearance is the very fabric
of our own reward pathways.
With no destiny
what determines aimless wandering?
What does my inclination collapse into the world,
What is it that our will envelopes? Our many drives
are bundled into what appears; we are carried
along a path, arbitrary or otherwise,
Only for one drive's will to be usurped
by the sweet vista, or strange nostalgia
which spoke to the whims of another.
Is there a collective unconscious, are there connections
which whisper unto our subordinates?
Something as simple as intuition or god;
Gut feeling, divine touch. Either being immanent enough
to qualify one's environment by.

The way I live, to be forgotten, but I'm still here
living all my low effort heroes.

Sometimes I get low but it's alright,
I have my heroes.

It's OK to let go. Release,
Regrow/move,

Replant your soul;

she reads out loud
the works of Shel Silverstein
between dusk and dawn
and knew a thing or two
about a tiger
and a mischievous little boy
and she could make him blush
from the inside out
yet they were never
in the same place
at the same time
planets apart
ghosts haunting different hearts
in different houses
soft spoken whispers
of silk poetry
lining the hours of longing
drifting in and out
with the moonlight
lips that only kissed
in fiction and rhyme
little white lies of lily's
scattered between the stars
sweet cherry dreams
of imagined sin
and somewhere in places
that don't exist
in times that never where
and never would be
there was a love
as only love can be
between the words
of fairies dreaming
and heavens falling
as she reads out loud
the works of Shel Silverstein