if god is love and
god is dead then what does that
tell us about love

she rests her chin on my chest
as we lay naked
beneath sheets
knotted by affection.

the moonlight filters like silver tresses
through the blinds
on this cloudless night,
illuminating tears quivering
in the corners of cold brew nitro eyes.

as her fingers twirl
in the brambles of my beard,
she whispers, “the scars i wear
are the wounds
i carry inside.”

i push my lips against the angry stripes
in the crook of her elbow. she winces.
grits her teeth. the scars have hardly healed.
i brush my hand across her cheek
and speak truth—meager as candlelight,
but maybe enough to swallow the shadows
playing tricks inside her mind.

in forgotten eons long before
our sun was forged,
the molecules that would conspire
to give you form were born in the cores
of super giants. those same cells
floated through chasms of space-time—
billions of years—to this very moment:
with you and i entwined beneath the gaze
of a cosmos lightyears beyond.

nebulae watched, powerless,
as you suffered in a black hole
of oppression, desperate to aid,
but paralyzed by distance
and the entropy of time.

but they did not stay idle.
like some whisper of the divine,
i find some solace in the fact that somehow
dying stars put us on this planet
at the same time, almost
as if we were two photons
in perfect orbit.

for, while dying gods
couldnʼt reach out to save you,
the stars have converged
and our paths overlap.

some wounds may never heal, Beloved.
old hurts often refuse to lose their ache.
i cannot save you from the inhumanity
youʼve suffered. i cannot erase your pain.

but i can lie by your side
and ease your anxiety,
hold your body close to mine
solidarity, forever—
endlessly intertwined.

yesterday i flippantly
quipped to a friend
in casual conversation,
"i'm not a nihilist,
i'm just being
realistic."

the weight of those words
sank in today. the prospect
of the grave gave
them new gravitas.
entropy saps our vitality.
eventually, everything ends.

the best we can hope
for is to die before
those we love
leave us.

i trace your cartography with my fingertips
as the yawning sun filters through the blinds.  
your chin sits on my chest, confident, at rest.
you smirk before you kiss me, run your hands
through my hair, and whisper, “g'morning, love.”
i chart your valleys, climb your mountains, slip
into the crevasse parting greedily to admit me.
you are a new world, one i only yearn to explore,
to document, to adore. you’re built of marble,
somehow delicate, yet firm
all at once, as if you were set
into the corridors of my mind, chiseled
by divine hands. you're a relief
easing anxiety, a treasure
to cherish every morning
when i open my eyes
to burgeoning life.

a knotted rope
hangs like a halo
over my head.
hope inscribed
in fragile reveries misread.
phantom limbs entwined
inside this bed
are nothing
but a cancer that leave me
wishing i was dead.

sleeping on street-corners
awash in yellow light,
haunted by the ghosts
of twilight’s resurrected life.
pervasive city smog
smothers distant nebulae.
restless,
i claw at my own skin,
desperate for respite.

the door
is cracked and ajar,
but you don’t want me
anymore.
so sew my eyelids open,
dig your needle in my skull.
tattoo tattered fragments
of memories i can’t forget.

i prayed to god, but
the only one listening
was the NSA.

neither equal nor
free. merely prey. a morsel
wolfed down by the State.

while the donkeys bray
and elephants bluster, the
wolves of Wall Street feast.

and we are their main
course, mortal morsels on a
chessboard of happenstance.

survival? fat chance!
an American Dream, robbed
right beneath our feet.

the penalty for
refusing to acquiesce
is dire indeed.

you could very well
lose everyone you love and
all you cherish.

or you can choose to
refuse to play their game. be
the change you wish to see.

it's clear to all who
won't be blinded by borders:
we're what's for dinner.

if you don't like the
way the table is set, flip
it the **** over.

my nails keep peeling back
from fruitless attempts
at pulling myself
out of the well
i've been drowning in.
slip—six feet under
for every inch gained.

i took the plunge,
forgot my iron lungs
are wrecked with cancer.
drowning, enraptured
by rotten memories.

one moment is bliss,
next thing i know
the floor drops
like a trapdoor
beneath a gallows

and i feel the rope
bite into my throat,
tearing at my vocal cords—
a rabid wolf,
incensed by the scent
of blood and gore.

if only the highs
didn't come
with all the lows.
a rag doll
tossed about
amidst the gale,
a train that's jumped
right off the rails.

we've lost.
now there's no
going back.
we're doomed.

there’s a gap on my bookshelf
where The Deathly Hallows used to sit.
i lent you the seventh text
when you left for rehab
and haven’t seen it since.
you’ve been holding on to it for me.

the absence reminds me fondly
of the way you used to etch the wand,
stone, and cloak into my skin
with your fingertips,
searching for the pulse
thundering in my wrist.

it’s been nearly a year since I held you
on the drive up to Gainesville.
you’ve been clean now
for over five months.
like coal, you weathered the furnace
and emerged priceless as diamond.

tonight, the joy and
sorrow mingle, equal in
their tempered measure.

there is a pitter-patter
of witching hour
rainfall on the window
pane. a deep
and profound thunder,
the kind that made
our ancestors fear
the wrath
of imaginary gods,
resounds—
unfolding
across Tallahassee
hills, shaking
itself out of existence.

heat lightning
unfurls its tendrils
across a violent sky
illuminating
my bedroom
like a ******’s
spotlight. my dog
whimpers absently
in his sleep. i envy
him his nightmares.
what i wouldn’t give
to slip beneath.

late at night,
i lie awake,
and trace the lines
of moonlight flickering
through the blinds,
falling like razor-blades
severing arteries.
the shades of gray
whisper solemnly
of death
and peace.

4:00am passes
without event.
i wonder absently
what life might
be like if i felt
nothing at all.

numb
to the world
i drag behind me,
a planet wrapped
in chains wrought
by apathy and a lack
of imagination.

why
do i
so desperately
crave to save
a planet
that seems
perfectly content
to dig
an early grave?

if i should live
a hundred-hundred
lifetimes
i could die
ad infinitum
with no small
measure of joy
at a ripe old age
so long
as i never forget
your voice.

minor chords
in a haunting tone
purr from the car stereo—
late-night drive,
yellow glow
beneath interstate
street-lamps
interspersed
by passing headlights.

bound for a town
i hate, but carried
along by a firm, gentle
cadence. a vocal chord
melody coloring incessantly
outside the lines
of my psyche.

hydroplaning daydream
of kaleidoscopic color,
whispering insistently—
tempting me—to commune
with the gods and ****
the masters.
transport me
to your aurora
cosmic multicolor,
sonic wavelengths.

sun-starved flowers sit on the windowsill,
yellow daffodils wilt. petals litter
the turntable—balanced precariously beneath,
needle tilted and askew. a record spinning out of tune.

repeat. repeat the same refrain, a lyric
trapped and contained within a cage.
a melody at once profound, but it’s grown
harder to find the harmony now.

breathe in the decay, a forgotten bouquet
left alone and in the shade. a gift
better left behind, “the patient, cut-flower sound
of a man who’s waiting to die.”

dawn's rays peek like a ******
through my blinds, refracting
kaleidoscopic sunlight
through the window pane.
the succulents on the sill
reach out, needy,
craving the kiss
of photosynthesis.
motes of dust float
melancholic. detritus
pirouettes off the ceiling fan—
whispering languidly,
dancing as i stare blankly
at the space in bed
next to me. i'm sick
to death of mourning
every morning, wishing
i didn't wake up.

a toxic sludge,
sentient,
slugging towards oblivion.

drown my blood in crud.
stain every cell
opaque
with ink.

why fight
when you
already know
the outcome?

let go.

the struggle
is futile, suffering
is inevitable.
forsake hope:
we're all born
expired.

give up.

death is one
last gasp.
breathe deep.
swallow the muck.
coat my lungs
with mud.

passenger, pass away.

have you ever
been homesick
for another
human being?
for the doors
that open
like her arms
to admit you,
for the secret place
where you alone play
between her legs?
what’s a man to do
when a house
is no longer
a home
and the pangs
remain the same?

we sit amidst a haze
of marijuana smoke,
chasing esoteric ghosts
on the front-porch
of your abuela's house.
the rest of the city is asleep,
but these streets still remind me
of painful memories
i thought i'd left buried
with the ashes of the bridges
i'd burned and friendships
i'd left in tatters.

2:00am comes and goes
as you pack another bowl
and we shoot the ****
and reminisce
about the old days—
back when we were naive
and still believed in god.
how we'd sneak
through rich,
white kids' lawns
and sit at the docks,
bare feet spinning
in the lukewarm pond
as we traced the Big Dipper,
contemplating the boundless.

now we make reverse-suicide-pacts
and promise not to **** ourselves,
if only for those we'd leave behind.
we share a laugh.
there's not much else to do.
contrary to popular belief,
dawn may bring a new day,
but things won't suddenly be o.k.
and we're learning how to live
despite that fact.

black and blue,
adorned
by ugly welts
and purple bruises
the naked eye
cannot perceive.
i keep picking
at invisible scabs,
addicted
to the rush—
the self-hate
a shotgun blast
burying pellets
like tiny graves
in the remnants
of my face.

i grit tombstone teeth
and keep peeling back
sundered-earth skin—
badlands flesh,
bones of scattered stones.
stamina sapped
by anxiety's quicksand
swallowing me whole.
each line of red
remains a white-hot
and unfortunate
reminder i haven’t died
just yet.

i’d be the first to agree:
asking for help
takes courage and strength.
walking this path alone
is the coward’s way.
misery may love
company, but i choose
to stay in solitude.
i may be lonely,
but at least
i have the luxury
of making my own mistakes.

existence is the dream from which we cannot wake,
the entropy that saps our strength,
the antipathy that stokes our hate.

existence is suffering.
this is the first truth
and also the last.

existence is a terminal illness:
i suffer, therefore i exist.
the beauty of life is that it ends.

i love the way
my name sounds
every time i slip
like a song
off the tip
of your tongue.
there's the slightest
dip in your inflection,
like a whisper
you couldn't quite
bite back.
a reminder, quiet
as exhaled breath,
that i've been here
all along.

they say lightning
never strikes
in the same place twice.
an energy
the best minds
could not tame—
electricity shattering
amethyst atoms,
violent and brilliant
and free.

purple is the color of our energy.
firework flowers detonating
magenta and blueberry
at the periphery of the pages
where you spilled
your lavender blood
for my eyes only—
a display of intimacy
breathed in the quiet
of the witching hour
the first night we spoke.

your voice
resurrects.
you slice through white space
like a warrior goddess,
deft and dexterous
acid rain chaos
ubiquitous vengeance
upon your enemies—
cloaked in the raven-feather
mantle of Morrigan,
a phantom queen.

you bring death
from a thousand cuts
of your ball-point pen.

i have stood amidst the stacks
in the Library of Congress, stared
up at all the books flanking the walls.
i tried to count, once. too many,
the more’s the pity. still,
at least i found a metaphor
for the way your mind unfurls
like the pages of my favorite book—
spine cracked, annotated notes
crowding the margins, dog-eared
corners creased to mark
the contours where i stopped
to linger.

splay my gaze across the parchment,
chasing consonants left and right
and back again. encyclopedic psyche,
blossoming as i play my fingertips
across the periphery of your philosophy.
a hundred-hundred questions spill
from me like a Rube Goldberg Machine,
one inquiry triggering the other
in an endless cascade of mystery.

if i cannot shrink myself down
and lead your white blood cells
into the fray, i will remain
to stitch your battle-scars.
watch as i spin
words like thread
weaving polysyllabic,
kaleidoscopic tapestries
if only to grant you
some measure of comfort.
and if these lines
can make your heavy heart
light, then they will tumble
like waterfalls from my lips
buoy you in their expanse
until you float upon the surface
light as air, iridescent.

we exist in the liminal space
between super giants,
stretching
out between yawning suns
like rainbow ribbons—
constellations bridging
the gaps between who we are
and where we want to be.

cosmic dust
conspired to place us
on this pale blue dot
within two weeks
of one another.
we will persist
if only for the blink
of an eye.

stretched out
like an ellipsis...
a thousand miles
might as well
be a lightyear.
tell me, truly
do we trace
the same patterns
in the heavens
when we gaze
skyward?

plot a course,
trace the lines
between supernovas.
follow the star-map
to your front porch step,
hopping from one star
to another.

two quarks
oscillate in patterns—
trapped and bouncing
within the shared prison
cell of an atom.

stitch me into the contours
of your garments, play
my tongue across your eardrum
‘till you quake like earth undone,
morning dew dripping
down flower petals
in your botanical garden.

hang me in the closet
with all of my skeletons,
fit the noose over my head
and wobble beneath
the weight of gravity,
balancing precariously—
an unstoppable force orbiting
an immovable object.

“how often can you come
to the edge
before you fall down?”
draw near to me
and dare the whims
of infinity.

we'd all
assumed she'd
choke
at the last minute.

boy,
were we
fooled.

she
fought tooth and nail,
chewed through the wires
we used to hold her back.

we placed bets
on when she'd give up.
seventy-five cents
on the dollar.

and what
were we
expecting?

she
swept the house,
walked home a queen,
and shared her wealth.

we thought
she was a girl
disguised
as a monster.

but who
were we
kidding?

she
was a monster
disguised
as a girl.

i nurse a cup of lukewarm coffee
as i sit on my front porch step
and watch the storm-clouds
close like fingers tightening
‘round open throats, strangling
sunny spring without so much
as a moment’s warning.
Florida rains
can come instantaneously—
blundering suddenly, unbidden
and entirely unwelcome.
the thunder sounds
of dolorous doom
as gloom returns to smother
the afternoon in its shadow.
lightning bolts jolt
me back to earth,
ripping me unceremoniously
from languid daydreams
of you and i camping
in the wilderness,
traveling cross-country
in a beatdown Jeep
with nothing but joy
to keep us company.
i empty the mug
in overgrown grass,
swiftly turn my back
on black clouds coalescing.
today, i fear i cannot bear
to watch the world weep.

i know no bliss like getting lost within
the endless expanse of your genius.
trace the chasms of space-time
right to their origins: a big bang
rupturing split atoms, sending
every ounce of matter cascading
into the blossoming cosmos—
spiraling outward for all infinity,
unfurling like the petals
of some intergalactic carnation.
i cannot fathom a better metaphor
for the majesty of your psyche.
you are the monastery where i seek
solace from this miserable existence.
i could stand amidst these hallowed halls,
stretching out all around me,
admiring the stained-glass windows
set like so many precious stones
for all the days of my life
and still come away dumbstruck
by their effortless incandescence.
let me bend back the pages of your brain
like my favorite book: well-loved, highlighted,
and fit to burst with the scrawling pen
of my annotations. feed me, Dark Strider.
nourish the broken bits of my spirit.
wild and free, unbowed, unbent—
you answer to no one. you deserve
nothing more and nothing less
than a thousand-thousand poems
written to commemorate your existence.
you are an encyclopedic library displayed
in kaleidoscopic multicolor, i want to drop acid
and wander, psychedelic,
through your neurological pathways
from this day until my very last.
if i could, i would fold this world
like a map to bring me closer to you.
you incite deathless joy
and take away the pain.
your mind is the cathedral
where i finally find god.