What has become of us
Amidst the hustle and bustle of city life
When did evolution condone us to regress into a state
Of uncalculated caucus
As we meander our way through the rapids of life

Rapid
Is hardly a best-fit descriptor
For we are past the point of speed
We mill around like headless horses
Buzzing bees
Stinging roaches
Fallen leaves
Roaring lions
Try to lead
But fail
Like cottons fighting breeze

Is this all we are?
Is this what we were made for?
To quickly climb the climb
And await the graceless fall
Parachutes prepared for praise
But our pride prevents and prevails

Till the day I climb the ladder
Shall I not attempt to see
What the view at the top might be like
I fear it enthralls me
But then reality strikes like a maddening blaze
And suddenly I see
That I'm well on my way up the hill
As I swing from bridge to bridge

Is this the way to live?
Uncautious steps with kleptomaniac ease
As we take what we desire
From our capitalistic divider
Though we hate to be the same
Not at all do we differ
Are we not all blinded mice
With a tetra-human vice
Spiders apt at spinning lies
Banking life on Friday highs

All around me boring beasts
Lost to whims, to say the least
What I fear most is the day
I give in and join the race
Is the day I eat my heart out
Just to enjoy the highest gaze

Till then here trapped in the zoo
Enclosure encasing truth

Finding fault with every human till the day I conform too

The Unknown Desert
This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

This area has some secrets some are unaware of here is a list first material items black sand apples that contained milk and the same grasses that grows along the coastal highway in California and sea gulls and chipmunks just like those found across the Golden Gate in San Francisco in The great conservationist John Muir’s stand of Redwoods. Then a black desert a jungle a secret pass a tunnel under the railroad right next to the place where it snowed all year round and Miss America undiscovered though.

We will start in order with the black sand this was the purist black crystal regular sand not so much
Ocean beach sand has a lot of powder content this you could scoop up hands full let it do that small
Wonder usually reserved for hour glasses gently cascade out soothing as it escapes whatever had it
Bound not being involved with the Spring Side mine in a professional sense I can only guess but like the
Mighty mountain of slack that stood as a giant discard pile to the mine operation this sand now it comes
To mind it had to be a pulverized cast off type of coal dust. They had a show one time that delved into
The byproducts of coal defiantly not as tasty or wonderus as the finds produced by George Washington Carver
From what he referred to as the lowly Peanut this will lead us into the Black Desert mentioned this was
The far end of the Spring Side mine to the east along the rail road right of way Why an artist never
Painted this I guess as spoken it was unknown Donna even missed it with her camera but it truly was a
Miniature desert with the same vistas but all contained within a quarter mile the long open stretch
Comparable to a large pond bordered at the edges by dunes with these grasses found along the coast I
wonder did someone while traveling harvest some then bring them and transplant them whatever they
Thrived and had the same pleasant effect not only on the eye but the soul it was always filled with the
Quietest hush our smallest land of enchantment Georgia O Keefe would have found it matched the
Dream shapes of New Mexico only thing missing were the flowers and sculls everything else was right
Here in your very own back yard it also was a bird sanctuary and the chipmunks still scurry about on this
Now lost dream land gone just like the native tribes the I lone the Sack, Pawnee, Potawatomie’s and the
Greatest tribe the Kickapoo bet you didn’t know this used to be Black Hawk hunting ground.
The milk apples not too big of a thrill unless your six and you look across the small pasture just out in
Front of homer’s Barn was their house Miss America undiscovered lived there I know beauty she didn’t
Walk around and she wasn’t at black desert but she shimmered just like a desert princess she could have
Been covered in coal dust it wouldn’t have mattered it would have looked liked gold dust if she had an
Native American name it would have been trance maker when she came outside the rest of the world
Stopped all activity except the part of paying her homage she was so humble she killed me if they had
Those portable oxen units back then I most likely would have been dragging one around in one of those
famous little red wagons she left me breathless then like a great devastating storm the news crossed the
Yard and ally she was getting married well what should you do probably not this but this is for everyone
Who has loved a living dream then fate oh blackest fate thy name was Richard comes and steals the
Most precious living one away I just went to say goodbye outside her bedroom window that wasn’t
What the girls that were to make up her wedding party heard a mix between a Irish Banshee and a small
Calf tangled in barb wire in a terrible storm would come close as you can expect someone finally said
What is that the answer the little neighbor boy did she close the window no she sealed my feelings for ever by her action of mercy, I don’t care I passed into the far
Reaches of agonies domain but I looked up from the ground where I was laying soaked in tears there she
Was kneeling beside me these fifty six years I have never laid down this torch that almost consumed
Me that night new tears now join those of long ago she touched my convulsing body and spoke I think
From that carving so deep in my heart when death to innocence was complete the poet in me was born
She even has spoken where does the depth come from don’t you know you looked into the cavernous
Abyss that lost love created I spoke of her in three lost loves and endless rails I told her someday I will
Make her famous I’m still working on that promise the apple with milk was an old green knobby hedge
Apple good descriptor for my heart after leaving her presence that night her earthly name is Eileen I call
Her summer’s night angel.

The pass was the space between the sugar creek creamery and Longwells Pana hotel sorry it was cool to
Cut through there and we lost another young prince when Pat Longwell died he was one of the first to
Color his hair he had the air of a beet nick he just didn’t do the lingo you instantly loved him he was a
True friend he owned the name cool the snow that snowed all year wasn’t cool but it snowed those
White feathers all the way to Wadley’s chicken processing at the end of commercial alley past the
Monument company how apropos for all the chicks that said there final Farwell the tunnel was there too
Under the railroad you walked down through it on stones that kept you out of the small amount of water
That trickled through go in and then pop out on the other side or get the thrill of the train rumbling over
Head. Thats your trip through this unknown hope you enjoyed the trip my only wish is that I could type faster.

only dead boys hold insects like they're something
special
only a dead boy would let a mantis in his heart and
preying was always a better descriptor
because hymns burned in my throat and
i scratched a cross into my palm but i was never lucky enough to scar
but
oh, dead boy
bug lover
enduring a thousand lashes to save the soul of a beetle  -
i'll help you peel off all your scabs to make sure they scar
thick tissue skin memory sometimes you think scars are the closest you'll get
to a wedding ring
you're a suicide king i think a kingdom of hearts was never the safest place for you i
don't think you understand the way your subjects' hearts are strung because
entomology entomos everything you love is cut to bits
and on the fourteenth of february you told me
the only purpose of a flower
was to hold
a spider
inside
and i guess that was why you painted all your walls with roses i
hope your garden  smells as sweet
covered in your misfortunes
only a dead boy would let
a praying mantis so close
to his neck
oh, you freak. disgusting.
i ate the last one that let me this close.
you told me {if i die
leave my body
in the forest
by
an anthill}
maybe you don't realize we were doomed from the start or maybe you're just naïve but
honey you're a dead boy and
corpses don't fall in love.
[you're so genuine it hurts and i think
i could teach you how to be a fake -
nobody likes an honest man
i could teach you how to hate the world but you said

{the only one
i hate here
is me}]

freakish child.
all you see in every rorschach is mantes and
decapitations and
wedding rings you are an aberration,
suicide king entomologist your throne room
was full of termites.
with hallowed cheeks and hollowed churches,
i will assure that you scar
dead boy, if you die
i will put maggots
in your chest

as a poet in conversation,
"good" doesn't seem good enough;
any other descriptor would be much
more satisfying:

delicious.
rich.
magical.
stirring.
great.
tasty.
de­cent.
exceptional.
creative.
pretty.
please.
anything.
else.

I felt with one hand in your depths--
fathomless!--for an emblem, an anthem!
No other time but then
did every bright vestige touch my fingers
to be held close,
and now,
and forever!

Only later when I moved to breath did I find
I’d come up with only,
handwritten in ballpoint:

“Mahogany: A color which
may or may not have been
a precise descriptor of your sweater.”

It must be an interloping loyalty that grieves me,
as you claimed never to have been
a sensualist.
Yet you brushed my temple with wasp-nest lips!

How sad that your echo exists thus, solely thus;
It is, I think, a paltry token
of a transcendence so complete
that, for once, I did not ***** for color,
but had it kissing
my cold hands.

Originally coined in response to Phanerothyme  [manifest & spirit],
Psychedelic  [mind-revealing] is etymologically derived from
the Greek psychē and dēloun. Psychedelia is music, culture, or art
based on the experiences produced by psychedelic drugs.
(Cyberdelia is immersion in cyberspace as a psychedelic experience.)

Some peoples feel there is a spiritual dimension to these experiences
and as such have developed a suitable terminology to reflect this view:
Entheogen,  [generating the divine from within]
denotes "a generator of spiritual experience", from
Entheos  [god-within], meaning
full of the god, inspired, possessed.
A spiritual experience is defined by its significance
to the host/subject. Entheogenic has been posited as
an alternate descriptor of "the psychedelic experience"
(in lieu of hallucinogenic) though this is a subjective term.

The Psychedelion is the analytical dimension of the psyche,
The part of the mind through which information is analysed
and thereby assigned meaning which is therefore significant.
Psychedelos is the existential manifestation of said dimension,
It is expressed through the medium of a language.

Absurdus  [out-of-tune] is the nonsensical dimension of the psyche, a part of the mind comprised of uninterpreted data, proportionate to our own limitations rather than lacking in "actual meaning". If a noumenon cannot be processed in The Psychedelion then it is consigned to Absurdia wherein we accept the inability to understand/rationally analyse it at present, given the current context.

Entactus  [touch-within] is the physical dimension of the psyche, the part of the mind through which sensation is perceived and remembered. It is responsible for the conception of our body and it's senses.

An Aeon Dissociative negates Entactus to deduce Absudia.
A Seraphic Deliriant posits Choler to induce Absurdia.

While watching Nick Jr.
At 3 AM,
I realized,
That I should comply,
the best word out there,
the one most up to date,
top of the line,
descriptor of how I view this,
that a person,
On that personal journey,
Has the ability to take things,
as they come,
The right to comply and accept,
subtle resistance,
sparks make in the dark,
or complain and argue,
With our fair lady Reality,
Our comfort zones snug in the couch,

Softening our undersides,
cradling our egos,
tingles of nostalgia tickle the nostrils,
A temptation of non-timelessness,
Themes have evolved,
While evolving the themes decreased,
Sensation dwindled,
Mankind found daily interaction difficult.

Rallying in treasured desert halls,
Painted absurd pink propaganda soliloquies,
Fill the hall,
Shut the door,
See it all come down,
The exhaustion,
The living nights,
Scarred Skies,
Makeshift holes of the soul,
Realign and try,
For the love of God; try,
Better that your tethers are secure,
It makes the construction workers,
Safe; all up there,
Cold as can be,
Shivering at 100° desolation,
moving like creme statues,
Up there,
That tie to the platform
Preserves the sonder,
That fact that,
Someone is up to what they are up to,
Paranoia shouts find out,
Passivity says let it be,
midsentence it all makes sense,
tat the net of being,
flies along the bleating radar,
the seismic adventures of man,
Trampolines collective consciousness,
Floating together in the void,
Finding our footholds,
our tethers,
they are our feathers,
ironically,
the bonds that
caress in segments,
the grand confusion of time,
the singing buffoons in the void,
the crazy madmen we all are,
daily psychosis pills,
Excrement recipient,
that moment to moment,
preservation of existence,
Seems everything is going to hell,
in a hand basket,
yet the cave blares within,
a source of nihilistic capitalization,
Banging infants in Foot Lockers,
It should outrage,
All that progress is accomplishing,
segregation,
The isle of a certain strain,
The mental stimulants are similar,
they age appropriately,
it is comparative,
that we all understand,
Complying,
Sizing up and making the gentle leap,
In the wake it wouldn't mind,
if the time was right,
when you're ready,
then the exchange may happen,
A future can be fathomed,
Braving the Unknown's womb,
Past and present collide,
They lie,
Side by side,
like tin soldiers in the mud,
Anguish,
What fortune lies on our sidewalks,
What can be said,
About O so crazy madmen,
As they contort in the Unknown,
What is the amount worthy,
Assessed in some lab,
Looking down the lens we'd assume,
Kerouac atoms abound,
the Samsara principle,
of all them principles and none,
because we fraternize,
we tempt the fates,
Gerald said,
We exist in the scripts,
we sing on the shows,
we don't accept or comply,
we should look around,
and see Others,
A renouncing of old habits,
Don't call me a Dadaist,
*******,
I'm into the  primitivism,
in respect to our attention span,
we have a grip on ourselves,
almost,
Fatalistically we are born on the,
crest of a wave,
eternally throttled by chaos,
when the wave sank its teeth,
into the sands of the immediate generation's side,
That reins are there,
Now more than ever,
I guess we are too far gone,
That's what those fanatic fatalists think.

they describe the Great White shark as the ultimate killing machine
when it is the descriptor who really fulfils that statement
Man and his killer shadowed heart hiding in plain sight
desperate measures usually end up with corpses stacked high
and there is no other animal more desperate than Man
a territorial fear spreading nonsense believing fool to his own breed

who are you really?

who are you once you are stripped naked,
beaten and hung in front of everyone you have ever had an idea of loving?

who are you when your name sticks in your throat like hot tar,  makes you choke and drown in dry air?

who do you think you are after every descriptor has been smashed at your feet
on the barbs of yourself you never wanted to uncover?

what would you have been if you had never seen a mirror?
would you love yourself more;
would you see yourself better?

what will happen to you when the world ends, but still keeps spinning, and all you have is blood and ***** spilling from your mouth?

who would you be without the walls of words that you have built to keep your soul from splitting out the seams of your body?

if nothing in your life had ever mattered, would you be what stands before you now?

i despise being pigeon-holed.
seeing myself through the circular looking glass
having one singular personality trait
based solely on my physicalities and class.

cute.
that's my descriptor
has been since I was a child
but I would walk miles to escape that word.

i am as multi-faceted as a kaleidoscope
i need no rope from another to pull myself
from the ashes of my failures

do not question my abilities because I have the eyes of a doe
or the body of woman.

i can move mountains with my hands and create worlds with my fingertips
hours of song can escape my lips
riddles and mathematic equations lay not in my hips
but in my mind.

i despise being pidgeon-holed
for my worth does not equate to my weight
and the space I'm allotted on this Earth does not count my appearance as a deciding factor
my strength as a human being does not relate to my gender
so you need not distract her
for she has goals ranging up to the sky
and down to the bottom of the sea
I am a woman and I will be free
of being pidgeon-holed.

I have been my own castigator far too long,
I have beaten myself up for my misdoings,
And rightly so but no more!
What matters is not the man I have been,
It is the man that writes these words,
It is the sorrow regret and repentance
In my heart that matters now,
More than that,
It is my actions moving forward,

For I am no more a monster or an ****,
Or other descriptor of how I was,
I am now just me,
The real me,
A man inherently decent; back in integrity,
A man who loves,
Oh dear Lord GOD how I love!
And just one Lord and one lady there
For all eternity,

I am a solid man with love and strength and skills,
A man who pours himself into the help of others
Often un reported and usually un remarked
Yet effective all the same,
And this man no longer needs castigation,
There is no more point nor place in it,
He needs love for sure
But more than that he needs
Permission to love

Permission to love and see that love accepted
Treasured and valued,
Permission to be someone's person and them mine,
Love is what we all are born for,
Not hate or anger revenge or retribution,
Why **** a man or his love "just in case"?
Be ready to react if it fails but
For my part it will not fail,
I will not fail,

Not this day,
Not tomorrow,
Nor any other day,

I could write something about not being able to find the right words
I was honestly planning on it,
I'm not so good with language
for someone who calls himself a poet

nevertheless, I am a believer in definitions
and surprisingly enough
I like words

I dress everything up in adverbs and poetic devices
still,
usually the things that make me happy don't make very good poems

although I'd still like to try for you

immortalising this feeling in any descriptor I can pull
out to describe it

I like making things pretty, especially with words
like I make myself look pretty when I know I might run into you

on the off-chance that you might notice
I sparkle when I see you
it's not just the glitter, either

I'm not wearing any blush, it's all natural

there's this thought in my head
a foreboding that it might turn bad

just like I might **** you off so bad that
I start to look more appealing to punch than the drywall

having said that, it doesn't really matter,
I'm always scared

you wouldn't hurt me like that

I trust you enough
to fall asleep next to you
because I know I won't wake up with knife marks

I trust you enough to be vulnerable, to be mentally ill

to tell you,
I'm not a normal kid
I'm not healthy

but know that you're not just an extension of my recovery

you're not my ego-boost machine
or a stuffed toy for nothing but empty affection

I really like you
the things you do,
the way you talk so posh

I want to be with you
the way you are with me,
the way you're so sweet and patient

I want to be better with you
to not be so much

don't misunderstand,
I don't depend on you

I can breathe on my own
and my heart doesn't stop when you go home in the morning

but I'd much rather sync my heartbeat with yours

and rest my pretty little head on your chest while I fall asleep

it is unique to us
(pontification)

the way in which animation
attaches character to absence-
(coincidence)

how song compels memory,
and how specks shift to color.
(abduction)

Today, like other days,
I lay in result.
(in a tomorrow I will rest inside an Eonothem,
reborn in unconformity)

and think of how
(felicity)

Extremophile
is used as a descriptor for organisms
that can fold proteins efficiently...
(method)

and I am rutted in stone,
but I love lava all the same.
(human)

7/16/2020

You sat down to think,
To find the perfect word,
A word that defined your worth,
But the only word that came was weak.

Physically, mentally, spiritually,
In selflessness, in love, in all.
Feeling short but looking tall,
But ease comes so difficultly.

Your life identifies as a struggle,
Disasters fill your memory.
Even light things aren’t feathery,
Things the strong lift with a chuckle.

Weak can’t be your descriptor,
There has to be a better one!
Walking from here to there – feeling done,
Waiting for your heart to feel a stir.

Could you say that you are bold,
When you run from discomfort?
Will your good be remembered,
Or will the bad prevail, becoming old?

If you don’t find a better identity soon,
You’ll fall down and never recover.
I’d only you hadn’t blown every buffer,
If only you hadn’t entered that room.

But God is your loving Father,
He owns the cattle on a thousand hills.
He’s just waiting to fix your ills,
To give, and give again is no bother.

His love is the only comfort,
His grace covers your cancer,
His justice frees your anger,
His blessings are unnumbered.

He replaces your short-sighted desires,
His plans are a sure promise.
Accept him and turn from hardness,
Focus on Him, put on your blinders.

His blood flowed for you,
And his life covers yours.
His strife opened a door,
One with a joyful view.

You are a child of God, don’t forget.
Though you are truly weak,
God brings you to a new peak.
He loves you, and that’s not a threat.

God is a listening ear,
When all ears are closed,
God is the one who knows,
When others steer clear in fear.

Now, what defines you?

mamma says i am mindless as i unintentionally
clutch a cart that's not ours at the grocery store
this is true: my mind is everywhere
but the right here, the right now

she gives me $10 folded neatly to
hand to the apparently homeless
hijab-wearing lady camped by the carts

this is unlike her, not that she is heartless but
that hoover's ideal of rugged individualism resonates
strongly in her bones because she never got handouts
in the land of opportunity

still, her eyes are soft and urgent

i walk with apprehension and anxiety
prickling red-hot at the nape of neck
trading my own cart for the quarter
it swallowed as deposit

i hand her the folded bill
her sign, paraphrased, beseeches shoppers
in bold black strokes to spare money for her
and her two children, because she is
struggling to make ends meet

and with honest eyes and the smile of a person
worn down by suffering to only the hope
safeguarded in their soul
she asked that god bless me

that god...bless...me...
and i think silently to myself
what a pretty sentiment but
god affords no amnesty to animals
no, animal would be too kind a
descriptor for someone whose
depravity transcends the slavering
maw of a beast, who sings sin like lullabies
who eats, toils, *****, sleeps, eat. toil. ****. sleep.
subject to the primal algorithm that governs all
(and who are we to question it?)
cyclic, chronic, certain, this is the hill we climb,
the lackluster boulder we shove over and over

uvalde shooting, ukraine war, uiyghur genocide
i imagine the pacific, aided by polar snowmelt,
reclaiming tuvalu for itself
i imagine bodies overtaken by plague
spilling haphazardly from the
morgues of new york city
i imagine streets shrouded in tear gas and
littered with rubber bullets punctuated by
cries of "rest in power"
there is no purpose to parse from parsimony

even now, i try and say what is on my mind
in as few words as possible
as if with their utterance, i come closer to the grand reveal, the cutting of the ribbon, the fraudulent reality of joshua peter put on display for the world to pick apart and devour

i don’t think my friends understand that
i feel less than human in their presence
because since childhood, i knew if nothing else, i was endowed with mediocrity as my birthright

i implore those i love to leave, stop reaching out
if conversing with me ever becomes a chore
i ask in earnest because the last thing
i want to be is a burden, an outstanding box to tick on a checklist
i ask but i fear their response

it’s okay, no really, it is! i understand!
you don’t have to acknowledge me
i know sometimes i get a little caught up
in the irony, the asyndeton, the metaphors and similes i wear religiously like foundation…
this self-aware narcissist knows that the
optimism in his coffers is draining faster than can be replenished by a loveless world
the law of the new world order is nihilistic globalization, yet he is
nothing without his -isms and his -izations
and his holier-than-thou judgement

is it not a sin to bring a child into a world that will never love them as they love it?
this heartbreak…shall not pass like the rest

i plug every crack and orifice in the façade with splendid disaster:
college apps, some new recipe, a half-finished composition that’s been on my desktop for four years, calculus and physics, oh! a new hobby, anything oh anything to keep me from feeling distrac–

*rajiv surendra tells me that making my bed can help depression