I should be thinking about you
but I am thinking
about inevitabilities.

Like how my dog's life will end before mine.
And how my heart isn't even beating half the time.

Maybe it would be better to relax our grip.
take our eyes from the sky
feel the string slip

There's biology and there's sociology and there's
plenty
of other people out there, man.

and

We'll pop
either way
or deflate
someday.

Finishings can be
The hardest part
In these final steps
All the craftsmanship
Has already occured
The finishings are
Mere inevitabilities

You must
Come to terms
With the idea that  
Perfection is a
Necessary goal
Precisely because
It is unattainable

You must reconcile
Yourself to failure

It's not perfect
You have to make
Your peace with that

How?
Well..
You lay out
Your tools
And you
start again

let's cut to the chase.


stagger through barely unlocked doorways
tripping off jeans over still-tied shoes
falling onto unmade beds, a mess of belt buckles and baffling buttons

scrambling hands and hungry mouths
exploring every surface within reach

teeth tugging, hair pulling, air- gasping

I want you to want me so badly you forget to breath.



collapse into covers, inviting embrace.
but make no mistake,
boy, let's cut to the chase.


we know where this stumbling, tumbling, fumbling leads.
and it isn't marriage ceremonies.
or happy endings.



inevitabilities.


soon, distance will destroy this life we both lead.


but why would I lead a life of misery
when I can have what is sitting right in front of me?


each second lost, is resolve gained
perhaps if we pretend you're not leaving, nothing will change.




. . . if we can just tell ourselves, May will n e v e r come . . .
                   . . . winter will n e v e r  end . . .
                          



if ignorance is bliss, and there is no escape...
let's lie to each other; let's lie to ourselves.


let's not waste our time; let's cut to the chase.

Of course, you have never considered yourself to be edible! You are probably the most valid being in that tree; not a single one of those thousands feel it like you do.  And why do you feel pleased at them? Is it uncontrollable attraction or perhaps profound admiration?
You don’t understand how this vast community shields you, enabling you to pursue your purpose.
Eating, breeding and avoiding inevitabilities. Do you even belief in death?  Usually, it’s sudden in the moment when terror paralyzes you. And what does one feel at that moment; Fear, regret?  Rarely peace.
Perverted isn't it?  How grief will consume them when you do not return home. Will they search for you periodically? Before continuing to eat, breed and avoid being eaten; repressing their deep sadness forever. What can one do but slowly decay?

The song played-- muffled, hesitant,
As if the tabletop jukebox
Seemed unsure of the tune’s suitability,
As out of place and time as ourselves,
It being Wednesday morning three A.M.
At the all-night diner on the Klondike Road
(The mills, going full-bore down the road in Montmorenci Falls
Making such a place viable, indeed necessary),
But we laughed loudly and nonchalantly
Between bites of nearly adequate cheeseburger,
Ostensibly unaware of all those inevitabilities
Which were tangible but unspoken, indeed unspeakable,
This being the last of the last summer not careworn,
Textbooks to be exchanged for neckties,
Plastic sandals swapped for sensible flats,
Other lives to take flight in other places,
A mere handful of evenings remaining
Before the clumsy process of untying
All that which had been loose ends from the beginning.

Would I go back?  In a sense, it does not matter.
There was always a laundry list of reasons
That it could not be, cannot be, will not be:
Irreparably meshed gears of relocations and reconciliations,
Gordian knots of logic and desire.
Still, in my dreams, I often run like a madman,
Chest burning as my sneakers slap the pavement in the darkness,
Back toward the diner, but it has been razed to the ground
(Likely the case, for all I know,
What with the mills silent and padlocked all these years)
And I paw madly, feverishly through the rubble
In search of some remains of those vinyl chanteuses of love songs,
Those epitaphs of our failures,
Those three-minute odes
To our compromised and conditional successes.

Today,
I stay and reflect.
Like the mirrors floating on a pond, wandering in focus.

At times I am hopeless, distraught, and dazed, pondering.

I'll stop you there, you sad, beaten man.
Do you feel the seas trod upon you, drown you and let you swim further, and further just to regret, forget why you even began?

The shining at the deepest depths is merely a mirror to self-reflect,
to pay respects to what you wish you were.

Did you forget why you're here? Because, in truth, I never forget what I never knew,
why the sky feels the need to fall in disrespect, all upon your war-torn shoulders,
buckling under that very sigh you set free when you realized you're the traitor here, as you just get colder.

varied sighs sing you lies of peace,
poor Icarus, he tried to fly, to plead the sun, to chase infinity.

Do you truly seek peace? You try to run yet create your own inevitabilities, seized by your own dreams. With these ****** knees you've built yourself. Scorned by warnings of your self fulfilling prophecies.

You said so yourself.

First,
find what you need,
then perhaps your ever elusive peace may come,
and bring you to your knees,
to drown in seas of relief.
The war is not over,
Just another day.

Last ditch attempts and descents without grace.
Darkness was diffusing into ambers. He’d been deteriorating for a while now, slowly, abruptly, and then with the fall of the summer months completely off the other end of the scale. He’d felt it in adrenaline coursing through his veins, known it when spilled liquids seeped into carpets that weren’t his own. But this was it. He faced the final breech of his own standards, or what was left, with bare feet, exposed eyes, all the while knowing he was corrupted.
He had brought himself inches away from a descent, drawn himself through the chaos, grasped his gnarled hand around what had held him back, and pulled, pulled his own cold body from the lifeless thud on the floor, pulled himself here, and now his toes curled over the edges of what had been his life.
Gathering the last vestiges of his age and time, Bram stepped forwards into unfilled air. Foot first, the ground drawing closer; he watched the atmosphere fly past in kaleidoscope. Like all inevitabilities, the moon extinguished the sunlight, both knowing their places elsewhere.

it’s the kind of day
that makes your
jaw ache and the
soreness settle in
even the youngest
of bones

(“rainy days and mondays
always bring me down”
but rainy mondays are
guaranteed to be worse)

i worry too much
care too much
cry too much
think too much

it’s about time
to start thinking about
what happens when
seasonal depression hits

about time to start
making plans for
the rest of my
everloving life

it’s hard for me
to make plans
hard for me to
admit that maybe
my life won’t always
make me miserable

i struggle with
feeling powerless

watching those around
me suffer
trying every day to make
someone smile

and then one monday
picking up a paper
and seeing that one of those
smiles is no longer with us

nobody tells the barista
and they tell me it’s hard to find
out someone you know has died
by looking at a work ticket

but i’m just the girl who
makes your coffee and
wraps your bouquets and
no matter how much i
truly genuinely care about
each face in this town i know

at the end of the day
i have to face that
nothing can change
the inevitabilities

that nothing i say
can really help
the world will still
turn without me
like it turns without
others who are gone

i know i sound
pessimistic
i’m sorry
it’s just a rainy
day or monday
getting me down

Winding fingers,
Weave the thread,
That wrap me so comfortably in my fears,
Embracing.

Mould my mind,
Shamelessly encrypting my thoughts, Through and through.

Grown to shapen my impersonality,
Both for my lack there of,
And my tenancy for the impersonal.

Yet how,
Should be such a bond to my pains,
An Introspective perfection,
Or am I?

Or is that just my guise,
Impersonality guide my imperfection,
Interspective shapes my imperception.

Impossibilities in my inevitabilities.

I am.
Imperfection.

We burn like meteors:
Hot, fast, and bright
Screaming through the atmosphere
Hearts afire, souls alight
Each trip
One small skip for heart,
One giant leap for meteorite.

But there are two inevitabilities:
Time, and with it, gravity.

We break apart
Losing light
We extinguish
Losing sight
But after it's over -
After you're gone
I'm still
Euphoric.
High.

Replays shooting through my mind -
I'm starting to suffocate on oxygen.

Then I desperately search
For a laugh, or a sound,
Hoping a new voyage
Soon will be found
Grasping at wind
All the way down
Just a stone in thin air
Plummeting to the ground.

The common desire to define ourselves is defeaning and my ears are ringing. I'm searching for the foundation of the sound, the definite core where I grow from the ground. I have the power to water my basis but instead I let the impression of myself through anothers biases dry up and dust away. I'm kicking rocks below my barefeet, hoping that when I spread and share my air the opinions of who surrounds me wont pollute it to the degree where I can no longer breathe. And now im rocking back and forth in this creeking wooden chair, the roots of relative minds rested below me reminding me what was once there and whether or not something tangible will result when the inevitabilities of life chop me down and leave me bare.
So I guess until tomorrow, or a week, a month, a year, I'll disintegrate into the soil before any of my peers and it won't hurt so bad to be left alone when I know their roots above still continue to fully grow.

i have them, i wake up the next day,
fiddle about with it, and realise
in an instant: i'll not honeysuckle
anything out of it -
yet another day in the sahara -
    you only really experience a writer's
block once you've written a lot...
and yes, the mediocre moments
in a "career" do happen,
   but as any stepping-stone moment -
******, better hop from stone
to stone, until that one perfect moment
arrives, and steals you away,
on something akin to travelling to the giza
pyramids...
    mind you: it's unbelievable that only
the eiffel tower overshadowed the giza
pyramids, so many centuries later...
  staggering.
        that aside, it's no wonder that
poets always extend their ambition into
writing the prosaic -
   the would be proselytes -
  who, in most instances:
  do not have the stomach to churn out
mundane narratives -
   and senseless dialogues -
the problem with poetry:
   the expectation to always write something
profound;
i'll never write a novel,
simply because it's not that i aim
at writing something profound every
single sentence...
  it's that i cannot write the piece of meat
of mundane narrative in the medium
of the in-between of finally considering
a profound citation point...
so much of novel writing is idle
chit-chat... so much is filled with the in-between
of said effort,
    not that great poetry always says
great things, but when i look at virgil,
or homer, i find that poetry was: once
upon a time - driven by a narrative...
modern poetry? a complete lack of, narrative,
then again the technicality bewilders me
to never adhere to it...
          did i visit a psychiatrist for jokes?
i sure did...
   i once even managed a stealthy glance
at the notes referred to a g.p.,
what did they reveal?
      a) biting your nails
     b) keeping eye-contact
and
       c) fidgety feet, not imitating drumming...
that's it!
   psychiatry is still oh so barbaric
compared to other branches of medicine...
most people do not believe in
psyche-cogito complex in that: they do not
believe in a soul, but i dare you to ask anyone
who has experienced the osmosis: trickling
of a soul into anima via psychosis...
      notably those who managed
to contain the experience...
             few people emerge from having
experienced psychosis without an
institutionalised backdrop of events,
  even fewer make it out the quixotic windmill...
me? look at me, unscatched -
                regretful? perhaps...
               resentful... every chance i get i
manage to usher in a laugh...
        once more, heidegger...
      the talk of travel, of experiencing
the totality of the world, the - orbis totalis -
  for these people so hungry to experience
the totality of this world...
    i have four words for them -
  the sage of königsberg...
           i'm becoming a hermit of essex
by the looks of it,
          my ambition to live a life like
sunday traffic, to live the life least unpredictable
is starting to sink into my bones,
to even animate them...
        i don't know why people never choose
the predictable life, given that death is
an event that's inevitable -
  merging two inevitabilities can create
the most random experience of events -
     that said: your thinking will never be
predictably *****-likened,
       it will end up as an embodiment of
the antithesis to the sisyphus toil -
   unless some cerberus is watching over
poor sisyphus, the man will eventually stop
rolling the stone up the hill,
   he'll eventually stop rolling it,
look at it, and become a minotaur in his own
cognitive labyrinth...
and in such a labyrinth, sure, there
are are no sphinxes, or pyramids of giza,
but beside these predictable sights,
   the sisyphus-minotaur will see unseen prior to
sights of his own ingenious invention.
like heidegger said:
  ordinary thinking is pulverised by
the presumption that the more "lived experiences"
a human being has, the more certainty he
has in assuring being and what he is
to "become" -
   perhaps, suppose that the more you see,
and the more you "experience" the more complete
example of humanity you will become...
  only to
a) have all the more regrets prior to
     the relief of succumbing to death,
b) the "foreboding" of: never again...
  c) the nostalgia,
   d)  contra nostalgia: the deepest vilest form
  of emotion: the regrets of never being disposed
to fathom any said experience (cf. point a))-
e) if you don't have what you like,
    like what you have...
i hardly think there's a need for a complete
human experience with all the provisions
secured...
  there's only a human experience,
          there never will be a complete human
experience, other than in the guise
of a spectator,
    the only brimful "lived experience" is in
the guise of the being, that's a spectator...
sure, there's a fancy, a day-dream of
being a protagonist of some sort,
   but as the old sayings goes,
if everyone were to take their shoes off,
and throw them into a heap,
  they'd still take from the heap their own
pair: for walking with one's own problems
is always more bearable,
  than experiencing the kampf of others...
  ich kampf - and i love that phrasing -
it's not mine, in that it is mine:
but it's not a definite struggle - rather a
continuing venture into the very mundane
of every other yesterday, or every other tomorrow.
i've met more humanity in those who
chose the theatre of the mind,
           than the theatre of the west-end...
   i've met enough humanity who have
experienced less, but nonetheless live more,
than those tourists, who "experienced" more,
but nonetheless lived less...
          to make oneself encrusted in the local
environment, to stand rigid & proud as
a domineering sight of a mountain...
                        to feel a lesser need to known
the world, and a pressure toward a need to
know oneself...
    to extract the reflective notion of the otherwise
reflexive word structures:
   i.e. yourself: your self,
    oneself: one's self,
               myself: my self...
         and standing these un-noodling compounds
  before the one mirror that a philosophical
narcissus could perplex his self over:
                    the mirror of itself -
              or: die es und der selbst -
                                       the it and the self;
das? that's like a doubled-up definite article...
i swear to god, only the germans
have more definite articles than any other
language - the poles only have two
(last time i checked), i.e. to & tamto -
  which is distinguished by distance -
  to is closer, while tamto is further away...
honestly, the fun really starts when
you stop synthesising language,
   and begin analysing it...
      but i recommend synthesising (mimic)
a language for at least 20 years,
    and then spontaneously "revising" it -
never minding the idea that you might fall
into any linguistically orthodox pitfall.

p.s. ah right, the masculine / feminine brigade:
ten: direct article for he (close)
  ta: the direct article for she (close)
   tamten: direct article for he (far away)
  tamta: the direct article for she (far away),
to: gender neutral direct article (close)
  tamto: gender neutral direct article (far away);

and still the sahara of the indirect article
in german: eine schmein ein schmeine eins ein
11 elves ate a wolf in dresden -
             which made up 36 observable curiosities.

impulsive decisions brutally shaping life
a fading image of angels
time stops for one whole night
the memories could be fatal and
challenging to his future endeavors

if he wouldn't have kissed her
with words about magical presence
poetic bums forgetting about the present
separated by the northern winds

too afraid of losing each other to really hold on
she missed the night but
his hope never lessened
a love worth waiting for, it makes you patient

why waste time on anyone
when one day, to have a love that curious,
when getting to know someone isn't strenuous,
but entering her mind and all its cabinets
he recognized himself in the reflection of her green eyes

a simple story
timeless with regretful inevitabilities
no matter how destiny plays out
he will always wonder . . . . . . . .

what if?

The distraction machine, our plastic dream, sew last seam through bottom lip
Tipped off of ship, sheet bound tissue is ripped, living form clipped to fish food
Always in a bad mood, waiting on the never happens, inevitabilities stacking
Reef wrapping around your sea urchin heart, leaping off cliffs with no running start
Failure practiced as art, life pushed around in a cart, walking on rusty needles and darts
Hate wheedles silently into our hearts, once that ice starts it keeps spreading
Look at where we're heading, treading ever closer to the chasm's drop
Brain stops with the thought, caught in the dark and you must move across
Ever conscious of where the next step might toss you, tumble and humble and break you
Escaping will make you take two, reflect, we're all subject to the same strain
Fear is a head game that even the sane can't contain, one must simply maintain
We think things are tame, but beyond the flame, eyes strain from a loud darkness

The granite stone, so proud and strong
could not be broken the hardest of men
Yet, the rain came at first so gentle bathing
him softly then relentlessly
Next the wind searching every crevice
releasing the smallest spec of dust
Then the sun ******* out and remaining moisture
the cracks appeared
Ageing was the worst that once proud upright
hardest of men slowly aged
his life fell all around him until he broke
He ask for help

From that day forth his life changed
washed by the gentlest of hands
dried with care and hope
kept warm with smiles and laughter
accepting age and the inevitabilities it brough
is now remembered with love

Etched on the tallest of granite stone.