Use your delusion Pt. 1

Use your delusion Pt. 1

I’ve already began the process

Of grieving the products of my own imagination.

Recently implemented new rules of engagement;

Limiting all talks with friends,

all of them.

To under 5 minute long interactions.

Unless they’re my exes…

I figure I’ve dibs.

(I know! I knoooow.)

I know it makes me selfish;

Realizing more each day-

I want to be “chosen”

I NEED to be “chosen”

whatever that means…

I think I always have.

Reflecting on all the times


I felt I needed to be…

Should have been…


by anyone-


over others;

over addictions

Chosen for me

Who I am

Not what I could be.

Not what I could provide.

Services I could render.

What I could become.

Just the real and authentic me.

Most only saw the mes

making the choices…

To leave

To make them



My choice.

What do

What do

I thought you loved me.
Today I just feel stupid-
“Why I sleep alone.”



I’ve recently found,

I stay more comfortable.

I’m leaving all of the inside doors, open.

Closing the vents,

to unused rooms…

worked only in proximity.

Closing the doors,

to forgotten rooms;

created cold spots.

So I started a fire,

opened all vents… doors;

warmed from within.



The moon was never gone;

just beyond your view.

Behind clouds,

behind earth.

Making silent moves;

effecting the tides.

All the while;

cycling back to you.

Thought observations

Thought observations

I found myself there-

In that place, once again.

The cavernous mermaid lagoon;

a familiar yet frightening place; bound.

It was curious really-

Realizing where I’d arrived.

When by consciously avoiding-

My unintentional destination found.

Only for a brief moment yielding-

Like Yeats’ siren:

In cruel happiness I’d forgotten-

That even lovers drown.

Laissez les bon temps rouler…

Laissez les bon temps rouler…

Used to be…

I’d come across them-

Confetti strewn caches-

drawers of forgotten notes…

I felt sad, and missed them.

Question everything.

Then it changed…

I’d find them and realize-

I don’t know the writer-

Ghostwritten manifestos of complacency…

I’d feel disgust, and miss me.

Question everything.

Today I found more…

I read them and noted-

It really was a version of me-

Just a me adapted to them…

I feel nothing, and am missing nothing.

Question everything.



Tell me that you’re happy,

Never say that you love me.

Words and wishes

often curse-

Much better to be left unsaid.

Situational Recall

Situational Recall

Have you ever written out timelines of your own life?

First by years then by months-

Sometimes even “best guessed weeks”?

Did the subcategories become laborious and deserving of a separate time line?


I met someone who had lived in the same house,

Their entire lives.

From birth. 

I bet they never put something in their bedroom…

Then later have to recall which bedroom…

Then tear apart another room to find it,

swearing it was there, once.


Did you live in the same house for years? 

Have you lived in less than 5? 

What’s your memory like?

Is it chronologically fractured? 

Do you use music or scent or season to place you; or

What you were wearing-

because somehow that is easier to recall?

When you think back over your life, is it like a whole movie?

Or is it like thousands of movie scenes squished into a 27 x 40 poster? 

Do you have to cross reference your life against journals? 

Poetry books? 






Do you spend time analyzing, retroactively, like a cold case detective… 

Maybe leaning a little tinfoil hat looking for “the conspiracy root?”

Yeah, that would be crazy. Whoa. 

Ok ok- what about looking, in hindsight for curiosity sake; 

for the things you missed, you know, back then?


What about considering other timelines- multiverses and sequels- 

A director’s cut or potential alternate endings? 

Still no? 


Me either. 



Lately I’ve been “nesting.”

Chasing serotonin and conviction- reclaiming my own curtilage.

And yet, entertaining;

Fellini-esque fantasies.

While balancing the romantic…

with the absurd.

Still, fantasies indeed are dangerous things.


when one feels unchallenged or complacent…

It’s easy to believe that things mean more-

Connections or kismet or fated-

too often just a novel distraction

They would soon grow bored of…

He gave her his heart,

she gave him a pen.

Is it ever real?

Too often oxytocin fueled.

And hypervigilance gives way

To resolute avoidance and/or

The altruistic conundrum-

there is no unselfish deed…

And like she said, “perhaps…”

I’ve already had my chance for that type of happiness.

Nonetheless, a growth mindset.

Endeavor to be present.

Stay the course.

Self actualize myself.

Alone is not so bad.

Lonely is much worse.

Photo from:

Wandering Stars

Wandering Stars

Few can see eternity while standing in humble awe,

Under an illuminated galaxy.

Stargazers over lifetimes,

Recognizing kindred spirits whilst acknowledging divergent paths…

Hopeless romantics, becoming fewer and farther between…

Stifled by noise and light pollution;

Subconsciously choosing to experience the taste of duty-

An assumption of desire to participate in the conditioned path.

Following breadcrumbs to the witch’s sanctum;

Below the vastness of time…

Like a homing beacon- they await a conjunction in a retrograde.

Guided only by energy and the moon;

Moths drawn to the undying light-

Second star to the right, and straight on til morning.



It’s funny

“The shift”

The shift from thinking anyone older

Just looked like an old person.

You see pictures of them young..

Can see it if you look for it-

But as you get get older-

Know more people, longer, older…

Should start with our family-

some fairy glamour prevents it.

It’s when you see someone age,

Someone you’ve known; intimately-

their younger selves-

And perhaps- you do not see again

until you are both- old…older.

*that’s the shift.

Unfamiliar briefly-

Then you see them.

Not them with wrinkles, more skin, less hair…

but just…


In a worn vehicle…

“There you are Peter!”

Now- you’ve leveled up.

At the shift.



And it comes to pass,

With time and understanding-

The “reconciliation”

Of cause, and effect;

Actions… reactions.

The interplay…

The neuropathways.

And you’re standing alone-

In your room

By yourself



Catching your reflections-

Just fleetingly seen-


Then you begin to wonder.

Ponder why you never noticed-

Why you never could.

Until right now.



Maybe it’s my Aquarius-Pisces cusp

But… I am a fickle bitch. 

I want my cake and to eat it too- 

But only when I order it

And have it delivered

To my door. 

I love being alone

Resent a constant presence

Reductively- I’m an Introvert playing house 

With myself- I wanna be mama

I wanna be daddy

I wanna be cool aunt Jackie 

Dependent on no one


And still…

I hate playing house 

I don’t wanna be home

I want to travel 



All the things others have already done

I live it through word

See it on film

Feel it in song

Saved and trapped in my own mind

And so it goes- 

Filling in the grooves

Forty years worth of trail

Diverting energy into other paths

Finding comfort…

And yet- 

Still aching for the familiar 

Just like any addiction

Trying to recognize triggers

Slippery slopes

Of thoughts 

And experience

Both imagined and endured-

Blowing up my siblings’ phones

To discuss a season’s tears

Lament each other’s losses

Never sharing joy

Leaning towards each other 

Each other’s external hard drives 

Fact checking my memories

Offering observed insight 

Spoiler alerts. 

I hate the unknowing. 

I Google you.

I Google me.

I Google what season do they die?

I like to test myself


challenges to survive;

Patterns to predict;

Chances to trust myself

And fail

But in ways most cannot see. 

It’s funny to me.

All things I want(ed) to be-

A singer

A plumber

A poet 

A mom

A lawyer

A wife

A woman

An archaeologist 

A detective…

And here I am. 

Alone- but not really. 


Mercurially Me.