I need very little

and desire?

Even less.


We are the closest thing I’ve found;

My underwater cacophony

that quiets it all…

The outside drowned

A roaring quiet-

I desire this.

To be:



and asea.



I’ve been in a lot of relationships where things have been broken…

Things that I’ve bought; things that I’ve earned;

been given, gifted-


But bones often heal and time-

Well time, it blurs the edges…

Now I’m finding myself in a lot of situations where things are being restructured…

Things I’ve been taught;

things that I’ve chosen;

been given, gifted-


But hearts often heal and experience-

Well experience, it sharpens focus.

Is Magic

Is Magic

You and me

are manifesting:

an adventure;

an experience;

Culmination of our fate.

I’m going to tell you…

my secret…

you may already know, but-

everything is lining up

to match our memories-

ones we haven’t yet had…

Dense Cow Park

Dense Cow Park

I always knew…

“Home” was a concept.

A prompt for activating

our programmed roles;

encouraging participation

in self-fulfilling prophecies (of doom).

Leaving me homesick

for a dream I’ve never dreamt.


Home is now known to me-

Known to be a feeling-

An intangible worry stone,

Now carried with me-

At all times;

Anchored by plasmic goo.



I thought of something nice to say at my mother’s funeral.

Spoiler alert:

She’s not dying (no quicker than you or I technically am…)

But my dad is…

So I was thinking about all of the things that I would say about him at his funeral;

and that made me sad. So to cope, I decided to try and think of something nice to say…at my mother’s.

I know, I know… BUT!

I thought that would make me mad-

You know:

when I couldn’t find one (but knowingly looked)?


Well then I found one; which in turn… made me mad.


Isn’t it exquisite-

how my broken and gold;

They fuse together in kintsugi rhythm?

Knowing both paths to the desired result- consciously mitigated and yet…

Gestures vaguely at everything,

and nothing.

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.