I want to meet a person who is identical, but physically different in all ways possible. But if opposites attract, will the one meant for me be the person in the mirror?
I want them to be a mail order edition, perfect, and clean; however, I also want to love everything that isn’t ideal. Down to their past horrors and fears I want to fall.
In the warm spot of a bed, I want to heal them like they would want to heal me, align the cracks and put the pieces back together. An open book for a body.
Mr. Who, Mr. What, and Mr. When will they accidentally come into my life, break the dawn and love the night. And will it be a loving mistake or will it go according to plan?
Will they reflect my flaws, or will I be a god in their eyes? Is it possible to be both at once? Can the do for me what I could never do for them?
Such as carry the child within, that big, blubbering baby and water the lilies who have clipped. Could he be the gardener or will he teach me to grow?
Will they see that I am not selfish and that I have an entire planet to give? I want to know if they want to know what I would do for them, And would it be worth the effort?
I want press our bodies together, conjoin separate realities, and meet them on the other side of the fence. Sometimes I wonder if the grass will be dried up, dead.
Or will it emerald beneath a blanket of snow? When melts away, can my apple endure a monsoon and see there is an eye to let in light? Or will there blind to darker days?

November, 26, 2015


Cousin, cousin, I have looked in the mirror, passed the translucent water and seen you there. A dumb fish on a cusp, draped in that martyr ego, singing “Woe is me, woe is me.”

For years they have compared us, like two wings attached to same butterfly and pressed under the same glass. I’ve even exchanged grains of sand to run a blade down the middle.

Because if I could reincarnate, I believe I would stay the same, but crush you beneath a heavy, broken sky like Chicken Little. Or push you off wall and never put your pieces back together.

Cousin, cousin, you are so wicked. Poor advice, a cheater’s game, planting seeds in an evil garden. You told me to sell my gold and trade it for fools, just so you can jester in the court.

Back on my feet, you take pride in pushing me down. A shrunken protégé inside your self-worth and a former lamb of potential whose eyes use to light up like a child on Christmas.

Nevertheless, you have a tendency to take that which is beautiful and pull it down into a tar pit. And from the wool you shaved came forth a wolf in hiding, lone and traveling through woods.

Cousin, cousin, all of your envy, down to its shaking ankles, frightened face and ego cradled. I am not the infant once naive and you are simply a pillar of ash I flick into a tray.

A fortieth birthday dressed in black, mail I never wanted to receive, and the false hope that something better could grow. Because at one point, I looked up the stairs and saw you there.

I viewed you as someone I could show the dark side of Venus to and pull away the dandelion mask for a moment and confide. It was one of the few sapphires I held onto deeply.

Cousin, cousin, regardless of this war, know I have stepped away from the ruins and always knew the towers would collapse. Mangled and broken, I can only pray for you.

However, the thing about prayers is sometimes they are sent back as lessons to be learned. And always know blood is indeed thicker than water, but water easier to clean up.

So I am done with you and this soap opera, the bellowing mouth and a Judas figure who plays the part of a Christ in the land of lust and spilled tea. Cousin, I am done with you.

June 21, 2015


(for my cousin who took his life)
Too late, too late, everything seems too late. He is too tired to sleep, he hates to stay awake. It all seems still and plastic, like artificial tulips placed on fresh mounds of dirt.
“For he has raked up his emotions, put them in pile and let phantom fingers wave them away. It’s a new day, trapped under a glass, he watch everything around him pass.”
He want to leave, but he’s too scared to stop his heart. Knives are appealing, sleeping pills gather his my hand, and the hollow words of lovers yet to be say nothing.
Something inside curls up like the feet at the end of his bed, and the sarcastic light of dawn has adjusted itself to his routine. So he start s again and put on a face as sweet as a cake.”
A lake of feelings gather into a great, black aura. His smile tells the world, “I’m okay.” Nevertheless, there’s always a crack that one can see if people stop focusing on themselves.
Haunted, dark, and craving affection; he hides himself like a nesting doll within a shell within a shell. Like a crustacean, his armor is hard, but the insides are soft and naked.
He is aware that people care, but they never consider his absence or the possibility of taking it all away. Because love is never felt until their fingers pick the strings of the heart’s harp.
Hooks, like ominous rooks, sweep in and pull him back down into misery. Misery, misery, it echoes through him; like past lives who were kept in boxes beneath floorboards.
These ghosts linger as if they were blown pieces of torn paper traveling nowhere, and inside their nestled chambers they try to scream; however, heavy chains wrap around their mouths.
The links shackle his arms and his ankles, and it’s as though gravity increases with every step. And while the Earth slowly snaps his legs, everyone else skips along.”
Their lives appear to be more opulent than his; not necessarily measured by riches, of course, but the frown is an Ethiopian and their bliss is an endless buffet.
He longs to devour what honey and bread they nourish themselves with and the overwhelming need to be full is sometimes worse than being a starving figure that drags itself.
So this is it, this is where the line meets an existence blanketed by invisible smog which chokes me like a noose and the world below is unsteady as a bar stool ready to break.
But always do as he says, not as he does. Love yourself, indulge in innocent sin, and forgive yourself. Embrace all and know somewhere in the cosmic vortex he will be waiting.

May 2016


Do you feel the chain wrapped around your neck and the weight that’s attached? Do you feel it slowly pull you under and choke you like ominous hands everywhere you travel?
Are you drowning above the water on stale air which enters and exits slowly? Is the heaviness of one sigh practically enough to make your body collapse and break?
Does it follow you around? The big, black cyclone that never ceases to devour your trail? Is it enough to make you feel still in a concrete wall and paralyze all emotion?
Do you find it difficult to rise from the tomb of the mind and count the rays of sunlight through the window? Does the sun’s offering mean little to nothing when it attempts to warm?
Have you ever wondered if you’re the only one who walks down this road alone? If so, does the entire world in your peripheral blur with smiles and laughs and precious moments?
Does it all seem artificial, like plastic bulbs in green Styrofoam placed on a grave? Those ginormous arcs, jagged, grey teeth sticking out of the Earth, are they meaningful?
Do they make you worry about what’s to come? Do you ever believe that you’ll be forgotten and bulldozed over as if you were a tree in the forest?
And which are you exactly? A magnolia, a weeping willow, or a dogwood cut and fashioned into a cross? If you are a tree, do you ever feel like your branches are bare?
Even in the spring, when all that is supposed to blossom and grow magnificently, do you find it hard to produce fruit and give the sweet taste of life? Do you ever feel cut down?
Or are you an ocean? Churning violently over yourself beneath, but calm on top? Does your own current cause you to drift off into regions where no lifeboat can sail?
Is there an island in your distance? Isolated and only inhabited by your own thoughts, is it so much to have a mermaid wash up and say everything will be much better?
From the view of the shore, is there always a storm which seems to be approaching? A category five, black and massive, rumbling deeply, does it make you build a shelter?
And are you only left with sticks and twigs? Do you ever worry the wolf will ever huff and puff and blow it all away — again — and leave you exposed once more?
Are there bricks available? Do you ever build a wall around yourself and close out everything that could possibly destroy you? What if you’re the main source of destruction?
A deadly eye, a glare in the mirror, are you the fairest of them all or a poisoned apple who indulges in yourself? Can it be that both are sometimes one in the same?
Where is the line? Does it divide you down the middle vertically, or does it fold in half? Is your entire existence a Get Well Soon card that never opens up for anyone to read?
Have you ever sat at a dinner table and felt catatonic in front of your food? Does the stomach ever growl, but you can’t find the desire to actually consume it?
What about a cigarette? Has it ever been difficult to murder yourself slowly, because even the mere act of taking in smoke is hard and the effort seems pointless.
And finally, despite everything, have you ever forced yourself to smile regardless? Have you pulled the strings and walked around the occasion as if it’s all a bad dream?
Have you ever had to silence all these thoughts, start the engine and avoid all these harrowing questions? Do you ever suppose that there will be a definite answer?

The Unknown

You see them on the street, you see them in the bar, you see them in department stores and you see them smiling in pictures.
They walk among us like perfect dolls who control their bodies and force happy struts down sidewalks and avenues.
But would you ever suspect that the piercing eye of sorrow follows them around like a dull ray erupting migraines?
Imagine a child-like god holding a magnifying glass, a sadist, who burns them with every harsh glare.
And what if I told you these individuals are their own manic deities that end the world day by day and blacken out the sky?
They are your waiters, they are your co-workers, they are the looking model at the clubs and the prince of the evening.
Between shots and laughter there is a catacomb which is always there; it absorbs all and slowly stabs the soul.
Sometimes it is quick and happens all at once, but they have trained themselves to numb it down and act dumb.
Because in an unsuspecting world it’s easier to hide and blend in like a shadow in the endless vacuum of space.
All of us, whether you’re a ruler or a servant, are merely just a projection to feed and watch react at given gestures.
A smile, a handshake, a witty joke and a bite of their bottom lip; it’s an upper-layer to a lower surface that cannot be defined.
Perhaps torment, perhaps sorrow, or perhaps the earthly desire to white it out and feel the soul cross the line –
– to a place where darkness is an understatement, these people long to slice the stem and the collapse the bud.
For it may appear as though they are flourishing with opulence; however, they wither in the mind’s relentless winter.
Nevertheless, one may never see their porcelain face crack until the next day a phone call informs the truth.
This is the part where we ask ourselves how it could have happened with their perfect lives and perfect friends.
We question how these things are possible and look for any clues which may put together an accurate explanation.
The tragedy is it was always there, like a billboard or a cacophonous siren banging loudly on our eardrums.
The subtle glimmer in their eyes of desperation and a raging need beneath the skin to rip out and hold us close.
For we are distant and caught up in our own plots, too busy to ask or care to see how another person is doing.
We are a depth that one is afraid to swim crossed in both a fear of drowning and rejection to add towards suffering.
In essence, we are strangers who flock to death with open hands when we should’ve held the virtue of life.
We are the unknown.


Imagine wanting to canon ball into a
swimming pool, but it’s as cold as the Artic
and the fear of freezing takes over.
People, faces, places, crowded rooms,
silent behind a cigarette, I’ve built
my fourth wall and I’m avoiding calls.
Introductions, handshakes, smiles,
assuming the worst always comes first.
And everything is a trap.
Limitations, an imitation, skin on skin,
I’m still not letting them in. Is this purgatory,
or eternal damnation?
Often times I feel like a ghost who goes
on vacation, yet the haunted house still
follows me everywhere I travel.
They ask, “How are you?” And for the
love of God somewhere else, all I can do
is ask the same.
Because there is always a loaded gun
hovering above me, pointing down,
and every word could trip the trigger.
Pencils, pens, razor blades, I’ve picked
my cuticles away and ripped apart
my nails with chattering teeth.
A force moves me like a tsunami
of drum sticks, barrels, the quaking and
qwuaking of mouths.
The undercurrent in my stomach swirls
a nightmarish whirlpool. They seem to
scream, “Stupid, idiot, weirdo!”
But in reality, they either care a little,
or don’t give a fuck. So I tuck myself
inside and prepare to dive.