The Medium’s Hour

This is what they’ve done, and it won’t be
be the last, for they’ve pulled me from my coffin
of filth like a vampire with a cat’s tongue and
parched desire for water and killing tar.
Was it enough to have a decent slumber and
allow eggshell blue tablets to knock me into a
coma? Just once would I love the purple bags
of sand lifted from my lids.
To not wake up to the humid afternoon,
to start the day at dawn and sip blonde coffee
as any normal person. The exploding clouds
of hazelnut desire such a routine.
Instead I’m left with spirits that shoot up
and call me from the edge of the universe.
If only there were a way to keep them inside
crystal orbs to mute their cries.
Instead they hang around the silence,
a quietness more massive and violent than
Jupiter’s red storm. Why the ghosts can’t
come at three in the afternoon, I’ll never know.
With them come different thoughts,
such as death’s blanket, selected memories
and God’s rejections. Furthermore, they pace
the cold floors and rub their eyes.
I believe the worst part about two a.m.
is how it all feels like a tape fast-forwarded
and paused simultaneously. Bad tracking,
bundled strips of film and nonstop loops.
Nevertheless, innovation can be found
in its static and the haunting souls deliver
a mind full of clarity through fog. I call it the
beacon of absolute disarray.
Where those who are lost in the clutter,
the endless caverns and spiral staircases find
a reason. It’s the same epiphany drunks
have when nobody takes them home.
Alone, trapped in a still whirlpool,
the ghastly tap the table three times when
only two were called for. They curl up and
collapse like abandoned buildings and ships.
Across the skyline, over cities and farmhouses,
sorcerers reach their arms out to become the
darkness. They are the darkness, whispering
spells from their lips.
The stakes have been taken back,
the fire at their feet, matches struck and butane
dreams run rampant. Much so as a monster
hiding behind evil pines.
Streets, those empty, paved maps,
they welcome wandering crooks with hooks
as sinister as the devil’s looks. Pale faces on
walls make subtle sounds.
And it’s always I, the medium, who documents
such things and lives to tell the tale. My god,
I should be thankful the moon wasn’t full this
time around.


Scowling windows, unhinged mouth, blood boiled
veins and a wall down the middle; they’re the
devil’s finger puppets. They raise the precious
daises, water the children’s garden, then cut
the stems and place them in a vase.
Full of piss, full of oil, full of themselves inside
and out; they hide in their house and shut every
open threshold. One can usually find them in the
countryside, lungs thick and full of hot air
like a summertime tent revival.
Snake handlers, twisted tongues, they claim to
be His voice, but channel evil in the form hymns
and washed feet. Muddy hooves, squealing primitive
arrogance, a lesson taught by their fathers,
hatched from the fool’s gold egg.
In order to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing, one must
be clever, sharp as a splinter and snuggle beneath
the skin. Instead, these little piggies believe they
can withstand the carnivore’s huff and puffs when
they’re already in its belly.
To keep from being regurgitated and forced to
see the light, they spread stomach acid in the
graveyard as a mother morns her bundle of sticks.
These swines, they light twigs and burn her at
the stake as a cursed witch.
Or they drown her in a sea filled with tears to see
if she floats, because the queer, dead apple of her eyes
is a fruit they refuse to taste. But deep down, under the
lard and sticky sweat, some of them desire the tree’s gift:
A weeping willow’s seed.
However, they cut it down to keep themselves from
growing, destroy every leaf and twig and use the bark
to make paper in books they’ll never read. Instead,
the hogs channel misguidance like a palm reader who
can’t find a nail wound in a hand.
Hateful eyes, snorting snouts, squealing and dumb,
the pigs’ mind is encased in doorless room of thick bricks
built by  the unknowing, the disgust, the hollow monument
that stands tall and proud. And their need to destroy
is only but a broken mirror.
It’s the reflection they hate more than the pupils which
don’t belong to them, and the blind only gauge those who
see the truth. A lie upon lie, a scar on a scar, a hole that
digs itself closer to the smoldering pits of Hell, where
every made bed must be occupied.
They are damned and doomed, crawling straight into
the slaughterhouse’s relentless snare and anointed by a
sledgehammer. The big G, the big government, the desired
acceptance, a perfect lie branded on their thighs. This is
what they’ve grown to become.

Good Enough

For men and boys who are
programmed like me, same attraction,
an off magnet, rubber guy, rubber toy,
rubber heart, I’m the sack that carries onions.
The male Cinderella,
the dust on my sister’s shoe, an allergic
reaction from the other; she says ah-choo,
my baby brother’s gun and troubled look.
My cousin’s envy, my cousin’s hate,
my cousin’s disapproval, a nasty sour
berry and pinched nose, I suppose
I’m the package sent back to childhood.
From the mail man to the mailbox,
fed up, X-ed out, I guess I’m an empty box
wrapped in beautiful designs with a packing
label ripped off and thrown away.
Not good enough for his lover, a broken pinion,
an opinion, a simple-minded simian, a flat note
from the trumpet of Gideon, I’m never really
heard and my voice is beneath.
A glass jar, a frozen lake, my words
come out and are muted by the vacuum
cleaner of trivial commotion, a roaring monster
who devours every little sentence.


Listen, I’ll just go ahead and say it. I have BDD (Body Dysmorphic Disorder.) It’s the obsession of a physical flaw that may be minor or, most of time, in my case, imagined.

For example, I obsess over my hairline, I obsess over my jawline, I obsess over my lips. Sometimes I see myself in the mirror and think I’m chubby and pregnant, then other times I will see myself as a famished corpse. There’s really no in between.

It’s like a high frequency beam that is both mind-numbing and breaks my concentration; however, what’s odd is I don’t always feel ugly. There are times where I can walk by a store window and feel confident. But the thing with BDD is it follows, waiting for you to walk by a poster of a Calvin Klein model in the mall.

A lot of times I compare myself to guys on Google. Hell, sometimes Instagram and Tumblr are my worst enemies. Let’s face it though, they’ve got the best cake.

I rarely take group photos, I go through spells where I don’t use my actual profile picture, I pick my skin, I either avoid mirrors or stare deeply into them; god forbid I get hung up in a dressing room.

Don’t laugh, but the best way to describe it is like being Mr. Potato Head. A fabulous, confident Mr. Potato Head, may I add, and then this angry toddler removes your best features and replaces it with something ugly. You’ll be in a panic, trying your best to remove the horrible insecurity and damn does the child shake the hell out of you.

Then, right when you’re on the edge of breaking down, this kid becomes calm, removes the ugly affliction and puts back the nose you like– then he replaces your eyebrows with caterpillars and, once more, the vicious cycle continues.

But please know that I’m not posting this because I want you to say I’m beautiful or good-looking. As a matter of fact, I know I’m attractive. My mother is the most beautiful woman in the world, and I praise the Heavens I inherited her looks.

The only person who really needs to tell me I’m beautiful is me.

And I also posted this because it’s actually a very, very common psychological disorder… especially with gay guys. For real, I’ve seen a 20 year old guy almost break down cause someone joked about him having a non-existent grey hair.

I’ve seen guys in the basement of a gay club wash their hands in the bathroom sink, then stop and stare desperately at their reflections. Sometimes it’s four of them.

I’ve had a guy LITERALLY start blubbering on my shoulder because he turned 34 and referred to himself as worn-down, old leather. Shit, he acted as if the stock market crashed. (Btw he actually looked about 27.)

I’ve seen genuinely adorable, beautiful guys who legit will get all crazy just because they aren’t good enough or their skin is too pale. Holy hell, I once liked a guy who, in his words, was “fat and disgusting.” I mean, yeah, he wasn’t skinny then, but he has one of the most handsome mugs I’ve EVER seen to this day. Like, for real.

Even one of my best friends thinks he is “gay fat” (I hate that term.)

Again, I’m not posting this because I want you to tell me I’m hot or sexy or gorgeous. I’m posting this because I want you to tell yourself that you’re beautiful. I want to feel okay in your skin. I want you to try and not let this mental plague get the best of you.

Oh, and just breathe.

And stop using tanning beds, cause you’ll end up like a baked Mr. Potato Head.


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

The Poet’s Curse (timed writing / ten minutes)

Madness spun like a string on a thumb growing tighter and cutting off circulation, or a spider web crafted, sometimes it’s torn and sometimes it’s the perfect snare.

Frustration, constantly critiquing their every move and sentence and word. There is even a struggle between what is too arrogant and what is too humble.

They often times stumble down, mumble in the morning and grow weary of every question. A true poet hates the title, for it makes them feel superior inside a shell.

Hell, it’s a place where typos haunt them, full of English teachers and multiple fun house mirrors. If only there were a way to erase the pretentious eighteen.

The angst, the edge, the eye roll; it’s a reminder that growing pains can drive one insane, and without evolution there would always be Billy Blue or Suzie Q.

Nevertheless, a former student’s naivety always comes back like a boomerang or a rumor passed along over bummed cigarettes and the hardest question one can ask:

“Will you read this? Can you tell me what you think?” Because even the most precious words come with a cringe, a finger on the self-destruct button and an apology.

There’s always a bullet traveling in the dark, it can either miss or go straight to the heart; even when the bull’s eye plucked, there is the shadow of soot on the wall.

And poets even hate other poets, because they know it will either be worse or better. The latter comes from admiration, for people tend to destroy what they love.

It’s a dragging duty, really, to sacrifice sand without the ability to flip the hourglass, and their turmoil can be truly felt until they can no longer write.


I believe if I ever found it, they would try and destroy it, because even the smallest dream held like a pebble in my hand isn’t safe from the cruelest of erosion.

I also think if I discovered the seven seas in his eyes and deep currents under the gaze, a person dressed as Moses would divide it down the middle.

The lessons I’ve learned is that for every butterfly is a ginormous child with a jar who is ready to close the lid and prevent precious moments from fluttering my way.

But, of course, the container is transparent and I can see it scatter around and try to escape, only it’s me who suffocates from such tireless efforts.

For I am too aware to give them the benefit, but not strong enough to deal with every break and bust of waves that say goodbye, and letting go seems impossible.

And my endless search for perfection leaves me flawed and cracked beneath their boot, like frigid ice or eggshells thrown about the linoleum floor.

Sometimes the things I desire end up broken, or is it the wretched who are drawn to me? As moths to a dull flame or ghosts to a medium guiding misdirection.

With screws screwed over and instability mistaken for flamboyance, they, too, crave that life can fall into place and not pour off the sides of bar top plateaus flat as beer.

It never fails, heads or tails, two sides of a coin dropped down a well and all surprises become bleak in the horizon where the sun sets and rises again and again.

Even in the mirror I see a conquest which always seems out of reach, because no matter how much one changes gravity is evident and goals become more difficult.

Sometimes I wonder if really there is anything to destroy, because what if perfection doesn’t exist? Of course we’re fat and pale and wired by tablets prescribed.

But there has to be a place where folded arms open and vulnerability unravels like scrolls with written hearts on the soul traveling through the universe.

There has to be a destination in which somebody tells you that you’re perfect, regardless of imperfections taking up every single doomed threshold.

Perhaps I can acquire this fantasy in a purple desert lying horizontal below tiger-orange skies inside my own solitude and silent sounds.

And the realization hits all at once, for it was already in me and every animal on the Earth’s blemished face, a little bird trapped in my rib cage.

So I’ve stopped looking for perfection and now pray someone will notice it flying around within my nestled, wandering spirit.