To Do List:

Mail Anne's letter
Fix the garbage disposal
do the dishes
clean the kitchen
mop the floor
vacuum the living room
call your mom
spray paint the grass
water the chicken
Fold the laundry
spy on neighbors
organize garage
feed the gator
paint a moose
groom the orangutans
remove nails
put away teeth
steal a cart with only one wheel
rub ants on your thighs
order a mink monkey mask
glue more flowers
stack the Nixon papers (4x10)
smash the bedroom lamp
butter the books
bake a pillow
laughtil you cry
yell at the kids on the lawn
put on three suits
summon azreal
jog
that a nap on the highway
jump until your nose bleeds
hold a hand unwillingly
buy and return condoms
milk a rat
organize a rave
sell all you hair
play darkside of the moon backwards
BUY MILK

The human circus

The human circus

talk is cheap, when spent casually,
frugality of words means more time to listen,
laughter is the soul speaking genuine delight,
tears a leak in the dam holding back pure emotion,
sadness is a drug and joy a chore,
things half remembered from youth,
the source of feeling in our adulthood,
we regress when we truly feel,
revealing honest emotion is to drop your facade
not cutting you down but opening you up
its hard to give yourself over, and let go the reigns
remove the mask and end the charade,
to be seen, unfiltered, and reveal a naked soul,
but seeing an honest reflection even harder,
looking with foreign eyes, honest, real,
seeing past our defense delusons,
Its painful, the deepest pain you can feel
it is your fantasies realized
and your fears unanswered
admitting what you could not believe.


 laugh and cry
Through the windowside

the shadow

I have to appease the shadow in me that seeks to either rule and conquer or else desires to undo itself completely, to implode and dissolve in on itself like a black hole and take with it this whole messy world. End on all that is my small myopic world. The shadow whisper, “it’s all you, it’s only ever been you” —all  I touch, I taste, smell, hear, feel, every truth I have ever known,  every coordinate of my perceived reality has only ever been me, just an endless dream … they say that everyone you encounter in your dreams are only fragments of yourself that you are only ever talking to yourself, that every monster, every horror chasing you down endless corridors, and every little epiphany and comfort that is espoused and enlightens in that nowhere world is only ever you, echoed from somewhere deep inside of yourself, how then is it that such Angels and Demons can reside side-by-side and sleep within us, torture us and heal us and feel an utter truth and such normalcy until the break of dawn and then suddenly fade away “like tears in the rain”, and I am to believe that this awakening is into the one true world, how? there is no evidence no point of undeniable proof that this reality will not fold away into a far deeper truths and all I thought I knew would evaporate into Reality, the logic of my current being would become laughable and I might, chuckle silently at this world and how it seemed so real, seemed to make so much sense, as it slowly fades away to nothing.

I am not one of you

—I, breathe, I eat, I sleep and so on but I am not one of you.

 I float above, outside, beyond, and watch with curious unease, and occasional revulsion that which is human.

Its time.
 I guess the destination doesn’t really matter,
     I’m tired,
        numb.
Staring at the wall,
       staring in the mirror
     at the absurdity of me,
 out the lights!
Join the silent night circus
     feast upon this slowly burning world
   prey upon it miserable wretches
I’m ready
out,
off, stop, completely,
I am sick
 "find yourself and be yourself"

The hand punches my face
        my hand
  and I don’t know why.
       All I know is
                      broken
     I've put down my signs
                  stepped off the box
                              a soulless creature

Monday was my birthday,
 flowers came
to stay on my birthday
the stars as well.
 on my birthday
everything was right

HOUSE OF MIRRORS

I stared into the mirror—
peered unblinkingly at eyes
both my own and foreign.
Gazed at a face becoming
less and less familiar,
a mask, alien and strange.

Suddenly the picture jumped—
skipped again—then shattered.
I had stared too long,
now rushing waters,
dark and cold pulled me under.

Drowning in endless reflections,
the splintering of moments,
a kaleidoscope of 
infinite self,
all the same,
all different,
fractured by choices 
or worse, from indifference.

Every untread path—
Every second thought—
Every missed chance—
Every other life.
And all that could have been.

Each ghost of regret staring back,
as I fell into myself
a million, billion, trillionselves—
diverging and collapsing around me,
all instep and out of step
stuttering, pulsing, undulating.

Letting go,
slipping deeper and deeper down,
in my eyes eternity,
there go I...
but for the beating of the butterflies wings
there go I...
seeing all that could have been—

folding slowly back,
collapsing into one once more,
returned by the tide,
to the shores of one path,
taken

Medication Nation

For me it’s not a clear choice, definitely not cut and dry, have my issues with both, have to weigh the pros and cons—

Medicated I am more mind than heart, distanced—cut off from my emotions, I feel robotic. I have always had too much heart—feel too deeply at times and stare to long, let the sadness in. 

I don’t bemoan my lot or dwell on the hardships that befall me, I don’t hate myself or experience prolonged self-loathing.

I see the entropy of life, and love, and our slow slide into oblivion—so apparent—no amount of distraction, positive or negative, can pry my eyes from our station, its beautiful and its sad and its only beautiful because it’s sad. 

A life eternal in which nothing died—what value would there be in that, the midnight blossoms that never withers are weeds, and an existence in the eternal status quo is hell, so why should it be that I hurt to see the dissolution of the world? 

I cried seeing the woman cradling a doll, clinging tight because she’s 60 but she’s still 5—soldiers hardened by combat and killing still cry for their mother. I don’t know, its sadness, its part of what makes the world.