Muse of Logic

A snapshot of reality possessed me. Even if only for a brief blinking moment, it was enough. I was completely thrown, disoriented, lost. I forgot, let my collectedness slip, and fell headlong into the illusions of a half-lit, half-captured reality. And in doing so, tricked no-one but myself.

In this post haze hang-over, I think my memory came back.
Like a flick of light in darkness, a flash of bright white right before it’s right back to being blind. In that subsequent blinding, I remembered everything.

I have been apart from my heart for some time now.

I set my mind far from the old names, and my fingers far from the familiar strings. I shut my mouth against the melodies and harmonies I had grown into. I led myself far from the sounds, words, images, and metaphors that pulled at the deepest roots, the brightest seeds dug down far inside of me.

Apparently I like to pretend, from time to time, to be as crazy as the in-lyers and the self-lyers all say. I play along because I think I’ll come out okay. It never goes. It gets old. I get tired and slow. Eventually, I’m back with my back laid down against tracks, pressed down hard so I feel the inevitable end coming on.

When the train does come, I’m the only one to blame for the damage done.
I do so much damage here in such a small, confined and careful space.
I struggle, non-stop, with how much hurt is enough.

I have left the confines of this prison superimposed on me by others’ versions of reality.
I will not go back.
I will not cry.
And if fear is parallel to love, I know the road I want to walk.

Comfort comes in the balance, hangs on the weights of logic, straight and honest.
Morality is an illusion liars and leavers and the fearful like to play.
Black and white are only ever gradients of grey.
Light shines in the entire spectrum, breaks into rainbows when teased apart.
One only ever pretends to not see reality.
I don’t know how to play along.
I may be a single drop, but I am also the sea.

So when I slip and when I fall and when I allow the darkness residence where it does not belong — I condemn no-one but myself. And then, I remind myself to be strong.

Promise not to tell

Break my hand and see if my bones are made of calcium and carbon too. Shatter my ribs and drive a railroad spike through my stomach just to see if my blood is black and blue. Take out some violence, penantent, on me until you cave. Tear me open until you can see through the thin veil of skin I’m wrapped in.

I guarantee you won’t like what you see.

A rainbow and the gradient between the colors represents my worldview and perspective. These moments of my understanding are places, rightfully so, everyone else avoids. But for those who also caged a star and have gone out alone. One or two of them can comprehend the broken path I’ve known.
One or two of them see through a pattern’s sensory disorientation.
A few of them have touched the moon and come back down, too.

Together, we can make it through.
Together, we’re all stronger than a few.

So we lie out in the grass, in the woods, in the dark. Lie out of the rules, of the pattern, of the right and wrong. Lie out beyond the razorblades and razor-topped fences that block the rest of society in. Lie out from the median, the proper process, the answers they demand you know, repeat, relive, pass on. Lie out on your back, in the sun, until the moment comes.

A shot through my head is going to kill me; the only question is who’s aiming the gun.
A shot through my heart is sure to kill me; the only question is how long I let it go on.
A shot through my bones is bound to kill me; the only question is how bad does it get.

A shot in the dark is about to end me.
I have no question who’s got a gun.


I haven’t flown in years. I had thought, the last time, that I never would again. And now, here I am.

The first moment off the ground is the worst. Full of anxiety, panic, pull and push and that sudden sinking drop you know is coming but the engines might just drop out this time. Regardless of how many times you’ve done this, you still wonder subtly if this time you’ll die.

Then, a glimpse of the ground from just high enough that it’s still moving insanely fast. Then, a cloud cover catches you and absorbs you into the sky. By the time you’re through it, it’s all moving slow enough that you can acknowledge you’re no longer part of that world now.

You belong to glimspes of mountain tips, to crests of coastlines like the edge of a fraying blanket, to fields like green circle drawings on a sheet of brown paper. Veins made of scattered miles-long vallies. Ateries of central highways that, from this height, only look dead and black.

A little higher you climb by the thousands. Clouds and white painted mountain peaks become one and the same, and you realize you are but a speck, an insignificant bit of engne to the body of an air-beast.

It soars growling with hot exhaust-breath over mountains where white accumulations of water vapor become a sea and the mountain range itself becomess a new coastline where, underneath, the creatures of land go about their lives like deep sea ceatures in this air-beast’s mind.

It’s consciousness is made of one hundred scattered cells all operating under a single law to stay alive. But, if the body gets a disease — there’s precious little these cancerous brain cells can do but panic and die in the resultant crash.

Our individual eyes and hearts and minds don’t amount to much in this scope of things, on this scale of things. Do we feel pain and can we communicate it to the inorganic beats we’ve made? Does the world feel like us — trapped in the belly of the fittest survivor, out-paced constantly by evolution?

Sentience, it would appear, is growing weaker by the elevation. Soon, the life we’ve helped design by needing to survive this way will leave us to our decaying planet. And evolution at it’s heartless, soulless, godless pace will keep on in spite of that.

Only we have invented the concepts of pain and suffering, and so we continue to tell ourselves it’s real.


There is nothing symbiotic in this. Destruction is a slow and steady course. Did we think we’d avoided that by particulars of happiness, fulfillment, intoxication and attraction, conversation and contracts?

I’m only banking around the problems, complications, odds and ends no-one can stand to face.
I’m only biting my tongue, black and blue, pressed hard against my teeth. Just so I don’t say something out of control.

Poison in my skin, poison in my head, poison in my heart chambers trying to break out. Regardless how I go or how hard we cry — no salt or saline will wash this away.

So, instead, I’ll crash and burn and still be alive on the other side.
I’ll drag this dead husk through the dust and just get clean on the other side.

To one of those ghosts, newly made.

Grandma Jane,

I can’t possibly remember everything — all the loving and giving and taking care of me you did. All you taught, shared, instilled in me. But I remember moments, snatches of time, mere glimpses into the complex depths of your life.

Summers spent in the hot sun at pools and waterparks, passing through the packed hallways of Circus Circus, down the blazing Strip. I have no recollection of what exactly you did while I slid down slides or shot water streams at surfers, winning a dunk in a ice cold water or a stuffed animal in neon stripes. But, I always knew that as soon as I neded you — there you were smiling and asking what I needed or wanted.

Always, that’s how it was. I only had to think of what I wanted to do, and there we went.

One summer, you were committed to teaching me how to quilt. It was a long week of work under bright white lamp and the sewing machine’s slow, meticulous buzz.

I didn’t apprecaite it at the time. It was never my passion as it was your’s, but the skill of sewing has never failed me in life. Now, I patch trousers and jacket with colorful patches, and I think of you. I match thread to fabric, and I quietly thank you for pushing me to learn when I’d rather be watching a movie or climbing a tree behind your house.

As both aged — you into the closing of your time and me into my adult years — I slowly learned more of you and your life. Only ever enough to wish I’d known more, seen more, experienced more with you. But, I am blessed for the moments we had. And I hold every little scrap of memory close to my heart.

You will always be remembered and loved.

And the target is right here.

This place is becoming haunted, full to the brim with ghosts I can’t expell. Each moment a new one. Each second, minute, heartbeat goes by and yet another layer, another tone or shadow is added to one more half-remembered failure, shortcoming, shortsighted pitfall.

You can’t let them go, can you?
You can’t redo, edit, reconstruct them like you do a sentence, an image, a phrase. You can’t change the sound or the lighting in the room. You can’t replay, play it back, and recut the pieces you don’t like. You can’t redub your own mind.

Like someone always said — no take-backs in this game, friend. No turn-arounds. You may think you go backward down a road you went down once, but the reality is your only making new tracks in the old mud. New mess ups in the old ruts.

You circle back around yourself like life and death. Like the cycle you so precociously bend, bow, break to. Like the revolution you keep claiming you’re working on. The light you claim you’r moving in. The hope of things you know don’t exist that you keep pretending to keep faith in.

You believe in nothing but suffering, so you wear it around your neck. Nihlistic and fatalistic, you pretend to love to get your vengence out. You pretend to play along to get your vices out. You dance along to get the rhythm down so you know just how to play the part when you are tested, tried, pressed hard.

And you wonder when you’re lied to?
And you wonder when the roof falls in from underneath you?
And you wonder when the world is still plastic static cling wrapped tight around your throat?

You’re a funny one. Sitting at your axis claiming you know how this plays down. You have all these handwritten notes and a metaphor in mind and you’re goddamn good at it, so it’s bound to go, right?

Oh, darling, you forgot. You were born with this heart of pure carbon that doesn’t work right. Over time, you never changed or moved. You’ve only been desperately searching for some lithium to combine you with, some light to let off in the reaction, some flicker of some flame to come from your heart, your soul, your brittle splintered bones.

But carbon sticks are made of nothing but charcoal dust, and those marks wipe away so easily. A single passive motion and they’re gone. Combine the dust with a bit of oil and it might stick around a while, but you still have no combustion to speak of. Without a needle and some blood, you aren’t permanent at all. And even then, just disappearing, fading, depleting yourself at a very slow rate. So death beats you to the punchline before you end up being gone.

I’d buy stock and steam in robots, actually.
Because life without blood and this egotistical self-defeat is much more likely to survive. Since we all know sinew and bone are sure to rot away. Maybe even before their time. We’re all already dead, anyway.

Have you been cured, pressed, or dried in hot sunlight?
Now might be the time…

A simple explanation

The previous three poems were joint-incidental poetry.

In chronological order:
The first was written by Ashesbrand and Ghostori
The second was written by Ashesbrand and Charcoal
The third was written by Ashesbrand, Charcoal, and Ghostori

Their creation came from a simple pattern.
A single piece of paper, “IS” written in the middle, folded in half, one half written by one person, the other half written blind by the other.

And done.

Happenstance is my only pleasure

The ability to hear is fading.
Erectile dysfunction is fading like a ghost.
A poor joke is silent.
… … …

Addiction is probably worthwhile if you’re high.
The ability to think critically is even more better.

Beauty is as good as orgasm…
or not.

Freedome is senseless.
Truth is not even worth mentioning.
Love is running out of time.

The hope that we won’t ruin it all is horrible.
Being presumptious is like running backward.


They rattle around in my head like pennies. Loose change no-one wants anymore. Worth less than the price it costs to make them. We should be debasing them. But, we don’t do it because, what a hassle? Right?

They got there in the first place because somebody, as I was growing up, thought I was a piggy bank that they’d drop these in. Little pieces of their prejudices, one by one, stacking higher on top of themselves inside my head until I was a robot spitting out phrases and pieces of conversations I’d never heard, never had, only knew the ends of. Only knew how to pass the judgement I was brimming with.

I just got stuck that way. Years and years on end without ever realizing. Until eventually, someone smashed me, broke apart this outer shell, and ruined me.

I’ve been putting myself back together, bit by bit, careful and methodical as I can, ever since.

Now, I want to be nothing of the shape my parents and teachers and friends or enemies made of me. Still made of the same materials, all the same words and phrases, the same language, same moods and phases. But, I need to arrange them desperately.

At times, it just feels impossible.
Bound, not to beauty, but to fail.

I look at you from across the street and what do I see?
A woman. A man. A transient. A hipster. A lesbian. A transvestite. An old guy. A young girl. A business man. A mother. A cyclist. A runner. A homeless. A drunk. A driver. A waitress.

A label. A category. A snappy term to lock you up with plenty of preconceived notions and set you aside with. To categorize you and throw you away with. Something small and simply defined. Some scrap, some arbitrary — probably most immediately obvious — bit of useless information that might or might not accurately portray even one small cross-section of your utterly complex life.

And yet, this piggy bank of predeteremined definitions rattles every time I look around, across the street, out a window, in the mirror.

I cannot escape what the past and history has done to me. I’m trying, but I’m steeped in it, up to my last breath in it, can’t get by without it.

So what can I do?
Reject the old names and old ways. All of them. Start from scratch, from the bottom, from zero. And build from there toward the sun, toward life, toward peace, toward love.

Oh, and be forgiving of myself when I fail.

The way around all of this is amazeballs

Today is Batman. Seriously. Fucking Batman.
The balcony is just fucking awesome.

The answer to life is less than enough.
Sense is the best ever. Truth is missing.
Bullshit is completely without purpose.
Pain is completely out of control.

Regret is similar to a rotten apple.

Stupidity is surprisingly worthwhile.
Charcoal is like I said — full of hate.

A metaphysical dilemma is more disappointing than anything else.