Physiological (dis)advantage

These words are as good as any at explaining:

I was looking for something I know, like Carbon, I will never get. A drug that makes the pain less apparent, the hurt just hurt less. Something to take edge off. It’s easy if your body’s the one complaining, but I’ve got this broken spirit in my bones that doesn’t know how to go numb.

I’m nervous and wasted, and I’m not making any progress.
But then, nobody is.

An empty circle where 9 multiplied adds up to 4, and suffering lends itself entirely to death.
A hollow cycle with bone and long dead dried flesh tied with copper strands to my heart. And these stories of ghosts tied to my soul. And this spirit that, for all intents and meaning, just doesn’t exist.

I trusted the wind and it blew me here.
I ought to redefine the things I love or hate, but I don’t know how.
I ought to define the fights I fight, but no-one’s listening on the inside, anyway. So, what’s the point? Just to point out the weak spots in the corners of the walls where the sound leaks in and the cold seeps out and in the winter, will we be warm?

The cold and grey outside is hotter here than you’d think. But soon. Come November and the rain will be coming down in sheets. Rivers flowing in frozen archs down States streets. And the days are getting shorter, with the dawn easier than ever to catch when you wake up from nightmares in the middle of the night. Terrors that grip you and grab you are the return to the teasing spirits. Those haunts coming back to haunt you and help you get through the long winter’s night.

Am I making any sense?

Oh, how this drug is intoxicating, even when I’m not on it.
This darkness is excessively truncating, even when I manage to avoid it.
And the sensation of being wide awake is–
Wait. Am I awake right now?

Carbon, Kopia, minha doce, are you listening? Am I fizzing and releasing myself into the air? Two more breaths and a branch or leaf will take me in. God, I’d rather be a part of it all than here, alone.

Obem ikedo.

I can alter my state if I medidate on the things I both love and hate.
I’ll try when I’m awake… tomorrow.

Roots rot out underneath us from time to time

These roots are bitter, rotten, and I’m pulling them all up to show people who I think might see the ends and understand. To point to the places I’d gone bad and prove my process somehow. To pick out the rotten stuff, splay them, and put these false convictions, contradictions, conflagrations out.

I keep telling myself and thinking someone is paying any attention, but no-one recalls the conversation where I stopped and just said it. So what, exactly now, is my motivation? Subconscious indoctrination? Is this the way my mind works these days?

I’m making stories and lies and manipulations. Pulling strings and tying knots and hoping someone outside of my skin and bones notices. I’m uprooting all the things I once believed in to get myself away from the dock’s edge. But I’m wondering: where do I go to get inside, out of the rain, out of the pain after this?

The fire of all those old homes is still warm. I can feel it from here. But I know just how those fires burn, and I’ve got scars to last me years and years inside themselves, and that’s enough.

I might be running backward away from things, but I can’t say I fear not seeing straight anymore.
I think the straightness that I thougth I saw was a tattered and torn rendition of reality, and I think when we sat and fought and talked together — we were tearing it even more.

Like how heaven fell flat before me on the curb in a planter full of trash beside a movie theater. Like how god just got thinner and thinner and thinner the more we went about the edges of it, the further we dug hard down into it. Like how we sat close together in hard cold church rows and got talked over. Like how we didn’t find those rows comforting and comfortable on our backs when we went back anymore.

Like how I see between the lights and can read between the lines, and I wonder who else is doing it too.

Like how I can come up with lies and lines that will get everyone I love to do the things I want, but how I don’t want to be that way now.

Like how we both settle in the same goddamn ruts when we try to climb back out.
There’s only seven trillion of us, and not even one seems get it right.
My aim gets off and this arrow flies slightly too far south, every time I think I’m doing fine.

I guess, in the end, there’s only getting up and trying again.
And in doing it — if I have everything to fear, I have nothing to lose.

Return to me.

Like any lover, loved one dead and gone — the air is still mourning your passing, your going and leaving us behind. The metaphors and metaphysical signs were not enough to sate the beast of a hunger, thirst, craving desperate and deep that got left in this previously hollow, hallowed out space. The thunder and sun promised that this gaping hole in our hearts would be filled again, once we came to it. But, whenever the wind blows, goddamn it — I still feel it ache.

I was in love with hope in a frozen moment of my life.
And I cried and cried the moment I knew that it was gone.
My god, how can I get up again?

Loves like beasts who beat my premature heart were nothing in comparison to this.
Dead at corners and crosses that didn’t ever exist.
A light that shone all night in alternating tones was something I walked silent through. Rainbows at our front and nothing at our backs. We were ready to be shot but the orange-liers all knew better and the lines around our wrists could be snapped and broken, after all. So we rode in one last craft, one last car to a home that was never more than a space to set our things down while we wandered around.

I was there — a brief moment in its arms again. In that grasp of the growing monster, yet again.
There are black cages without gates being raised against the things I was back then.
Is there any way you and I can back away at this rate?

There is no way to return the past to the things we become. No way to gain access to the things behind us that we want. No chance to relive all the moments we’ve already lost.

I wish for nothing but life back.
And yet, this road before me stretches only forward and on. So, there’s nothing but to take it all the way it goes, and hope and hope and hope I build into it some stairs to another road along the way.

The future’s grim, at best.
And some of us disappear before we even get there.

Oh well.
Oh well.

Settle down.

There’s a sensation settling in. A little unnerving, as it is, due to the increasing rate of the possibilities of complexities that the heart and the bones are slowly beginning to learn. Vagueties about realities that had better remain in the back corners under rugs where real reality is safest, like under shadows and unconstructed floorboards with no nails driven through them to hold it all down.

Metaphorically speaking, we are making leaps and bounds.

But, if you will, just break the image down into as many bite-size, dumbed-down brain-sized pieces as you can. Just so our undermatured intellects can handle it all in stride, see? We’re really fucking trying.
And meanwhile, nobody notices if and then while the one with the magaphone and nothing of value to say keeping rambling on.

The volume at which that idiot is screaming makes it impossible to not have, at least, a little bit of something interesting to say to the effect of whether or not we’re agreeing with the statements being made.

Aruge that and what have you got?

There’s this steaming, warmish pile of things everybody seems to be collecting that — simply put — have no use. If they get stacked on top of each other, the pile only grows worse. But on the other hand, the situation is worse every day at any rate, and there’s this hole in the heart of the trees that carpenter bees have burrowed through — so, hoenstly, dude, what’s the use?

Ranting, raving, terrified and screaming – everything ends up at some point in the circle. In fact, we only have try to pause to realize we never really left. The collective pronouns are being ground into the ground. Ane real meaningful relationships expand to overtake the meanings that our forebearers might have meant and known and gotten through themselves. But, you, right now — do you know?

I think the greening grass and the antlers in our hands have no idea, too.

We might be approaching the apocolpyse, but the revolution will be pretty fucking thin.
So go inside and get your head down because there’s not a whole lot left to keep faith in.
The sun — our source of life, after all — will burn a hole right through your skin.
Hurry. Go get some metal sunblock on.


Wind is blowing like storms around me, all the time. I have this passion, this desire, these dreams and these hopes that I can’t/wont’/don’t want to let go of. I know where/why I’ve happened upon them. I don’t think the roads/paths/thoroughfares to them were any good. I’m the first to admit this. But, the places they’ve taken me I can’t say I despise. Not yet, anyway.

I look back from time to time over pages and pictures, over images and concepts. And I know the vision of myself from then is flawed/bad/off/just shy of the mark. I have a hard time coalescing this with my current emotion/mood/position. I always feel like I am better/worse than I am.

I am extremely conflicted/intentioned/motivated.
I have a lot of secrets/goals/justifications.
I’m on my way somewhere/nowhere even if its just the same as here.

I run/stay/fight/relinquish because I hate the sameness/dissonance of the situations I find myself in.
I admit this before you get too close/comfortable/scared/annoyed.
I admit this so you/I already know. This moment/life/dream/hope is never going to work/last/change/stay the same.

We are spinning wheels on a merry-go-round that brings up back and back and back to all the same places that we’ve left. Nothing/Everything changes. Up and down/back and forth — we move in the same directions for eternity because these are the only things we three dimensional beings know.

If we could fold ourselves up into ribbons of vibrations, I wonder at what worlds/creatures/lives/lights we’d see. I wonder at what voices/sounds/music we’d hear. I wonder what it’d change.

Nothing, I suspect. But, I could be entirely wrong.
These are guesses from a vast imagination that doesn’t/won’t exactly take on reality full-faced. So, take this for what you will. I’m a manipulator/liar/storyteller, and I know who my audience is.

So I think.


I come back because I hope you’ll be here.
I keep writing because, on the off chance, I hope you’re still reading.
You are half dead and half gone and fully disappeared from this disaster I’ve kept sitting in,
but I keep on, keep up, keep this going on the hard odds that you’ll get something out of me.

A bit of smoke blows cold and sharp in your eyes,
and it’s the only thing that brings tears,
brings the water out.

I wonder as I wander this world why in hell’s name I’m so alone.
Oh that’s right…
The devices we use to fight the demons,
devils, terrors, and nightmares away
are all the same.

Oh, Nevermind.

Hope is for someone else,
someone who believes in purpose and free will and choice and god.
Someone who believes in light and dreams coming true.
Someone who has faith to have hope in something for.

I’m just skin and blood and bones.
I’m just muscle, barely toned.
I’m just a faint and a couple of cuts away from death.
I’m just darkness on the doorstep of the day.
There’s no escaping because there’s nowhere else to go.

Do you still have this hope to hold?
In what/what for.
Do you wake up screaming or crying or still just wondering why you keep trying?
Have you loved everyone, anyone, yourself yet? At all? Ever? Just once?
A single second in which the mind hiccups, coughs, and something in the back of a single thought makes you think, just this once, you’ve got something right.

But you know you’re lost…

There is nothing to get, to find, to give, to hold on to or for or from.
We are all falling, upside down.
The air goes up before it comes back down.
We’ll drown before we get a grasp on it.
We’ll be dead before anyone else knows it.

In white bedsheets with wires and ropes, with dials and tones, with gelatin falsely flavored and packed by machines–
machines that make us breathe
into little cups
So that when your so-called loved ones go,
you hardly have got anything to feel at all.

Antispetic, please put this antibacterial hand wash in your eyes.
Are you going fucking blind?
Can we get a second opinion, a second guess, a second to have a second to think this one through?
Do you know who died in the car crash? In the shooting? On the news?
Did you hear it come to pass, pass the underpass, just past.
Did you hear it?
Did you hear?

We have transmittions transmiting the latest, out to the ground level, every day.
Did you know?
Your paper, producer, product label told you so.
Have you seen/read/heard?

This is the best thing.
Have a slice, a cut, a taste, a sample of the best we’ve got.
Go ahead. Give it a shot.
We’ve got lots…

We’re all so fucking lost.
Some smarter, wiser, gracious spirit/wind/breath save us all.

Life and/or Death

Pain and consciousness are bullshit principles we’ve crafted, steeped long in fear and hate to make ourselves seem better, more important than we really are. What is import but the amount of emotional gravity an individual can ascertain? And, in the end, isn’t our material mass worth more than all that tripe emotional manipulation?

This body is on a slow road toward decay to feed the systems I was built entirely on.
And when I exhale now, I feed a forest with the wake.

But, all this semi-spirituality only perpetuates itself on and on into a broken system where I can’t see life breed at all. An immobile static system that aims only to reach zero kelvin and then cease to exist at all. An eternity of nothing, no motion, no change, and no growth or death.

Please. Correct me if I’m wrong.
But I think these ideologies are destroying the whole world.
And to finish the transformation, we pump our bodies full of chemicals to keep the rotting far at bay. To fill the ground with pieces of concrete that keep the rest of life at bay.
So, in utter darkness, stale and useless, we will never fall away.

Don’t preserve me when I die.
I want to be devoured entirely by life.
And through my rotted veins and broken bones, the circle can spin on.

We have no choice in this but try desperately to escape it.
What a waste of effort and effect.
We might as well cut off our own heads with these cancered hands.

We might as well burn out our sun so we can pray to our god of nothing at all.

Failure to–

A handful of c—words come to time.


The last, first, middle one is the right one. The only one I was looking for, searching, hunting, begging, drowning for. But these massive failures amass like mud in a dirt field getting showered in the rain. Nothing goes or grows or moves but the mud up your legs, your thighs, your face and chest, your eyes and breast. You’ll be sucked down beneath the surface before you even know it.

How about you come to me, come with me, stake and shake and break up with me? Come and try and see if you can wake up with me. This light like sunshine is blinding in your eyes. We say, we say, we say…


Nothing is necessary and nobody does good or bad.
We only pull the strings we’ve got sewn into our hands. Like puppeteers who’re tied to the puppets they control. A massive mass of lines connecting this point to that person and a to c and c to g and the end of the rope is in there somewhere with a knot tied around a stick that we could use to break it, snap it, cut it loose and end it. But you and I are just one/two of the trillion lines tied ever so tight to it.

What a happy hope we’ve got.
Ha. Ha.

Someone says it’s nature, nuture, the world or instinctual residue from ages past. Someone says its fate and slated and predestined destinations where the monolithic gods love us the best. Some say its the brain and the amount of it you can learn to use. Or the amount of hair and muscle you can use to bruise it. Some even go all the way to say it’s programming we can’t escape because it’s the only thing that sets us apart at all.

Oh but, the monkies love and make love, but we are building buildings to hold back the truth of the light and the air from one another. We filter and filter and add filler until the experience is ruined and reality is going down and we are live, right now, on a screen before your very eyes.

Someone else lived for you, for me, for everyone who was ever born.
Time to die, minha doce.
Time to lie.

C’mon. We’ll be gold on the other side.
Other side?
Ha. Ha. Ha.
Lots of c—words come to mind.
And I won’t say a single one.

A candle in a beeswax mason jar is all we are. Burn until the wick is gone. Burn until the wax is done. Burn until you smell the smell of your own fleshing burning. Then, just try and put yourself out.

I dare you.
— to succeed.

A natural cyncism

On swollen, over-worked, untreated feet, I am approaching a new end. The edge. The ledge we all fall off in our sleep. Pray to sandmen and fairy queens, but none of these come to terms with what’s wrong inside.

The connections we plug into each other are fake, false, and not worth the light they shed.
The community and family is dead.
Your god is weeping in a bad seat back row of a church where you and your’s no longer go. Have you prayed for these seeds, this meal, your feelings today?

The wild knows us better than we know ourselves. A single wingtip made of feathers covered in dust is realer than our strucutres made of sand and oil, of spit and blood, of the tears we shed over our brothers and sisters and mother’s father’s heads. Over the over-lived and under-dead.

Are you coming apart at the seams? This seems reasonable, my friend.
Are you coming unglued unstuck, under-tucked from the life you were trying to live, my friend?

We are pieces of a greater puzzle that was blown apart with weapons fashioned to destory our interactions and our concepts of the context that we once were supposed to remember that we had.
Have you ever seen the jungle or feared for your life in the winter snow that came too early and there was no way out and no way to know and no warmth in the dead of it to go back home to?

We sleep on the backs of others we can never know. Eat food from hands who have grown so distant even wires and chains and shackles of the future don’t keep us in touch anymore. We have outgrown the world, and in doing so, over-grown our hearts with tripe tribulations that don’t amount to much.

We cry because we are alone.

But our sleep is founded solely in this comforting fact, so swallow your tears and sleep well tonight.
The night only ever comes in half-light and we won’t grow tired of it, now.
We only cease to grow when we are old enough to die.

For my part, I’m a happy and productive member of the things I hate.
I hope, you too, can get along just fine.
We won’t see anything on the other side.

Air is like a breath, but thinner and frail.

I am pressing up against you, hot and hard. Sweat pouring from my every pore. Desperate with desire, brimming with passion to take you, consume you, alter you, and return you to this world.

Inside, I am a demon waiting to destroy you.
I am an angel praying to all the gods that I can save you.
I am life needing to devour you.
I am death waiting to birth you.

This intersection where we bisect each other for a brief moment is the last thing I can cling to. The last word on the last page of patience, tolerance, acceptance, and avoidance. Where you end and I begin, I’ll never tell. Where love ends and hatred begins, I’ll never know.

Piece me together and pull me back apart. I’m like a bit of rubber waiting to snap. A thin thread of hope and trust, a fragile line of lies and truth. I’ll break if you press too hard against the surface that for all intents and purposes looks like glass.

But I’m not maliable plastic or pressure-steady glass. I’m a hardly substantial film of soap over a ring with nothing in between. I’m an echo of voices that once existed, have been dead for centuries and histories have gone between us and them.

The weight of the world is on no-one’s shoulders but gravity that bears it so eloquently.
Effortless it disappears before these tangible and physical eyeballs that take shape and form and color and read the world into them.
I breathe in and out and there is a reality that never existed between me and this space. A mutlitude of ghosts and spirits that have no weight and give no proof to their depth and girth.

They pass before me like hands smoothing out a sheet.
But for all the effort, I will never ease out.
The tension built into me is the tension poised between life and death and all I can do is wait

An edge is only the shift between one thing and another and I have been dancing it, inadvertantly, forever. Dance with me if you dare to fall and forget the falling.

The ground never hurts if you forgive it first.