Waiting on strings

Loss burns like a piece of red charcoal in my belly. An ember that would, were it outside me, provide light. But buried so, it doesn’t glow but gives me sleepless nights. Long aching nights of dreams cluttered with unfulfilled wishes,  confusing complicated terms of agreement, partners who aren’t partners, loves I don’t love, faces I don’t know. A stranger’s house and stranger sensations when some stranger across a strange room says, “You’re home.”

Home was a shrine and a gas lit fire. Home was a tent pitched on wooden pallets. Home was a room full of clutter. Home was mottled memories in sleepless nights that I could not place. Home was a treasure chest that did not exist. Home was spirits, angels, demons, ghosts (Call them what you will.). Home was your bed, safe and warm.

I feel restless. Trampled. Hopeless. Homeless.
Maybe someone took a knife in the night and cut my heart out. My soul, spirit, ghost out. Maybe we were right and I was the one who was never whole. Never sanded down or finished. Not weatherproofed or lie-proofed, or quick witted enough to know the difference.

Life is long and laborious once all your definitions have sad rings to them. Once all your explanations have loss attached to them. Once every dream is an out-dated stained glass window waiting for the next religion to come in and smash it to pieces. Once trust has all run out.

I carried in a secret case a thing I called faith. It was blind, untested trust. I carried it around everywhere I went only to empty it out. I may have drained it quicker than I thought. Now this case collects dust and ghosts of the past. Shards of reality as constant reminders of places and faces I’ve loved, known, trusted strong and fast. If I reach in now, they get stuck in my fingers, drawing blood.

But if life is pain and suffering brings realization, I don’t think it led me wrong.
I am only looking for what to dust myself clean with and what to refill faith with.
I have a feeling, a hunch, a trepidation in a sense, that reality will show me.

The wheel always turns.


I will always miss you.

But, seven years, and I was soaked through and you were turned to ash, so what were we supposed to do? Make soap?

It was funny. and we both laughed, “No.”

Doesn’t matter. You are now a character, a characteristic, a mood in all of my stories, and I will never let your ghost go. Whether you know it or not.

Seven years and I will henceforth carry you like a napsack, a messenger bag, a rolled up waterproof panier wherever I go.
How can I not?

Though it’s a shadow that lets me know you won’t know it. That autumn brought death of a kind I guess I was waiting for, but didn’t want. Death of a kind I always get. Death of a kind I never get. A kind I’ve been running from for years, seven plus itself four times and then some.

I love you anyway, water. I can’t change that. I don’t want to. Maybe, seven plus itself a few more times and I’ll forget how bad it feels on this side of it.

Maybe not.

Time to fuck off or get pissed off or quit.

Second time the joke’s on me. And you can bet next time you ask me if this is gonna fuck shit up — the answer will be “yes”. Nine times seven, yes. Oh, but it’s not because of me. It’s all you. Don’t worry. I get it.

I’ve had it up to choking point with dudebros and dudebros posing as over-anxious feminists who act like the world is their sandbox to kick around in. Like I’m a boat to row home safe in. Life if you act “as weak as me”, I’ll throw you some bones with a bit of meat still on ’em.

And I’ve had it up to suffocating point with being told what sex is. See, this box is mine and I get to say what goes in it. I’m not taking something away because its nothing that you had, so quit your belly aching. Your pouting looks pathetic and your jokes are worse and these are the reasons you’ll never hear from me again.

You don’t like it?

Go ahead and cry. I’m sure some dudesis will listen, willing to cave in and play the notes just how  you say.

In another universe we got along and I won’t let myself keep thinking that it’s too bad.
Godspeed to you all, for whatever that amounts to.

Displacement as a lifestyle

I made imaginary dog friends because nobody would talk to me. I wrote letters to imaginary future mates because no-one wanted letters to read. I passed notes in secret holes to people I didn’t know because I was getting used to the void.

I typed my secrets to distant strangers because I didn’t know how to speak. I created worlds and filled them with people because I didn’t know how to find friends. I whispered prayers to the stars because I didn’t know how to cry for help.

And one day, what was born of desperation became a craft.
And what became a craft grew into a passion.
And that passion sparked fires that lit the ground and exposed new paths in the night I could go by.

If I could redo it all, I’d have come the same way. Made the same mistakes. Been the same me.
In this shifting flux, at least that much is a comfort. That I will look back and think — those were necessary rocks to scamper across and I’m glad I took the passes that I did and made the scars I did and went the way I did. It all evens out on the other end.

And I’d never be this if it wasn’t for the forced isolation, cultural disconnection, and confusing barriers that my semi-nomadic beginnings instilled in me. And I’d never be where I am without delving in and exploring those depths.

Autumn and change and a chill is in the air. Wet drops of rain fall like tears of nature on my cheeks, and I am reminded that I am a single thread in an expanding universe on a multi-dimensional landscape with infinite possibilities, all just as real as any choice I should ever choose.

And that regardless of where I stand at one point, I could always find my way to another.

On and on

You made me learn that I took “friend” too seriously. Didn’t realize it’d make me the chaff. Didn’t know I’d get blown away in the wind when it blew across your summer skin. Oh, but that’s just the way it is. I can waste time saying “I hate it”, but why bother?

Moments shone bright like they were stolen secrets we shouldn’t be allowed. We were children sneaking treats. We were rebels stealing lights from the main streets of this town. We burned it up. Paper, plastic, or charcoal — it didn’t matter much.

Scars bled black ink down our skin and stain pictures on the walls. Reminded us why we’re here and what a mess we’re all in. And do we think we’ll change the seasons because we don’t like a few of them?

Death and life is just a wheel, and you know I know that. But nobody likes it when the wheels turn and it’s you and I that get twisted up in the spokes. Like we weren’t as far in the center as we thought. Like when we held hands and said things we meant, it meant nothing to the wind. Nothing to the ghosts that drive change. Nothing to the causational vibrations of the universe.

It’s probably true, but I still consider you and the universe my friends. If that means I’ll get screwed again? Ah well, so it goes.

From a different place, older and gone now.

Skepticism, cynicism, nihlism.

I’ve swallowed enough of that poisoned water to get me in trouble. Now, I’ve got these lumps in my throat and I’m pretty sure it’s cancer. The rich doctor thinks I should het my tongue taken out. “Save my life, anyhow,” he tells me.

And you tell me what’s the point of a life without a voice? I’m a homo sapien sapien and that means physically, I’ve already lost the evolutionary race. Not even in last place – we didn’t even finish before the banners  ame down and the tents were all packed up. I mean bottom of the fucking barrel we are. So, don’t think I’d like to keep on in tbis ramshackle body with the couple of tools nature:s left me.

Language is one. Spiritual sensibility is the other. Put them boh together and you’ve got a story. That’s all this bllod and bone doll is worth and I know it.

I’ll stick to what I’m passably good at. And if its cancer and I’m dead tomorrow?


A rose by another other name, eh?

What good did it do? To have grown wings but not know how to fly? To have unravelled ready sails into a dead sky? To have sung along, out of tune? To have tried and failed, tried and failed, tried and failed on an infinite loop?

I got blamed so many times for never seeing. But truth was I stopped speaking. Kept quiet, to myself, because I got tired of calling things out. Worried the bruises from beatings like that wouldn’t ever go away. I walked on broken stones and felt I’d carry the splinters burrowed inside everywhere I’d go.

And from those depths, I called myself zero. Nothing.

A seeker is what others called me.
Strong. Fierce. Passionate. Hospitable.
“Bound” is what my parents called me before I was born.

And for years, I tried to smother all that out. But fuck. Don’t you know I just want to keep you safe? Protect things with my life? Bind ties and wrap lines of truth, trust, love around all of us?

Slowly I’m learning that I’m willing to play the fool, to jump without knowing what’s below if I know with certainty that — in the end — it’ll mean something.


A smile in your memory. A shadow of happiness cast over photographs no-one else will ever see. A glimmer of some hope, some knowledge that — come anything, it’ll be okay. There is always a way to get up, carry on, try again. Because peace and love must be within and among each one of us.

It’s what I’m betting on. I wonder if I’ll lose?


Hot late summer sun glaring on my skin. I sit in my soft green chair and do the same things. Over and over again. I don’t know that I’m awake. I don’t know that I’m fully here.

Lost in rituals from pasts made up, lost in green eyes that don’t exist, lost in “Do you trust me?” Lost in “Will you? Do you want to?”

I should make a pot of tea, simmer down these spirits, calm this rattling claptrap mind. But in these early, first waking hours — I don’t want to.

Want to listen to vapour trails of dreams like tentacles or hairs holding on to me. Want to drop into ice cold realities, stark white against black backgrounds. I want to sink teeth into Carbon. I want to drown in Lithium.

Tashi wa kanashi luoco — but I don’t feel it just yet. Not right now. Not lying curled up in this warm bed. In the afternoon, late into the long dreary day of doing things the same way, if you want to remind me — well, that will be okay. Twist a bit of lemon peel, orange rind, and shake a little salt on my mind. Remind me that whatever’s easy comes out silly, prosey, clunky and unhoned.

Remind me: come next summer, you’ll be bogged down in editing.
Yes, and that’ fine too.

But for now, it’s working and I’m rolling with the waves.
I’ll get the sand out of my teeth, hair, face when the time comes.
And it will.

Unicorns and Dragons

I’m so fucking high tonight.

Flying on clouds of lust, sex, cum, and bodies panting so hard we knock pictures off the wall.

Love of the moon waning against my skin as satellites glint and disappear overhead. We call unknown flares in the sky shooting stars. We call teeth and nails against our skin, love. Gazing into the future and the past at the same time. Stars in the vastness of reality ten miles up, we can guess will burn out over time. Ah, but doce, we see them for now.

Candles flare and we’re naked here. I come and I ask you, minds pressed together, to come for me. We shiver and shake and press against each other in the candeless dark tonight. I toss and turn because my bones press against the ground and my nerves tingle like fuzzy buzzing green blankets clogging drier vents. Just trash cans full of this crazy shit.

I stir and turn, but did I sleep? Snatches here and there, oh sure. And over time, the light compared to darkness changes shape. A hint of dawn and I am on the edge of morning, now. Memories collect and condense on my skin, my nerves sensing pressure of your body all night long.

The whir of an electric coffee grinder makes me wake, think, want to show you my personal treasures too. Years of attempts I’ve been making to be better, better, better. I struggle pretty hard, harsh, rough and wild. Like an animal. Onagi vida. Drowning or swimming in the passion of others, same as me.

Words like outlier, magician, wheels and rocks and reality. We lay out on docks and listen to the non-existent frogs. Out on the water and wait, wait, wait…

But I’m tired of waiting, so come into my arms. My hips. Make motion, rhythm, rhymes with your body and mine. Like poetry spinning threads that will intertwine around my heart like a spider’s web.

Words like codes and programming that access hurt in me made overtime. Compliments that are the breeze blowing in through an open window on a late summer’s morn.

We rise and fall like rhythms in a set, notes in a song, melody and harmony — and I’m drawn to you.
Is it good? Is it safe?

I’m trusting that it is right now.
Ask me again if I care what the future brings.
We already know its death and tolls and time folding in on itself again.
Entropy fights chaos and we are imaginal threads.

Come, sit, spin with me.


A dream-like state. A fascination with what is beyond the threshold. What lies beyond.

A murky pond or the sea. A salted lake or the ocean? Skies upward toward vacuum or ten vertical miles of landscape, on and on?

I’m running at a frantic pace, and if I had hollow bones, I’d jump. The wind would pick me up, carry me across the planes holding me in, and I’d break free into orbit in another galaxy. In another life line, I’ve already done it all. I’ve already jumped and fallen. I’ve already held your hand. We’ve already said goodbye.

It’s all said and done. And are we happier for it?

Another me says yes. Another, no.

Variables on end in an endless creative sea of choices, chances, raising the stakes, betting it all and losing it.

Life and death when seen in these non-linear patterns don’t matter quite as much. If the roots rot before the tree falls, when it’s born again — they grow back. Or grow into another tree and continue on in that way. One layer upon another in a milieu of moments stretching contingent on nothing but the balance of chaos and entropy.

We are but chaotic entropes diving into endless seas of vibration. A mess of instability. Change and the turning of wheels, once designed, is a course of inevitability.

Does it hurt?

Why no, not at all.

I was born to suffer, to fight, to die. I have no struggle but this one to engage in. I’ve got gloves and a fighting spirit. Come on, 死神. Just you try and get me. Write my name down in your book and take my years. What difference does a few less make to a temporal being?

Not much.

As I drift asleep, I’m already falling, flying, living, dying.

It makes sense to be one.
Magician and the wheel of fortune.

Critical, analytical. Ah, but that means free from the chains of restrictions the outer edges of reality tried to place on me. Sleight of hand and a bending of tricks, teasing apart reality, and finding on the other side — it’s actually quite thin.

I’m learning.
If I close my eyes, I can see right on through.
And so can you.

Let’s play together in the ether. Get our hands messy. Jump in thickets of thorny reason and pick the needles of empathic intuition out of our hearts and scatter them loosely on the ground. Passer-bys will slip on them, and we’ll all get bloody muddy in the extra-dimensional muck, but hey — I’m excited. Aren’t you?

This is what it feels like to breathe.
Sharp at first, then smooth like a sweet drug that sets you right at peace.

Another year older. Another step closer. Another image set shuffled like cards in a big fat deck. I’ve got so many now it’s getting harder and harder to sneak a peek, stack the deck, cheat. Getting easier just to play along for the time being.

Until the fire burns right through me. Then I’ll be ash and dust and the wind will blow me away.
And that’s okay, too.