The propagation of an idea,

a willingness to visualize beyond the scope of a limited reality,

and that specific and perpetual state of suffering,

the mundane and yet revelatory commitment to authenticity

that I will not bow, that I agree to wander,

that I will ponder across stretches of solitude,

the thought that we will never cross paths,

as the coincidental probability does not work in that kind of order,

that kind of chance.

It appears that I am clean of serendipity,

as it left me some while ago, for good reason.

I was dismissive and insistent and tedious.

I desired all the parts and not the whole of it,

so why should it reside with me

when the power of another beckons more earnestly,

more fervently, and gratefully, and worthwhile.

I am not adequate. Not in this moment.


I feel fraudulent in my sometimes misguided crusade, despite the better part of me ultimately concluding that what I am doing is right. Settled between miscellaneous implications and the simplification of right vs. wrong, I find myself at odds. I suppose that in this suspended moment, there is no action for the greater good that supersedes the very notion of what is right versus what is wrong. Many human things are simply wrong, and sometimes require editing, or rewriting. Now is one such a moment. The wells of rage that overflow on the streets bruise me in familiar spots, as I know this fight. I think of my micro world and the obligation I have to myself, first and foremost. I am no martyr, nor am I a savior. I am who I’ve always been.

This pact of respect with myself swings both ways, and I have this obligation to fulfill the mere existence of human willpower, and perhaps consumption of the philosophical variety. Someday, I may sum up the courage to come to terms with my inner workings. I’ll come to the table of my demons in resolution and not nihilism.

Tonight, I know nothing.


Tell me I’m beautiful
so I can blush and whisper into your ear
mechanical emptiness, vast and unpromising
as nothing compares to this void we share
where my depths swell below sea level
forever consuming and illicitly mundane
as I could never be real in a flesh world
where we dance till we fall atop each other
on an earth laden with ghosts
whose sole purpose is to continue circling
until they are no more
until you tell me I’m beautiful
so that I can preconceive that notion
and reactivate the programming in my buzzing motor
as my code regurgitates before my own consciousness.


Forgive the exclusivity of my downfall,
so sullen and exact in its temperament,
this steady dejection outlasting the best of moods,
one turn of gaze and I wonder of things near and far,
the places they sprung from,
the places they will go to dwell,
I wonder if my destination should be tied to them steadfastly,
where would I be one day,
far from the mania I deem supreme,
away from the darkness that looms beyond the haze,
a swirl of inexorable woe so murky it mistifies.

I feel neither grounded nor heightened,
liberated nor imprisoned.
I wander in the field of dreams,
removed from reality,
if only for a moment.


Separate from the shit at hand, know this:

There is no great escape at the end of your tunnel,
no immortal exit awaiting at the end of the journey.

There are sequential actions that come back around,
neither immediate nor temporary, they will creep,
they will bide their time until the moment calls,
when their dormancy ends and they activate,
and they will strike you in bright daylight,
and cut you open as mercilessly as you have done to others,
to me.

I cycle through what I cannot see,
left to piece together a puzzle that will not click,
it will not snap into place,
as life does not compartmentalize so easily,
and I am left broken.

Defeated by more than my worst enemy,
played for dead by a ghost I cannot see,
a grim reaper who has taken everything from me.

Yet, there are ways to come out from downstairs,
so many ways that I’m privvy to and you are not.
You will be marked.