Prepping the liquid embezzlement

entranced by the journey

of air to sand to stone.

The lakes of you, feeling a presence,

making it a point

to break apart my favorite boulder.


An oasis only exists

for those in need of sustenance.


you stand empty

surrounded by empty

a droplet sharing no notable meaning

beyond, “continue”.



some nights

I glide.


I think I’m in the middle of one of those nights.



The Winter in Your Eyes

You walk along the frozen pathways

trying to torch every frosted blockade.

The mind lacks road signs,

and we regret to inform you–

the dead ends are numerous.


When the sun rises behind your eyes

it is sure to set with a soft twitch of

the bottom lip.

Look too long,

brightness tends to

spread, break, dissipate.

Close them.


Remembering can strip you

of even the blanket branded

with the biggest name.



pull what you can of

the warmth between your

mistaken steps.

You have at least two hands

ready to caress the wetness

thawing beneath your rise.

I Mean, How Do We Know?

People who attempt suicide say they become overwhelmed with thoughts of how they don’t want to end it all. They remember their lives, and think of what they are truly worth.


I mean, isn’t that just our survival mechanisms kicking in? I would say it’s our biology taking advantage of our clearly-feeble emotions in order to continue the existence of our being, since like…I dunno, that’s what instincts do.

So how does one know, in that moment, if they really do want to end it all? Someone certainly does, right? It cannot be that every life taken by the one who previously lived it was one worth living. There are some shitty feelings felt by people, and some see no end in sight.


I’m just asking, y’know. How do we know?


I like how this post is the first in a while, and it’s all suicide-y and lightly seasoned with tin foil. It’s like, when people go through my shit at the end of my life, they can be like, “well here you can see the post where his mind began to truly falter. Sad, sad tale, that one. Such a great man, with his medium height and lack of ambition. He really could have been something!”



Mis-purposed Ribcage (Fiction)

I sit there with an expression on my face that reads like a speechless thought bubble. I rock back and forth with the bumps and bruises encountered by the bus. My eyes will sometimes attempt to look into the lives of other by perusing their skin, their clothing. Sometimes, they would endeavor to see the person in a sexual light, even if underneath such illumination lay one quite unfitting to my tastes, even if such a fact was well observable without the help of a candle’s flicker.

My nostrils grow and fall, rustling the dust above my lip. I do not notice. I notice the trees, launching by me and the rest of the passengers at the speed of stillness. It amazes me how such a land-locked being could appear to move so much more than I, though I have feet with which to transport my tired vessel.

The rampant belongings of thought tumble in my skull, and the fingers of sentence structure can not grasp any ideas longer than a moment too small for measure. I realize this, and can do nothing for it. It leaves me feeling like I need a blanket, despite the lack of cold. It makes me want to undress all at once, lay myself down on the dirty floor, rest the breath in my chest, in my head. I feel too open and too closed, like an empty bar in a secluded lot, right off the side of a highway on holiday. Tabs are open, but they’re all in names I have just made up. Margery doesn’t exist anymore than Mike’s piss stains in the corner. Everything stands as a shadow against a wall, a shadow whose owner has long since left the embrace of the too-white glare blazing from beyond the barstools. .  

Too open. Too closed.

I am simply trying to ride the bus home, but my mind has decided instead to raid me of rational sensation, in favor of irreducible aches induced by clues – clues leading up to a mystery that no one can be satisfied with, once they unravel its delicate threads. Such is the way of our addiction to stimulation.

I will do it for you, leave the moral unbound, right here and now. Reach down to the floor, and pick it up for me. For you.


Nothing is ever so easy as allowing oneself to believe in the dull, dark captivation of their own cold, lonely core.  

The chest begs to break, but…

The ribcage is without cause anyway.

The Mind at Work (Poem)

Touch tender sense and sigh;

the last letters line the trail

left by your fingertip

on the edge of every thought

I left home without.

Training the mind and serving time

like an appetizer to each day

wondering why the stomach never fills

just renews

every moon

every noon.

Striped are the covers of others

while far-fetched angles laugh.

Enter sign, restart time,

justice is only as swift

as the blade that’s made of glass.