Excavation

There is a diary

on the edge of our nightstand

tiny

it can be held

tightly

opened with one hand

the writing 

scribbled mostly

scrawled in a 

fiery 

frenzy 

emotional bursts 

confusion

declarations of immortality

the drawing 

of incorrect conclusion

I hope that in time

we can be lazarus

beautiful 

share futures

as monsters of frankenstein

you'd still see our sutures

on knees

I crawl around

for evidence

for proof

digging in the ground

my shovel hits our roots

hear sirens of police

they're still too far to see

piling back on dirt

hastily

trap a part of me

as i run away

i register a thought 

of time and of its worth

of what cannot be bought

reach right through the filament

exchange innards 

for treatise 

your eyes 

the beauty

long-dead galaxies

race light years to

plant their brilliant seeds

Fira

Projections of the Sea: A Sestina

Conflicting truths should be kept separate

Freedom, in particular, requires a quarantine from solitude
Loneliness is just one dance in a vastly larger ritual
We celebrate a sacrifice instead of the resulting release
This leads to the catastrophic introduction of a new Desire
Desires do nothing to help mirrors reflect

I can do nothing without time to reflect
Time which is used to keep youth separate
For youth can so easily become tainted with desire
Overwhelming and breeding a debilitating fear of solitude
Crying skyward, as if to a deitous warden, you’ve been begging for release
Repeating this exercise weekly, as though it were ritual

As an adult, you know nothing of ritual
You throw stones in the water and expect it to reflect
It just stretches, rippling, begging the shores for release
The muddy banks still prefer to remain separate
They laugh at what the water perceives to be solitude
From their higher vantage view of you, they lament your need to desire

You’re standing there, dripping with the viscera of people you desire
The scene calls to mind a gorey ancient Aztec ritual
Though the crimes intangible, your track record contorts when left in solitude.
finally ,the river you’ve been staring at has chosen what to reflect
The resulting image joins the good and bad that you once kept separate
Into a single former captive, preapproved for release

You pool together cerebral funds and try to block their release
So that no one person will see the Armageddon of your desire
Screaming defiantly, “Not even the troops of Megiddo could keep these separate”
Stashing your desecration into cute little packages becomes your new Christmas ritual
Involving a yearly submersion into these waters to reflect
Accepting a fate of eternal solitude

You welcome isolation, yet shun biblical solitude
The sort of prison which holds no hope of release
Your adopted viscous mirror shuts off without the light to reflect
The Deitous warden has returned and enunciated his desire
“You, who have hitherto sat so far above reflective ritual”
Referring to I, “Will now have eternity to see life from a body separate”

He implies that my solitude means my will and fate are separate
I conclude the need to reflect on this in ritual
My newfound release allows me to wade neck-deep in my desire

Nature v. Nurture

I was born crying

Before I could think

I cried with an intensity 

That could only be achieved with a brain incapable of control or predetermined self censoring

In the thinking man

Doubts have evolved so brilliantly 

That they nearly precede the stimuli

Which they have developed to mitigate

In contrast, the liberated youth 

may allow themselves to be inhibited by the external, the unexpected. 

I learned to be hurt before I learned to rationalize the sensation of pain

This gift came from an external source

The tears preceded, and were sustained, until Lady Sorrow came and wiped them away

The thinking man deals differently, she said.

You must learn to murder

Find your solace in your plunder

Replace your tears with the tears of others

I refused 

And took refuge with fellow victims of man

Think, for a moment, of what happens when a family takes in a feral pet

Alongside the love that grows with the animals ever-stretching limbs 

Festers a fear which is rooted in the very DNA of the beast:

Something which overrules the nurturing,

And for which death is the only reasonable solution

See, the animal has been rendered incapable of assuming what nurture has stolen

And subsequently been endowed by nature 

with the power to destroy everything he has come to hold dear.

The aforementioned youth will be released from the company of his fellow victims, under the guise of assumed strength 

and the actuality of fear of his developing power.

One day, he will turn away from this swath of betrayal toward the mirror and see his attacker shrug off their similarities.

On that day, he will be all of his fears, embodied.

The Favor

The other day you called me.

This wasn’t something unordinary. In fact, the call in question was the eighth call that I had received from you over the span of a five-day workweek.

The subject: you needed me to pick you up.

The subtext: you wanted me to pick you up.

The body: very redeeming.

I dropped everything, mounted my metallic steed, and galloped up the street.

…

I turn off the engine; my car has been idling and on the verge of an overheat.

I think I must have misheard your call.

Unlikely.

I may have allowed my lack of pride to slow down time.

10:43.

I drive home unaccompanied, in what feels like a victory.

Halfway home, my foot teases the brake pedal.

There is a defeated deer staggering across the street, with half of its antlers scattered along the grass on the side of the road that he is approaching.

Why return to such a scene?

Something evaporates from the left side of my chest into the night, and I have to roll down my window to release the steam.

My phone leaves my cheek, and in a brief span of time, my car undertakes a ten-point turn in order to reverse course.

Prior to the beginning and end of my stunt driving career, I heard myself say:

“Be there in ten minutes”

Permanence

I don't need a new tattoo
I left my mark on you
so my essence travels on a path
wide enough for two
when Hermes says he's out of gas
when Mercury's shoes burn through
I won't hear their complainin'
No, I wont entertain them
and you wont have to move
just tell me you love me
sorry for leaving
but i didn't get to choose
i can hear you

Think of the things i cared about
Are they still there now?
Now close your eyes, you'll feel my breath
and stop your cryin'
you'll hear my footsteps
they were too clumsy anyway
Yeah, you'd always say
someday you would miss them

That day
you put a note in the my suit's breast pocket
sorry to say
I've forgotten how to read it
and for one last time
you straightened my tie
But I don't have eyes to see it

Momentary

How long until i lift off
lifts continue to give me
trips to the top of mid-grade mountains
yet I still claim dominance
supreme reign over all
who have accomplished this
more than this
and similar feats

See the bridges under which i crawl
golden gates, Akashi, Erasmus
gargantuan, metallic, masterful
what shallow claims
applied with such depth

I've walked past the same set of stairs
for four years
and never had the inclination to climb them

I keep seeing my reflection in the same puddles
the same pair of eyes peer back
i peel back the thin film of optimism
this mask of human indolence

and see the sights as they present themselves
to my eyes, ever-sinking, my inevitable demise
they see the events that seek to ruin my life

the change, the dread!

the dread
the shifting of the scene
the side-scrolling landscape
we can't peer past the edge
but we're moving at the speed
our characters are progressing

and he who is controlling
who is he controlling?
who is he?
is he?

Skin-suits

Color my silhouette
with brevity
I bet I know which one you'll pick
this
Another chance to hedge your bets
add levity

You are my heart
quite literally
and I can't separate myself
from the bruises you hatch in me
from inside my pulmonary cavity

I'm sending forth a target
to guide you as you careen
out of our lives
into the heart of the beast's bottomless belly
with a head full of of steam

Other girls
they're so pretty
in more ways than not
but their skin-suits are so insulated
that they're all running hot

For all their sources of intake
there exists just a single exhaust
which is the one place to penetrate
upon which all inside is lost

You see what I find difficult

You
with all your flaws and hate
are vented
with such passion
your substance circulates

and connection
is not extraction
no more absorption of your traits
We can have conversation with our copulation

We can be variably sated but keep our patience
while that dog and old Pavlov
try to rearrange their proverbial graves

Feeding Spoon

Since the beginning
Nature has juxtaposed weakness and strength
man accentuates the differences

underground rivers became wells
well-wishing made lakes
and coaxed the beaten paths
into the sidewalks they became

Man began walking down these sidewalks
between which ants became safe

finding shelter in the crevices
and man tries to preclude
his steps with giant, rubbery, grooved
optimum comfort-suited shoes

and the ants, with their benevolence
stare up at the mountain-sized grooves
from the canyon-sized crevices
and benevolently just move on through

we carry this culture of destruction
this desire to alter
the ever-impending need to improve;
re-craft nature in our image
when it was she who originally sprang us from her womb

we are the rebellious children of a dying world
worshiping our own creations
while consuming its food
thrusting forth a sword of chaos
pretending it's a feeding spoon

About a Girl.

With a militant zeal 
you jump from bad company to worse
the company you keep 
is keeping one eye on your purse

if you really have to ask
the other is focused on your ass
and if he stops to turn his head
its just to survey your legs

to search for a rift
it seems to be a game
I know firsthand that man
only seeks to return from whence he came

easy submission is a back-up generator for shame
you seek approval from a machine that only dispenses pain

you've got all the guys gawking
falling behind you when you're walking
they can't stop talking

and you already know what they're saying
of course you do
that's why you act just as vacuous as they're claiming

you're holding up a veil that's as tall as the building in which you're sleeping
next to the man whose only pressing needs are eating, breathing, and leaving
so he peers over to make sure your breath is peaceful, your back still heaving
gets up, gathers his things and gets on with his evening

you rise
to an empty bed
down your cheek
tears are streaming

don't worry
it's not that your veil is receding
it's just that your feelings tend to continue on the path
that your body is leading

that prickling in your chest
is your heart, still beating
still struggling to be heard
still counteracting your cheating

but we're all superb
still people of our word
separating the stable people
from the slightly more disturbed

so you put these wooden walls up
taking trust falls with falling trust
there's a crowd at the gate
the smell of satiating sawdust
fills you up

and you make your glorious retreat

to the brink
on the cusp
now just counting down the hours
until your heart returns to dust

The New Topography

I'm not okay when I'm okay

and similarly,

I'm not alive unless I'm dying

This will sound grim until you see that you, yourself, are withering.

Those wrinkles in your skin
are not for you to dismiss

they are to grow with you
until they eat your self-image
they are to grow in you
until they throw you from a cliff

they seek to carve in character
like a river forms a canyon
and there you stand

overlooking the abyss
of societal bliss

you sketch a smile across your face
a universal mark of content
while your self-hate asymptotes into the infinite

the way they coddled you as an infant
didn't last
you became a burden
when your need began to shift

you went from requiring physical upkeep
offering purpose
to siphoning metaphysical affirmation
poor kid

you were left to find your footing in a world left crumbling
rumbling
thundering
suffering from serious existential drift 

Natural Desperation

Call me human
Call me innocent
Indentured servant to my ignorance
My craving is my compass
society shapes my temperament

Judge my intellect if you will.
When I came into this world,
I knew light
I knew its absence
how it illuminates a pearl.

The way I attention-hoard when at a party
how I eat when I'm most hungry;
My vices are my vices
walled off for times of crisis

But, lately.....

Lately it feels like I have nothing to say
like a big black hood's been pulled o'er my face
and I'm lying in a trunk,
been stashed away
there's enough air left maybe to last a day

now, for some reason
preservation takes over my mind
though I swear I've ignored caution about a thousand times
now, since the date of death is impending
regardless of decision
the only thing I have left to choose is to try to keep on living

An Infinite Loop.

I am

not liberated.

A hedonistic turn must suffice.

I can't count the times I've given in to society's demands!

Its been demonstrated

that any stance you take is playing into someone else's hands.

And it is those hands that, for binding agreements, we shake.

Take the opposite of whats popular

and you're either a hardass

or just disagreeing for disagreement's sake

I am

not depraved.

Self-deprivation is neither my style,

nor does it pay.

Its influence might, but most people who preach it avoid it like the plague.

They avoid it like the hypocrisy we fail to glean from influence.

Morbidity:

Success seeks custody of the love child you made in Hawaii

My mind.

An aggregation.

What I learned before I was five

sits there right beside my college education,

together teaching me more than either could seperately

about the construct of contradiction-in-juxtaposition;

teaching me paradox's definition.

I'll veer away from my digression to hearken back to morbidity:

I like to think of this lifes successes as correcting a former life's tragedies

It should be established

that I commit atrocities everyday, or so says my pre-pubescent consicience,

Cue the lights.

In walk contradictions adjacent.

I am

An infinite loop

To break is to liberate

To restart?

A hedonistic turn must suffice

as the only entryway

But, like all the most rewarding things, hedonism has its price.

Still, every cycle must restart.

I am not liberated.

Stagnation

I hate this place.

This catholic college preperatory circus

Playing charades

Learning the rules to a game

but never ascertaining its purpose

These are the best years of our lives

Make sure to learn something!

Try every sexual position before you get out of high school

so that when you really start living nothing will ever surprise you

Practice following through on the rest of your drives, too.

Make sure their power matches the accuracy of your putts

Handicap's a five

Still rising

Still...

My rank outreaches the ceiling of the system

And shows me to the cellar door?

It turns out that if you shoot through the ceiling of the basement

you still have to start out with your back against the ground floor

Stagnation...

Goodbye...

Stag Nation

I've arrived

at a crossroads.

Not sure why

I hate this place.

Four years of preparation?

All i really needed was Zamyatin's brand of debilitated imagination

Plus I feel as though I'm paying a price

For what I thought was part of the process

For not fitting in with the "college likeness"

I guess I have a lot to learn

I guess.

Regardless...

the years progress...

still dying

Still...

The Social Price of Freedom

Let me tell you the worst part of being

a flirt, a pervert, a demon...

They converge on you from all sides

They need to see, to feel, to touch this heathen

They need to know that it really is possible to put a face on pure evil

To be able to crush once and for all that pest of free thinking

I think im having apocalyptic visions

That I am forever reading

Like renaissance paintings

Which seem devoid of the oppression

going on in the context of which they were made

Can you understand why I am running away?

The same reason the Earth runs from the sun

In an equidistant arc from whence it rotates

I believe, my tormentors, that we have become codependent in this place

In this courtroom full of Judges when there should really only be one

But I'll still give you all a chance to save face

Over a macrocosmic therapy session that you call your respective religions

I am human.

Just saw something at the top of my news feed that really disturbed me

Because I know that it was written for, about, and over me

Its really hard to live with the fucked up things you do

Especially when you have a mind made of art

So your conscience eats at you

and the guilt leaks out

And gets mixed up in all the not-so-fucked-up things you try to do

Its really easy to go against your principles

especially when they're not your principles

But rules implied in other convictions that you hold

that your conscience expects you to follow because of some stupid loophole

In your mind made of art...

From your thoughts made up of tragedies

That have slithered up from your catastrophic patchwork of a heart

I wish I could tell her who did this to me

But that would be like offering a single suture to someone that you're literally ripping apart

I'm not perfect.

In fact I'm actually quite average

Except for this mind made of art.

The Octoroon (not really though)

I found this in my notebook under the words 'The Octoroon'

**Clears throat self-righteously**

Say, can I give you the tools to build,

A structure bearing some resemblance to a life fulfilled?

Tell me, have you ever wondered how as you grow older time begins to disappear?

Why, this is because a child lives for the day, a teenager lives for the month, and an adult lives for the year.

Time seems to pass when you truly desire it to,

But wishing it away, well indirectly you're simply wishing to die.

Deus ex Machina...(Don't worry, life's just a fucked up parking job; it's not perfect but it'll do while we're here)

Never before have i envied machines
And why should I, its like God envying
humans...it just doesn't happen.
But the question is, why would you ever
create something in your own image
without making some change that you
think makes it a little more effective? A touch-up here... little photoshopping there, it can't hurt after all. While i lack the authority or physical maturity or frankly the patience for the patriarchy to comment on the actions of God, I at least have the right to say that i think that machines are the perfect counterparts of mankind, for there are no emotions to link them to such an imperfect institution. For all of my disgust at the imperfections of social systems that get obstructed by the darker side of human nature, the fact remains that my feelings for people sometimes supercede my convictions. However, these cumbersome feelings would not exist if i were a machine, like a camera, for instance. I could simply record what was happening and see a situation for what it is, regardless of who is acting. My only desire would be to observe completely objectively. In my current human form, such a thing is impossible, for i have several ridiculous desires which in no way make me more capable of fulfilling my purpose, yet make me take in a picture as skewed as my understanding of the nature of sanity, which is another story in itself.

as for now, an organized collection of ambiguous thoughts:

To escape the temptations beckoning me
is as easy as sticking my nose in the

clouds

But Isaac says its gotta come down
And when it does, and every smell makes its rounds,
I find i must indulge as long as my toes find the ground
But I'm only here for thirty years, I'll announce it and collapse
Then be right back for a three day

relapse

Turns out humanity's a lot more
complicated than divinity;
even infinitely, perhaps ;)

just a (somewhat ambitious) observation from your friendly neighborhood stargazer...

Regards,
Shaman

Ode to Societal Hierarchal Bullshit

I can see the flaws from underneath
Yes, the ones you try to hide
From where you've placed me, i can see up the hiked-up skirt of high society
Beautiful people, you're not beautiful to me
You can give gifts as long as someone else sees
But don't even have time to show me the slightest bit of courtesy

When i hold the door for you, it's not because i'm supposed to, but if you only took a second to figure out the truth, you'd see i'm really doing it to show you the real meaning of being humane

And no, baby I'm not perfect, not by any means,
but i have to do a lot less washing to make myself feel clean.

While we're on the subject of cleanliness, your living space isn't straightened up if u just pick up everything off the floor and throw it in the closet, is it? Its just a displaced mess. Try applying that principle to all sides of life, especially the underside.

Just because u can't see something doesn't mean its not there. It just means you'll be a hell of a lot more surprised when it pops up from where you've been hiding it long after you never thought you'd ever re-find it.

How can this seem ok to you? You care so much about how you look when you go out, but what about when u come back in? I'll be damned if you can even sit five minutes by yourself save for when ur counting the number of calories you took in as they're resurfacing.

You're in college, trying to make a life, right? So how many degrees does it take for you to actually be accomplished? In my opinion, 360. You're gonna be back where you started, whether you're a nurse, a science teacher, or a stripper. The things you've done will always stay with you, no matter which side the good, or the bad, u choose to acknowledge.

My advice? Take each of those sides of yourself, sit them at a table and hold an intervention for your persona. And if one of those sides happens to be a bartender, have him/her serve up a lovely cocktail so things don't get all tense and mushy. Drink of choice? I would go with a guilty conscience.
On the rocks. :)


Yet again, just a (somewhat bitter) observation from your friendly neighborhood philanderer.

Regards,
Shaman

Flawed

So there's something that constantly irks me about the mindset of my peers. People our age have too much of a stigma against seeming "immature". I think that true wholeness can be found in accepting the fact that we aren't able to handle every situation (aka we're human) and more importantly that we DON'T KNOW EVERYTHING. Or else, we might just end up like the generation before us. Pretentious Pretentious. Tsk tsk.