to meet the dragon

The obscure tracings of my labyrinth

Mark the underlyings of this undisputed path

From above

A most blinding light

Pencils shadows of conditioned acquaintance

Which specify not destination

But expectation

As the sun travels

From east to west

Each story changes

Though the words remain the same

I can hide you in these shadows

Your words

And mine

Those which burn in the chest

Heartless fires hissing

Sear reminders

Of assumed shortcomings and

Inescapable fears

In this jungle

It is only I who can hide beneath

And seal these wounds

If I’m lucky


In the light of day

Those shadows knowingly move

Leaving the consideration

Must I then continually reposition that which I choose to leave in the dark?

If it was only me

And the sun shown

As always

I would have only my shadow

In which to bury any and all


If it was only me

I would dance about

Flap my arms like a bird and

Skip through the nothingness and

Everything and

There would be no time or space

To hold what left burdened


Meet start and finish

In the clasp of my hands

Toward the sky


Birdy birdy

Nest so close

Belt your song each day

Though rarity I see you

Won’t you come out to play?

I try to echo in response

Towards treetops near

Though far still

By night I’m left to serenade

Each brilliant lonesome star

Do you envy feet

As on your wings?

To transport life’s swift curves

We’ll move along as each day brings

Tomorrow’s light doth birth

Your colors mystify me

As I pray for

Such exuberance observed

Still I watch from balcony’s way

Huddled mask of fervor conserved

Pray fly me once

To the edge of the moon

See me drift on winds unseen

I’ll be the soul that floats above

Each underlying dream

knock knock

Kiss me lick me touch me

And feel the words that I have laid on your skin

Tell me not but that I am

Sprinkle mystery


Grab at my love

And tell me it fits just right

Wake me at least three times in the night

Touch me deep

With those eyes that understand

Cheesy glimpses of us

Walking close in the sand

I talk in Spanish

You spoke in French

All else lost in translation of chemistry

Questions left undecided

As you answer them in my smile

You must go in five minutes

But I could use you here for awhile


To start
Wait, where?
When did this begin?
Oh, sly devil
Salivate on lost conception of
Time’s existence

Through easy exchange
Savor fractured access to redemption
Invisible crown of altered revelation and
I see you and
For once, I am perfect and
You could never understand how
By break of day three
I really am the queen

Unavoidable toll of clocked hours
Calm me with a toke and
I fill spaces with the words of philosophers
Strutting airs of glossed eloquence and ownership and
My reality is dreams and I become one and
I fear with all my heart of letting go and
I fight heart of pure exhaustion and
Wear this famished and frail frame
As if marked invincible and
Bloody mother of hell
I force you to watch me as I shove unavoidable defeat
Down my throat and
Stumble to my pillow with commentaries of gibberish

Awake the next morning and it’s all gone and
I’m reminded that I must make my own dreams
Though maybe another day as I reach
For my pill bottle of escape

act iii

I love most all things touched
Turn most anything to gold
Though little voice fails to remind
That even gold is perishable so
Is there anything more concrete than
Of words which often never leave the mouth or
Crawl from fingertip but at any rate
Of which I am director
A crazed director with no set course or magnificent conclusion
Regardless no one else looks to take on this show
But I
Creator and actress and puppet
Off to worlds within worlds
Where the story seems to fit and no
Longer an act
Are we placed at fault for instilling dreams
Within reality?
When reality is mere illusion in itself
Still caught
Am I sole spotlight or amongst
Oblivion soaked false assumption of
Personal significance
Known; I am director of this director
And within
Lick scars of dominance
Odd solemnity brews twisted pleasure
And I laugh as the lighting changes and
Ruminate on karmic foreshadowing
And chastise me ye critics
Galactic warfare
As you strive to justify higher significance
From a world your own of which I am as alien
As you and the next
Speak to me tongues of the heart
Watch us taste escapable walls and
Dig deep into the next cornerstone
Intersecting avenues pull me
Knowing I’ll cross something that outweighs end credits


I fell in love each time I saw
Your voice like it held me
In place as a statue caught curved stones of
Soft paradise still
Memory seat chiseled deep with antiquation
Only I could see the bittersweet hypocrisy
As your illusory touch consoled empty
Spaces now I must stop filling with our love
Which feeds on nothing but my soul and
Maybe fear of something bright in my eyes
You touch me from the inside out as I drown you
With hazed eyes
Still at the bottom of each glass I can’t remember
To forget you
One more sight one more try
So be I hold dear hollowed gratitude and
Trepidation of never finding something quite like you again worth
Such mourning


It’s kind of a catch-22 when you can’t do anything productive unless your apartment is spotless. I find myself in this strange predicament as I gradually sink into my love seat while the hours pass, all the time wishing I weren’t sitting on my love seat. I used to be completely driven by motion. Now, here I am smothering at the hand of a most baffling inertia. 


I remember how just a few months ago I was living in an ecstasy-glossed dream world.  I felt the Earth move through me, the sun soak deep into my skin as I walked each path. Looking back, I have concluded that I must house some sort of surrealist gene (more preferable to “psychological disorder”).  Sure, everyone sees the same world quite differently; but, when I’m high, when I’m manic, colors literally mesh and glow, the air sparkles in a different light.  I feel like a model, oozing with self-respect and confidence. Though, such a state is obtainable only temporarily; thus, in generalizing patterns, my life is a reflection of catch-22’s.  While mystical illusion – at least to me – sounds most intriguing, tempting even, in comes with several equally negative counter effects. While simultaneously feeling on-top-of-the world during my highs, my anxiety also boils to the rim and often explodes with no mercy. Having dealt with such emotion for most of my life, I’ve found rather odd coping mechanisms in moments of pure desperation. To the outside world, these counteractive measures appear similar to Tourette’s syndrome; I start to flap my arms about, almost like a bird. I let out incomprehensible verbal expressions, small yelps and such. On top of such things, I never want to sleep, never feel tired. Though the worst coping mechanism I’ve attached myself to over past years is alcohol. Unfortunate as it may be, at the ripse age of 22 (ha, 22), I find myself in the throws of a deep-seated battle with alcoholism.


It’s not until the high wears off that I actually begin to realize just how disillusioned I had been behaving and perceiving and feeling before. Above all, I must say that the return flight to normalcy is one of the most depressing transitions I’ve ever experienced. You see gray again; life goes back to unappreciated, dull routine, monotony; I find myself over-whelmed with irritation and a complete lack of motivation. The words stop flowing from my fingers, and every publication brings shame and feelings of immaturity. I don’t lose myself in these “metronome” days, as I shall now call them.  I just forget what it means to be alive, how to feel alive.


My writing is a direct reflection of my current mood.  Thank god I have found some sort of out in which to express emotion. I lose myself in adjusting and abstracting and reforming my personal thoughts, worries, dreams, fears which I face on a daily basis, as all humans do.  Sharing raw emotion with the world can bring about its own forms of anxiety; though, I must remind myself that I hold the choice of anonymity, and that thoroughly comforts me.


I find both hallowed reverence and fear in the idea that I may be alone forever. Though, in some ways, all of us are alone in certain respects.  “Island universes” as philosopher Aldous Huxley would describe the combination of our social and psychological environments. In the moments I sit alone, feeling lonely, I often find myself unable to establish who I would actually consider spending any of my time with. This may be a matter of high expectation. Still, to part of this tendency I am unable to find suitable answers. Is it acceptable to lower my standards in a desperate attempt to combat loneliness?  Even after seeking companionship, it’s customary to witness how quickly I grow restless and bored, though I know not what activity my mind and body intend to jump to next.


Maybe this is just the continued winter talking as the first day of spring has already come and gone, and I watch from my balcony as ten-inches of snow fall less than a week before the 1st of April. I nest in my beloved sanctuary which lies stale and hollow as my future coffin. I must break away but to where in a city where there is no heartbeat, only metronome days and metronome streets and metronome people?


Tick tock tick tock. Tomorrow never fails to come, regardless.

the caged bird sings

If I stood atop the highrise
Would you break my fall?
Your eyes are set on empty
Sound of greed’s applause

I can bury six feet under
Easy on my own
Still can’t stop the poison sinkin’
Thus baby
Never grown

Kiss my lips
Touch my face
To the reflection in my mirror
If I take off all my clothes
Will you see it any clearer?

Who am I?
Who are they
Which now fill my in-between
As for you
Be something
In that face I’ve never seen

Who are they?
Who am I?
As I waver in denial
Adult go strut fake purpose
Still embracing little child

Yes I want to set her free
As the caged bird makes escape
But here she is flat linin’
And her beak is closed with tape

Each day of monotony just
Pleads home-remedied lobotomy

Cry for me honey
You never cry when I need it the most

I bust my head against the brick wall
Which disappeared
Now a door across the way
Sweat blood mixed with tears
Make me some
Make me something

Watch me as I ripen

See invisible walls
Now envelope my horizon

…i didn’t order this for lunch?

You are the ever-present
Provocation of the goddamn bug bite
As I lay in bed rubbing away to raw
The consequence of circumstance
Or maybe the chicken pox
Because I know you will leave scars
You disrupted quiet waters though
Ripples quickly faded and things were the same
Still inevitability carried the current
Bringing with it new and ‘what ifs’

God damn you for inviting yourself to my asylum
As if it were settled and all decisions justifiable
In essence as you reestablished security my
System was left breached
And I have yet to find the key to lock away
My heart once again

Your memories are photographs
But you never took one of me
I can no longer stare lovingly into those
Sepia tones
What once seemed so black and white
You penciled me in thus
I could be easily erased and was in many ways

To step back from self-pity
Note I do not throw stones
Granted you threw the first pitch
I’m whisking away pain
Simultaneously constructing my receipt of acceptance
Unavoidably you will catch pieces
Of what mingles in my gray space