Don’t take me for a nice guy.

Don’t take me for an asshole.

Just… don’t take me.

To understand me you have to

see I am at sea.

Not a sailor or a captain,

not even a cook or a boatswain;

just a stowaway.

I lost my way and ended up here,

near the edge of the world,

hurled into a vast nothingness,

an empty expanse.

So with expansive words and gestures

I will attempt articulate that which festers me:

Because you see, I am not actually at sea.

This vessel is not within water…

…but has water within.

Encased in skin and sinew,

bone and muscle bustling to and fro,

I watch as I ebb and flow.

How can I be lost within myself?

Myself, a floating vessel of organs and cells,

excels at what it was designed to do.

We few survivors of evolution are designed merely for procreation.

The continuation of our lineages.

As if our only value lies with our heritage.

Thus, I am not worthy in and of myself but am instead a genetic repository.

I am transitory to my immortal genes.

I can see this while at sea,

My somehow submerged bouyancy allowing clarity.

It is almost freeing knowing your purpose is external to yourself.

That leaves the rest for the all-encompassing Self.

But I am lost in it- my rivers of coursing perceptions disregard the finer details like orientation to any surface.

Instead, a Charybdis discourse between sub-conscious selves.

I imagine them as little elves, delving into memories, gleefully shining the few they enjoy, toying with them, and then casually destroying me with them.

See this bauble?  See this sheen?  Watch it gleam as it sinks into the depths.

Watch it, and ponder your depth.

Ponder your death.

Because it is insignificant.

Significance lies in the passage of genes, remember?

Remember that one December?

Frost biting the air as you stroked her hair back from her cheek,

seeking a warmth not measured in degrees,

seizing you with a serpentine grip,

squeezing you so hard you forget to find your breath and you’re underwater,

watching as the gleaming pair of you drift into your depths.

So much has been lost down there.

Or up there.


In the sea that is me there is no direction.

Only omnipresent reflection,

mirrors on mirrors stretching into infinity

such that you cannot discern reality

from the playful facsimiles.

Simply float on.  And on.


It is silent here.

Not out of fear.

It is merely the nature of this place.

Placed so quietly in obscurity.

That is, Me.


My thoughts on religion:

My thoughts on religion:
Interplaying neurons wiring and firing
Conspiring and desiring
To place meaning not so demeaning
Upon this interlude
As if deities on qualudes
Concluded that mood and manner
This rude candor should st-st-stammer
Be hammered, pummelled,
Drummed, thrummed, into
A hum-drum-ho-hum down-and-done
Manner of life!
But my thoughts careening,
Fearing and steering clear of that
Headlight deer we call death.
And no I’m not deaf I can hear
Those prayers, pastoral cares,
But don’t share your soul snare
Because they don’t care.
Gods, politics: corrupt
And I WILL erupt
I WILL NOT sip from your cup
Blood tastes like iron not wine
You are not divine
And what is mine is mine
Here in this body
This body
Ain’t nobody’s and it will be nobody
When this body is no more
Deep beneath the floor
Once I’ve settled score after score
Internal demons no more
I can’t fight any more
Let me rest when I’m done
Life is a battle to be won
And I am one with the Holy Son
Because all that is divine
Resides within the human mind.

My gravestone shall read: “If only he applied himself…”

My gravestone shall read: “If only he applied himself…”

Delivering the eulogy, Father Time will say
“From incalculable chaos an infant was born,
and possessed was he of abilities so uncanny,
that, had he but tried, he could have sung
the oceans into a silent reverie.
The mountains too, upon listening to
his stirring rhetoric, would have risen up
in passionate response,
frothing magma in their wild exuberance.
I fashioned for him not merely days,
not even years, but whole decades with which
he could master the fragile elements
clinging to the reality he robed himself with.
Yet, in his infinite ineptitude, he considered the cowl
the extent of his world,
the robe HE donned was the limit of his mental mobility.
And thus, there he stood. A lifetime.
Transfixed and blinded by the reality he wrought for himself,
while sprites and imagination incarnate,
drawn to the spirit within,
danced a vernal jig about his hems,
at last,
falling to his knees,
bent by the waxing years of his bounded humanity,
he lifted his gaze,
and marveled, at the possibilities that had always been within his reach.