How it feels to be told you’re not to be trusted


Two weeks.

A fortnight.
14 revolutions of Terra swinging gravely about Sol.

Two weeks since we decided the make-up sex was not worth the fights.

In that time I:

-explored stretched mentality in a nestled cabin amongst brethren
-wielded bong and bottle valiantly against sobriety night after excruciatingly long night
-and, during one such battle, recruited a female compatriot to stave off thought; banishing it with intimate touch.

Two weeks later.
I am in your room,
feeling the dead claw at their graves in my chest.

I tell you I slept with her.

Except I don’t just tell.

I twist my words with labile veracity,
concluding that because you hurt me,
because you excommunicated me,
because I could no longer worship at your altar,
but to pay homage between someone else’s thighs.
YOU did this, I twist.

You have words, but all they say is hurt.
I have words, but all they are is ash in too many mouths.

I have kissed so many mouths and by God,
no one kisses me like you do.

We will kiss again, much later, but I will always taste the ash.

Two weeks you say.

You couldn’t go two weeks.

You crumble as I rise to leave.

I do not trust myself to say anymore twists.

You tell me,


“I will never trust you again.”


Dear former lover

Dear former lover,
I dreamt of you last night.
Tall and gangly and spirited and quietly and not so quietly amazing.
I think you and I both know
That I was parasitic.
I took and took
Because I needed so very badly
To be more than the rent half she had left me as
I took and took and left you the second she opened her legs back up to me.
There are few wrongs I feel I cannot make right.
We are one of them.
Last night I dreamt of you.
Of how you would look in my eyes
Turn and Laugh uproariously at a quiet inanity I might mumble
And as your gaze fell back to mine you would slap me, playfully
Your laugh was fuller than a brass band
Your eyes more mischievous than Puck.
It is hard, dear former lover.
To wake up from your smile.
And look into the eyes of the woman I now love.
Dreams meld the past with the present.
This morning, I loved you again.
I wish I could ask
In all humility
That you stray from my dreams forevermore.
That you unvisit my sleep.
Let me wake to the here and now.
I think though
That this is my penance.
To love and forget, love and forget,
Dream to reality, again and anon
It is only fair. It is only appropriate
Dear former lover,
I love you, in the former, in the imaginarium present, and in all, I am sorry. In all, I am sorry.


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.

Time slides like oil in water

Interference pattern from oil on water

Time slides like oil in water

our lifetsyles are immiscible


in lipid slick seconds

the world swirls about us

all rainbow sheens and oil drop puddles

step right a droplet

and we float gently

sunlight glittering in our wake

If I could flit

between our densities

turn each molecule over in my hand

tweak their hydrophobicities

I would mix oil with water

I would blend our Time together

and sit with you in a galavanting bubble

looking down on all that glistens below.

I love you the way snow falls


I love you the way snow falls

softly, with a quiet murmur

suffused with a gentle rush


I love you the way rain mists

a cooling of the brow

a lightness of being in a

world removed from time

a universe only in our shared breath


I love you the way rain falls

fierce and unrepentant

flooding in its intensity

delicate in its individuality

splashing playfully


I love you like falling from the sky

where you kiss me to the clouds and back

and sighing through the atmosphere

we whirl down together in

half-cuddle half-dance


Falling in love with you

is as easy as letting go.

I am a gumball machine


I am a gumball machine.

Put an emotion, any emotion, there- in the slot.

Watch as the idea drops from the bulbous head,

whirls ‘round and ‘round and ‘round…


Open your hand.

This blue one is for you.

For the sadness of seeing me when I look into you.

It’s so shiny, isn’t it?

They all come out that way:

vibrant, with that magical candy sheen,

no matter the color.

Go ahead. Bite.

Now try this one, the yellow.

For the glow of sunshine in your hair.

See? No, huh.

Try this one, red,

for when we laid in bed,

had a conversation with no words said.

Ahh, now you see.

All of the ideas that tumble from me,

blue, yellow, red,

all shiny, all sweet,

why, they all taste exactly the same.

I give you the only thing I have abundance of.

I coat it with words,

make it shine and gleam,

but it all tastes the same.

They all spit it out in the end.



I have a tendency to dive head first.

Shallow friends make my head hurt.

But you,

when I dive into you

I have to stop and come up for air.

I can explore the depths of your iris for days.

Listen to the lilt and timber of your voice for fathoms.

Sometimes, my lungs cannot take the pressure,

the air pushes up my trachea, and tickles my vocal chords

into “I love you.”

There is a spider which builds bubbles with its silk.

Uses air and gossamer as a submersible.

I am laying down a thread behind me as we go,

you can see it along the Charles, winking in the setting sun.

One day, I’ll spin a bubble from it,

sink slowly into your eyes,

and find your depths.

The place where sunlight no longer dapples.

I’ll lay on that ocean bed…..

then pluck the thread.

Vibrate loose my bubble

collapse the submersible

and lovingly, willingly,

drown in you.

Salt and snow

Summer, 1990.  

Gold sets a river in North Carolina afire.

Writhing joyously in the flame,

a thousand ephemeral vapors transcend

rising rising

whispy tendrils reach, embrace, and dissipate.

But I, I found my way to the heavens

And that which is me

crystallized around my core

tenuously blossoming until

diamond bifurcations burst

into stunning symmetry.

I surrendered to the seraphim stratosphere

and reveled in gravity’s caress.

Falling is flying when you’ve never touched ground.

So it was clearly fate

when I suddenly stopped

and you were there.

Crystalline and kindred

rough and resplendent

you, you melted me.

I taste salt.

pillowed touching noses

pillowed touching noses.

 soft stratosphere eyes, I tell her

“don’t ever Change”

flip calendars past Spain,

past numbered drunkenness,

past innumerable longings,

and look what life wrought us.


flip calendars past schisms,

past numbered guilt-laden sex,

past innumerable mind-fuckery,



pillowed touching noses.

warm earthy eyes, I tell her

“Change. With me.”

She smiles.