Rage

there is rage that chokes me, really, forces something in my throat to close and the air becomes difficult to breathe in like walking into a sauna heated by a volcano. I don’t know what it is, where it is, i’ve never been able to pinpoint why it is, but the sky seems black and … Read moreRage

Volume

sometimes I have to yell; it comes out like vomit – this poison that sits so deeply made from too many years of ill conceived waste disposal programs. sometimes I need to scream; the currents of the continents smashing together in an ageless dance pushing rage out into the sky, into the ears. sometimes I … Read moreVolume

disjointed

I have opened every box, every bottle;looked under furniture, laundry, dirty dishes,but no where can I find oblivion.Maybe it’s me, my own blindnessthat I think I can see and hence the confusion. Sometimes I want to extinguishmy own existence in this sphere;watch the blaze of insecurities andmake ashes from my lifetimes in doubt. Fists in … Read moredisjointed

Dichotomy of Being

It is me; It is not me: There are two sides: that which I owe and that which I want. Where may I go for what I want? I know too well where I owe; my heart craves importance, but must pay penalties as a tertiary thought of tomorrow.

Made Love

Baby, let your hair grow out to tangle me into your body; spread your fingers over my sex and pull my soul into your web of kindness and safety in moist warmth. Baby, let your eyes see soft edges free from harsh contemporary distinctions between the circle and the square where we are not separated … Read moreMade Love

Last Night

My butterflies are biting me and I’m still writing letters to the world but I’ve run out of bottles –    they don’t seem to come to the island anymore – and no matter how strongly worded I’m still just lonely and still just lonely and still, I’m just lonely dreaming of soft arms and dark … Read moreLast Night

Travel Days

traveling; south then west over to the crater that was once a crescent moon for a party at the ends of the earth: I think of Morocco and Burroughs and the wasted deserts of West Texas. I hop into demons and scorch the sky; on whims as flimsy as balsa wood planes and the bella … Read moreTravel Days

Soapbox Artist: collecting art & literature of the worst kind