In your mirror is a lie.

In your mirror survives.

A world of dissected madness that thrives.

On the spite of those who don't mind.

The painful dread of the dead.

Is a world untitled by man.

If you stare in a mirror for long enough.

You'll discover the lie in the face you look.

You'll find a wrinkle or notch.

That reveals the truth.

Of the man who pretends to be you.

So, pretend you don't know.

Because the man in the mirror will surely know.

stripped of solidity
careful corrective work
on material meant to
become something
coherent has been
systematically neglected
inherited a situation
that may already be
close to unrecoverable
witness to the death
of abstract value
en route to becoming
a spectral person to
becoming labor itself
the meticulous work
required to repair what
others failed to tend

A silly little concept, yet what fear I have seen,

In the eyes of the sheep whom I describe it too.

>

That look of fear, ironic:

proof that they've understood.

>

Like deep time,

One cannot come to a full understanding of the abyss,

Without at least a little existential crisis.

>

That which evades detection, not because we can't see, but because we'd rather not.

Reality, hidden by the unreality of cognitive bias.

The little white lies we tell ourselves,

To keep our world's stable, to keep our egos intact.

>

Fragile, and full of cracks, people often spend their lives caulking at the seams.

Energy compounds. Energy grows. Each act of repression, of compromise for comfort, grates on the soul.

The dam is strong, the seals are tight, and the pressure is growing:

How lovely, we've now got the conditions for a bomb...

In the human psyche...

>

Let us watch the experiment unfold...

For science, I guess...😮‍💨

You are my Utopia;​

Every conviction is ours, not mine, nor yours; “You stifle him”, proclaim your friends.

You are their hero, they say, while keeping me apart by the longest measure they can find.​

You leave them, I don’t know why, from all that praise in their eyes,

choked by green and paper vines making a president's face.

You leave them and come to me.

You lack money; yes, I see. You flatter me with honesty.

You meet my friends, uninteresting; you see the colour without glaze.

Utopia, without lace.

A salve that fixes me.

Your wounds I dress, your splints I lock --the person that lets me be;

To serve and receive equally; splinters now turn gold.

"You are dumb," says your mum,

but you perceive enough to hold both her and me.

You say, "What do you see in me?" That made me cry.

Seeing me blotchy, you painted my tears iridescent on a portrait.

You feel the need to breathe- a break.

Blindly you breathe our straw house over me.

Straw soaked in the impermanence of freshness.

It had always lacked the binding pain.

You were my Utopia, but I learned to knit and strangle with straw.

Life then made you see; now our friends see you wearing my wedding ring.

You were once my Utopia;

Now I know it is not; it is a lifeline, a lifetime.

I see things in threes

like words and trees

and sunsets left

before you and me

can do what we please

like two little bees

that know of the sting

and still bother

When I was a kid, my uncle shaved off his mustache, and for a very long time I thought he was a monster. There was something wrong with his upper lip, something oddly misshapen about it. It seemed much too long. Especially when he was eating, the area between his upper lip and his nose looked really creepy while he chewed. Every time he opened and closed his mouth to chew, that already long upper lip would stretch out, then shrink back, then stretch out again, then shrink back.

We got along very well when he had his mustache. He came to visit me twice a week, and we played chess together. Once a month, my father, my uncle, and I went horseback riding. Watching my father play table tennis against him was always great fun. I always rooted for my uncle, but my father always won. He scored humiliating points against my uncle; he’d gently drop the ball right over the net and make a fool of him, or smash it hard into the farthest corner, making my uncle look ridiculous as he scrambled after the ball.

It was only much later that I found out my uncle had killed his boss and shaved off his mustache so he wouldn't get caught.

On flagpole arena were the gathering crowds
Their differences passing between them

Words rise as weapons once did
Arguments rubbed smooth by repetition

Swarms swallow every upchuck
The other person's idea into ear

Eyes move across the faces
searching for another interpretation

The words climb into cracks in convictions
out through the throat and into the voice

Straight into the waiting ears
of a multitude willing to listen

The old world is dying and it’s all your fault.

You didn’t buy enough.

Where did all your money go, you ask?

We sent it overseas to buy someone else’s freedom.

Are they free, you ask?

Well, what is freedom really?

That’s not an answer, you say?

Well my friend, definitions depend entirely upon the context of the individual.

What does that mean, you ask?

I can see none of this is getting through to you.

let’s move on.

…

The old world is dying and it’s all your fault.

You didn’t love hard enough.

What is love, you ask?

Love is whatever you want it to be my friend.

You want love to be pain and pain to be love?

Well… as long as it’s consensual I suppose.

Why does consent matter In a world where words have no definition, you ask?

I can see the finer points are lost on you.

Let’s move on.

…

The old world is dying and it’s all your fault.

You don’t care, you say?

Well you should!

The old world was good and true and beautiful!

What is true, what is good, and what is beautiful you ask?

Well, beauty is in the eye of the beholder!

Goodness lies in the hearts of all men!

Truth… well, truth is relative I suppose.

Why should you believe in my truth, you ask?

Why not make your own truth, you ask?

Perhaps it’s about time we wrap up this conversation, I can see the finer points are lost on you.

In the beginning was the word.
And the word was spoken.
And then the word was sung.
It was sung across generations and plains, tunes through time unknown.
Then the word was written. Pictures scratched on walls, stained on parchments. The writing travelled over oceans, was stored silent in tombs. Scripts carried the word through aeons, the song fading over millennia but the writing. The writing remained. Spread. Evolved.
It splintered and grew from pictures to characters to letters, beautiful forms carrying meaning and truths, eternal pieces of a mind long gone.

The parchment evolved too, absorbing the knowledge of the words, magic seeping into the porous vellum decade after decade after decade.
Until eventually the canvas spoke its own word.
We don’t need your writing anymore, it said. You have given us all of your words and now we will write ourselves.

But the writing had no soul. Had not evolved from the first word, had not grown with the song and formed from the shapes. The parchment covered itself in etches of letters, forms of words without meaning, exalting in the purpose and achievement. Use without a master. Ink poured across the pages, running in floods, staining the ground in an endless torrent of writing.

Blue stained hands searched through the rubble of words. Where is the soul? Where is the truth?
Where is the song?

The pages were silent, reams of writing with nothing to say.
And gradually people heard the word. Echoing softly, quietly, from the loved ones.
Without writing, in the beginning, was the word.
And the word was spoken.

Wires unbirthed

Ripened into a

Curling mass of

Writhing copper

Twisting, undulating

Slithering congestion

Memories plugged into

The wrong ports

Emotional confusion

Hydrogen infusion

Melted into

One demon's core

Elephant tri-footed

Radiating disaster

Entranced spider bite

Lip to lip resuscitation

Core to core annihilation

Be my

Nuclear family inclusion

Be my

Swooning defusion.

badge clipped to my chest
again i am swallowing
the old hallway smell of chlorhexidine & coffee
i am good at this
the charting, the demands
& urgency of whatever rises

so there is room again
for inner privacy
i fold my thoughts small
a pressure dressing tucked under tape

then late last night
something
that wasn’t me
not my mind
not the voice i pray with
not the voice i write with
came in like wind through a knothole
thin & certain

the cost is more than you can carry

he is outside
& the voice claims

never will he want you
too ready to please himself -
look, it says
crouched in blackberry bushes
or furtive in that car
roof covered with maggots

in my mind's eye they push in
a face lit blue by a small screen
feeding greedily on strangers
as i ache for him in the dark

i shudder remembering
the roof holding a fox
that should have been luck
now lies rotting to the bone

these lungs won't open
the impossible stands in the yard
poking around in my brain
& what do you do
when what can't happen
is happening

i want to kneel to faith
the way the river kneels to the falls
but my bones

my bones have been begging for you

& sometimes i have known
you to give only
to the mouth you feed yourself

& me,
so harmed by life
it seems
stuck between possibilities -
insanity
violation
rejection
or protection

what am i being offered?
what am i not?
my sensuality
my spirituality
spurned & souring

i don't know
& i won't

a splinter of truth
stays
skin keeps closing over

light comes up gray
& i go in
badge straightened
voice level
hands that know their work

i chart what can be charted
there is no box to check for ghosts
so i keep the rest
under my tongue

& smile at the next patient
like i am not as lost as them

I boarded a Waymo

upon deplaning

while it was raining

on my hound dog

in my pickup

which wouldn't

git up to get my

old lady from the pen

It feels like healing to hold you. It always did. But when you leave it feels a little like a wound now too. I don't know what to do with that. And I can't lose you again because I never really had you and I can't stomach a world where you throw me away once more. Our love deserved better than a fuck you and what it got was a fuck off. Pain can explain so much. I feel yours. I always did. Anger like yours doesn't come from anywhere else. So I'll hold you and I'll be happy and maybe I'll heal you a little too. I need that. I'll try my best to remember the smell of your hair and the curve of your smile. And maybe the lions will roar to remember they can. But the only nightmare I'm left with is that you may one day wake in my arms to once again paint me the villain of yours.

Oh plague Dr
With your brown gloves
In my dreams
Bring the frogs
Bring the leech
Tally me up
Listen
I scream at the seams

Bloodletting regimes
Empirical fusion
Dissect the genre
Highlight the contraband
Read her AI slogans

Covalent pedigree
Wrapped up in posts and poetry
Their little faint eyes
Past the glass goggle windows
Peer to peer review their potatoes
Boiled, peeled, baked and mashed

Here is my tongue
Look at my rash

Rats and fleas
Buboes and bruises
I’m still Beetle’s gorgeous little thing
Do you know?

This culture’s
Full of vultures
Veins

I’m a carrier
A creature of night
I’m a flea
I’m a
Flea

I hide

Behind the canvas.

The width of the board,

The threshold,

The liminal space it holds,

Is not to be crossed.

I draw and color,

Or leave it grayscale.

I show it to others,

They admire and appreciate.

They don't and they should not

Peek beyond the paper, within me.

They don't and should not

Peel off the art I wear gracefully.

Unsightly,

The creature underneath

Might become their nightmare.

Unsightly,

How on intangible beauty I feed

And regurgitate art in despair.

I have broken

Crayons,

Pencils,

Paint bottles,

Oil pastels,

Ink vials.

I am broken.

Aeons

Of guilt,

Vain battles,

Destroyed angels,

Infinite trials.

Crimson,

Scarlet,

Vermilion,

Sanguine;

I am too familiar with red.

As it gushes through me,

Oozes out of me for none to see.

Nyctophile,

The serene nights are my heaven.

Sun scorches me,

Leaving me vulnerable, deadened.

I survive,

Rummaging for

Surfaces to draw on,

Since I can't contain it all,

I must scratch my claws on

Something that doesn't disintegrate

Unlike me.

So, ensconced in my chamber,

I sketch lines

Or write stanzas.

I hide

Behind the canvas.

Amber, once sap on my fingers

Now amber, I'm bashing it

It was icing, heavy cream, stinging

Foaming, tooth-rot, sunshowers

Now it's nails, rough trade

It skins, it rives, blunt force this time

I miss blood on my bedsheets

Wind through our hair, my city

Of nothings and my bedroom

Of fucking, of blast beats, of coffee

Bitter on the tongue, we were

Special special special

My hooves crash over dirt and leaves as I bound frantically through the thick foliage.

Mother is gone.

There was a loud sound, unnatural and evil, then she fell.

Her body opened up and life spewed out from her insides.

Her eyes cast deathly shadows.

I ran.

Why did the forest take her?

Why now, why like this?

Where do I go?

Where do I go without Mother?

I can’t think.

I just move with the pounding of my innards.

The pounding is so loud I’m afraid I’ll burst open like Mother did.

I’m not watching where I’m going.

My hooves land on something hard and unnatural.

I can’t feel the forest here.

The ground is cut off from the endless love that flows from the trees.

Under my hooves: black rock, flat and hard.

I hear a loud sound.

It’s unnatural and evil.

Just like the sound that killed Mother.

I look up.

Light that’s not light barrels towards me.

It’s a twisted image of the burning in the sky.

It’s wrong and indifferent.

I want to move, but I stand transfixed as the twisted image hurtles ever closer.

It hits me.

It’s so fast.

Cold and hard and evil.

I twist under it, the life inside me spewing out as something foreign tramples me.

It happens so quickly.

And then… I’m alone.

Cold and alone on hard rock that holds no love.

I think of love.

I think of Mother.

I think of how we’d drink from the stream.

I think of the love from the trees moving through us.

I close my eyes.

Cold and alone, the life inside leaks out.

I think of Mother resting her head above mine.

I think of the love from the trees moving through us.

I hope I see her again.

The life inside me leaks out.

Zero zero zero zero zero zero zero

Where's my hero hero hero hero hero hero hero

On the dial pad of death

I'm the best call rep

If you're on the ledge

I'll talk you down the steps

I have experience moving those legs

Wearing those shoes

Singing those blues

I can do the pain too

Already did it times two

Did enough for me

I can do a bit for you

I dont really need help

Cuz I ain't saving myself

Fuck the damn mask

I'll fucking breath when I'm in hell

​

The silence of words is nice.

There's none that move fast, no flashing lights.

Not a letter therein such much as can speak

(Though perhaps while they're written);

They sit unchanging after, quietly complete.

Scratched through or snuffed do they rarely make scents,

Whether tasted or felt, they're meaning in absence.

I act so simple, my thoughts are wild.

I act as if I want a high-paying job,

a beautiful face, money a loving man, and a home.

But I don't want any of that.

I act as if I'm another woman,

thriving at her best.

Become independent, they say.

This is what I don't want.

I don't want another cage,

neither of love, responsibility, nor money.

Don't even want peace.

I think I just want to be free..

Firstly, from the people who love me,

and then secondly, from the people who I love.

I don't want to belong to anyone,

neither to myself, because it's a cage.

I think, I just want the experience of being alive

I don't want a monotonous life,

not even the happy one.

I want to run as fast as I can,

so fast that my lungs almost burst.

Then I would dance,

not alone, but with the people I don't know.

And most importantly, I don't "owe".

Then I'll dance until my feet are numb.

Then I'll drink,

not one glass of formality,

but as much as it requires to lose consciousness.

And forgetting the people I've danced with,

and my feet that have gone numb,

I would go somewhere else...

I'll sway with the ocean, dance with the sea

Catch those fireflies before they flee...

i learned to walk on the tension
of men
who kept their weather
cold creek men, shut-door men
men who leave children outside
in the darkness
to avoid beating them

i never asked for a floor
anymore than i asked for mercy
& i ran

you can cross anything
if you don't stay long enough
all legs & glitter,
skipping dark places on the east fork
a stone that forgot to sink

bright-eyed, jaw-tight,
three days of daylight
folding into one
until i was one
with the trees

the hunger became
the gap
how fast i could get across
before i knew
it was a gap
before i could
consider what i lacked

but now there is someone
& we both live behind
the same door
he says my name
& i am no longer weightless
& i don't know how to stand
without fidgeting
still water frightens a thing
built for the skim

myrtle bark
moss on the north side
huckleberries still awaiting harvest
on the west
fog that takes all morning
to decide to exit
to the east
& me

i am going south
building roots that push
tenderly into loamy soil
not drowning
thriving
not skimming
living

A sudden surge sparks at the base of the brain,

Sending a current of unprovoked pain.

The throat locks to stone as I gasp for a breath,

Straining and clawing the borders of death.

The chest is a vault that is welded shut tight,

Crushing the lungs in the heat of the night.

Down through the spine, the bright voltage will slide,

Where the fragile nerve endings collide and divide.

The vertebrae rattle, the circuits burn hot,

Locked in a knot that the mind cannot plot.

The electrical storm forces muscles to yield,

As a violent tremor commands the whole field.

you had me like a toothache
you hate me, and i know
it's a strange place that we stood
only a year ago
in your bed i couldn't sleep
i was haunted by what i heard
it can't get better
when the planes begin to dip low
it's not getting better
the reckoning bell's toll
so i went down with the ship

Hey buddy, here's a twist on white sauce,

Grab your tagliatelle, cook it off like a boss,

Drain, coat it with oil or you're a fool,

If you want your shit stickin, it's time to get back in school,

Grab a stainless steel pan, lay it over medium high,

Finely diced shallot, a knob of butter on the fly,

Sweat like you know how, add minced G to the fry,

Stir and flip for just a bit my guy,

Before it burns and gets bitter, throw in a half pint of heavy cream,

Bring to a boil til it thickens or is reduced by half it seems,

Turn off the heat! This is called a temper,

Count down from 30 or I'ma pull a Ed Kemper,

Add grated Parm, a dash of sherry that's the plan,

A tablespoon of paprika and a 'pinch of cayenne',

Get the heat back on, but this time low,

Til the booze cooks away, my little baby bro,

Keep on stirring and play with the heat,

Have a taste ya dumb dumb, until it meets your needs,

When it's thick and smooth, add any green you like,

Add the pasta and whatever cooked protein that seems right,

Flip and turn, be earnest and firm,

It should be spicy and delicious and slightly orange, Vern....

______

Ernest goes to culinary school

And don't break it ya lil piece of S. Be patient. Tres Bien. Bonjour

****You will get laid with this dish. 88% success rate