September 30 2013


What If

What if we stood now

On an empty stage

In the silhouette of a former fame

In a theater long vacated,

What if this life were naught

But the echo

Of a former incarnation

And those that passed

Had simply recognized the farce

Do I stand now on the precipice

Between two worlds?

A ghost at twilight mourning?


What if this life were training

For an interstellar war?

What if I suffered now

That I might later serve

Some heroic purpose?

What then would be the reward

Or would it exist solely

In the eminence of my deeds?

Why must we receive

In order to do that

Which is natural to our hearts?

Is love not its own reward?


What if there was a heaven

In which only

The most curious flowers


Would I find shelter

In such a curious garden?

Or am I ash violet

Bound for the furnace

Of some universal engine

That feeds on the souls

Of those too volatile

To coexist?


What if right and wrong

Were merely the constructs

Of a temporary vanity?

What if I had to be everyone

In order to understand wholly

What it means to be human

Because I am not the product

Of but the antecedent

Not God but rather

An inquisitive universe



What if I was

The muse

Of a slumbering God?

Or the characters

Around which the Divine

Spins his waking reveries

What if

The magic

Behind both wand and pen

Whose purpose

It was to heal and brew?

What if indeed …


Is it cheating to write a poem as my diary entry? That is just how it turned out


September 29 2013


I am impetuous given to the pendulum. To the rise and fall of dire instincts. I live in the wreck of an immanent collision. Spontaneity poisons when imbibed too liberally. I am all or nothing. Either on or off. I’ve never tasted independence despite a penchant for rebellion. I’m selfish and impotent. I’ve never trusted myself knowing that at any moment I might hasten my journey and meet a preternatural end. To go from nothing to necessitous, it’s a process. I don’t want to think exclusively in terms of “if” If I was healthy I might have a house, a job, a cat, summer vacations. If I was healthy I might not spend all day casting withering glances at the moon.

September 28 2013


I am not sure if I want a “proper” job. Perhaps I want to write, to dedicate my heart wholly to a solitary pursuit. A pursuit that will earn me neither money nor acclaim. A pursuit that in time might cultivate resentment. I have never been practical or diplomatic. I regret that I didn’t write more often as an adolescent, that I didn’t hang on to writing assignments from childhood. I remember at times my thoughts and in all these years the content has suffered very little alteration. How is it that at 5 I was given to such complexities? How is it that at 32 I have resolved so little? I regret most of all that a lack of confidence has kept me from pursuing my passions, even privately. That that same soul-devouring infirmary has caused me to discard previous endeavors. I amputated myself from the neck down. Sometimes a head, at other times a heart, but never both simultaneously.


I fear time, she alludes me. How can one simply subtract four hours from a schedule that already overwhelms (though is comparatively meager)? My apartment remains even in surplus of time a mess. My head likewise. With weekly therapy, swim classes and the addition of enrichment activities that consume entire days I am no longer feeling under-stimulated. I sat in a room full of strangers today. I sat with my limbs curled around my trunk, exhausted but permeable wishing desperately that I was the one dancing. Longing desperately for the warmth of home.



September 27 2013


Mute. Vulnerable Given to collapse. My heart lies diminished. Having peeled back too many scars, too many layers I am raw, besmirched, and not yet itchy. There is no comfort in expectation. In the opposition of neurons corrosively overburdened. I think too much. I succumb too easily to lawless sleep. To anti-realities and dissociations. Hours pass more quickly than minutes. Minutes are impatient. Minutes add up but hours reduce. It’s a long time waiting for the sun to drop. Waiting for my responsibilities to undress and settle serenely into the arms of a generous lover.


I am exhausted. Minutiae are threatening mutiny. I scurry, kaleidoscopic, through rooms on the verge of collapse. The Gilings are on the rise. I’ve arrested the latest pathogen and all I really want is to lie on the sofa with a swatch of velvet thrown over my icy limbs. I want to dream, idle dreams, that require neither compliance nor consummation.


Diary Entry September 26, 2013



Today I am fuchsia. Appalling and implicit like dried blood. My hopes are theatrical and metaphysical. They rise like wildfire. Spontaneous. Devastating. Essential. Today I spoke of my childhood, about what it means to grow up in a world governed by pathogens. Today I spoke of survival. Of breaths furiously drawn and tenaciously held. Of a life where silence kills. Of a life where silence is the only means of survival. I spoke of a protracted suicide played out meticulously in the bowels of a wounded psyche. Today I found the strength to express my incarnation of the Devil.


I have survived, an Ouroboros. Needs unheeded and unmet, I existed at my own expense. Sometimes I wonder if there is anyone left inside of me? But in my heart I know that I am inexhaustible. Tenacious. A weed. Greeting the sun somewhere between concrete and infinity. No man of…

View original post 150 more words

September 25 2013


Depression is a formidable opponent. A brother, sister, mother, father. A blood born pestilence. An adversary dressed in the panicked shades of my rapacious shadow. I am afraid to emerge sickly from a meticulously laid bed. What if in striving I lose that which I now possess? What if I am corrupted by that which I cannot reconcile but must as an aspect of maturity endure? What if a machine? Will I grow resilient? Or will I harden? The world is cruel. I don’t want to strive at the expense of others. To strive and to never, even in moments of respite, love. Who will tell me how to live my life? There is no one and even if such a person existed I would refuse their words because no one can know truly what is in my heart. I must fail and fail often that I might learn. When there was nothing to lose I was a kamikaze now that heaven rests upon this very earth I am a coward through and through.


September 24 2013


I was entirely situational, rootless, my inominate children slipped deeper into the ravine. In the presence of others I found no solace, only shame. I wore the most appalling masks. Masks fashioned of flesh and bone. Almost human but always absent some essential element. I retired a leper. I scrapped my progeny from the dirt and judged them each in turn useless. I hated myself(s). My actions and the weakness that fosters emulation.


I can’t speak freely for fear of inconveniencing someone. I am afraid of confrontation, it requires a coherence that I do not, in the moment, possess. I speak in contradictions. In placating truths. I speak anarchronistically, the present being entirely too intimate. I am not fine. I am not wise. Forgive this fiend’s tongue. Forgive my invalidations. Reflected in societies’ eyes my failures grow exponentially. I can’t accommodate everyone, it will destroy me.

September 23 2013


I suffer no hesitations when declaring my life blessed. Maybe it will never again be so but in this moment I understand what it means to have sanctuary. Now is the time to heal. Now is the time to face my dilemmas and their comorbid demons. I always thought the pursuit of happiness superfluous and vague. How does one acquire what is by its very nature a transient state? Happiness is not a specific event, it is not monetary, or coercive. It comes unbidden, a bird, whose unclipped wings declare it wild. I cannot claim dominion or ownership. She would rather die than live in confinement and indeed it is so for anytime I have grasped her she has in that very instant perished. She visits more frequently these days but still I can find no means to detain her. Perhaps I will never know her true name only those appellations which ingratiating hosts thrust upon her. What I want is not happiness exactly. What I want is to embrace life consciously

Diary Entry September 22 2013



I am immobile. Grim. My thoughts boil, dissipate, scald on inquiry. I can not adjust my moods to the indulgence of either obligation or whim. So I stoop, incongruous with a sustainable architecture. Contradictions define me. I am exhausted and vehemently opposed to the clock’s covetous hands withdrawing my youthful diversions. My habits offend me and yet I am fondly and inconsolably dedicated to their exploitation. The most significant discovery I have made in the past few months is that I no longer want to be unhappy. I understand unhappiness. The alternative remains incomprehensible. My mouth is a monument, grief-stricken but no longer frequented by superstition. It dips well below the horizon. I frown mostly and I’ve found that the face really does assume the angles most held.


My hair has started to turn grey. Not grey precisely. The hairs are hysterically white. My grandmother had a head full…

View original post 668 more words