I was going to write a letter to you,
but I'm far too inebriated
to even begin to be able to.

Can I come spend some
time with you; are you not so busy
to pay me mind for a minute or two?

I sit here, removed
(lying to myself, loudly filling the room)
from all aspects Human.

There is a dry humor
which I'm inclined to adopt--
to dine upon, to occupy--

but the dryness of this wine
has me thinking of you:
horrorshow: rained-out visions

and the like protrude
from my sulfite-demeanor; the
California in me-- fermented

and bastardized little gob of fruits--
has a thing (or two)
to say: if indeed you choose

to delay these proceedings, these
gay-happy meetings of cerebral mishaps
and neurons firing in the wrong direction;

if indeed we elect to err from truth,
to proceed with such misguided cautions
and caustic fits of normality, banality--

then let's forget we've a single,
jeweled thing between us.
Let's forget the night you propositioned;

let's forget my immediate denial,
and the regret that followed a moment after.
Forget the four drops in an Ocean

of Time and searing Salt
(like electric glass making love to my wounds)
which have brought our spinning frames

no closer.  Forget it all; wobble
on your axis, and perhaps we will
fall into one another, some day;

I'd love you,
I'd love you,
I'd love you.

Underneath; Precious Illusions; Everything; Simple Together; That I Would Be Good; 8 Easy Steps; So Unsexy; Still; Crazy

I can't sleep.  I keep reaching for my phone; it's a lifeline, it's a connection to the outside (it's a distraction).  I have my headphones in, my iPod on (product placement?) and Alanis Morissette is playing over and over and over.  This is the first time I have ***** to try to fall asleep; is the fact that it's not working a good thing, a bad thing, or just a simple matter of fact?

Should I call into work tomorrow?  I don't want to go, but that's nothing new.  If I call in, though, they might suspect that something's wrong.  And though something probably is wrong, I don't like to mix work life and my personal life.

Should I go out running?  Not unless I call in to work.  But why not?  It might tire me out, it might help me sleep.  Sleep, however, may be a lost cause at this point.

*** will not talk to me ("I should have loved a thunderbird instead").  I try to tell myself that my preoccupation with him is unnecessary, and that he is not real, that he is not really there-- because we have never met.  I feel like I have been here before, and I most likely have-- and if I have, then maybe I am living that classic "definition of insanity."  It all feels new, though maybe it's the phenomenal aspect and not the noumenal aspect that seems new; it all certainly feels familiar, though the details and the specifics of this circumstance are different (or are they?  is it a trick?  is it all some kind of illusion?).

I keep hoping *** has contacted me, but what would that do for me?  I keep telling myself that I need to learn to let go of things (certain things, things I obsess over, things which are immaterial or illusory or impermanent; things which cause suffering due to my own personal desire or my ego's expectations of the material world [what the fuck am I even talking about?]), but I think I also have a problem with burning bridges and "letting go" of things in an insincere, self-serving way; as a defense mechanism; as a means of avoidance.  I was hoping not to have to let go of ***, I was hoping to not
have
to let go
of anything;
but here I am again, without an old friend
to comfort me;
I am my own old friend, and I'm getting sick of entertaining myself;
I have overstayed my own goddamn welcome.

I wish someone else would invade my goddamn head.

I still can't sleep, and the **** I've ***** has already escaped my prefrontal cortex and my kidneys, and it looks like I'll go on thinking until my death; sleep is not going to come tonight.  Sleep is not going to be anything but an illusory, momentary, impermanent and false relief.  I don't even dream anymore-- or if I do, I'm not remembering my dreams, unless I am in some way altered when I happen to fall asleep.

This will probably all be erased soon.

Everything Feels Fake (there is blood in nothing)

Not a mean drunk, but
a sad schmuck, and I'm
stuck inside my own head.

I'm not a madman,
but quite a sad man--
longing for timely death.

What lights could hope to
find our rites, and bring
them rightly to the fore

Of your consciousness;
some wandering bliss;
why search when there's no more?

Take me down into
these oceans of blue,
and rend me asunder.

If our lives are true--
if me, then you--let's
echo as the thunder.

In time, we will find
ourselves and our souls--
gone sour, gone crazy, gone

Towards some great end:
we're lonely (maybe
crazy) we're lovely,

We're friends.  Though we can't
claim divinity;
though we can't claim amends--

Let's fall down, now;
let's confound, now;
let's let this be the end.

One of the best birthday presents I've ever received (August 30, 2006)

Lovebirds

For Jiva, on his birthday.

At 10,000 feet you can't breathe.

Daedalus could,

but you are Icarus, trying and failing to fly.

Above your head you saw him

beckoning you to fly and find your home amongst the clouds

and so you built yourself wings, foolishly made of idyll dreams,

climbing to the height of the eagles

Over the sea he kisses your forehead

you can see he wants to keep flying with you

but, too close to the sunlight of his eyes,

your wings begin to melt

and he's taking you into a dive

do you trust him to hold your hand all the way down?

a feather tickles your wrist

your heart stumbles with the sensation of gasping for breath while he holds your life

hostage and precious

absolute lack of oxygen making you desperate--

this is what it's like to drown while soaring

He can't spare you; the world was made to be seen.

but you can't blink, wind stinging your eyes

altitudes and attitudes interfering with your voice cracking as you try to cry out for his

reassurance

it's still a long way down to the treacherous waters

it must be that birds have always lived with love

Fuzzy Hymnals and Myopic Prophecy

my shoes-- and the way i wear them--

will not convince you i'm the one to love.
my shorts-- and the way they frame my lack of an ass--
do nothing to sway you, nor will they ever.

my eyes may belie my intentions, my façade of haberdashery--
though they look away, turn from yours
and the unblemished sight they strive to see--
but when closed, they
always roll inwards, to gaze upon your snowglobe visage:

mirage of gemstone irises and candied lips--
whose partings send forth a turpitudinous beckoning;

how my amaurotic dreams long to
languidly sire
these ideas, these ideas into actuality
as they spring forth

unduly

from your piquant, heightened sensuality.

From the yawning depths of
your chasm'ous innerspaces

(dark to balance the trill of my luminous cacophony
as we ride upon the breath of the night)

comes a watery feeling;

I hope to whatever Gods may be
that Thales was right in his Greek assumptions;

Your tears are all I have left to hold onto.
Mine flow away:

molten silver into molten fissures.

10.06.012 Nameless Still

What syllables could ever hope to form
themselves
with any modicum of true meaning?

And as that liquid ditty floats,
prancing onward down the faces
linéd-- tears like rivers streaming--

the golden moon sets itself
in a hymnal of fuzz.

Fly upward, outward, Ghost--
penny for your thoughts,
treatise to bar the wailings--

ephemeral conjuncts
(a joining of hands, praises rising)

drop to stillness, malquiescence, night's promise:

we will go on forever.

I should have stayed a fantasy.