Hi, I write things. Some of them are good. I wrote at least one of them with you in mind. Try and find it. If I did my job right, it should not be hard.

Whoever you are, know that you are not alone and we are in this together until we're not. Then, it doesn't matter anymore. The universe goes on and us along with it.

You are suffering in your own special way and for that I am sorry. Being human is a pretty tough gig when reality tends to shatter our worldview on the regular. Here's hoping that my words reflect some fractured piece and make the whole puzzle a little more put together.

Shelf Full of Dick

Immortalized silicone
I’m simulated dystopia
Erasure immune

Be My Therapist

I want to tell you everything.
I want to be vulnerable ala Brenee Brown
I want to cure my toxic masculinity
By embracing my “feminity”
And exposing trauma so deep you can drown.

After all, you have the degrees
A veritable mistress of butterflied psyches
Schooled in pin boards and dichtomies
joined on the patriarchy.
Motherhood meets mastery and empathy.
Listening without judgement
While leaving me to a jury of my own peers,
Erected egotic edifices eroded by the winds
Blowing through cryptic crossroads
that challenge me to slay my father.

Be my therapist.
I want to tell you everything.
Let me cry into your arms.
And hold me with the strength
that I will never know.



Onyx eyes reflecting a solitary beam
Long halls delved down deep
Tracing ringing echoes across cracked tableaus
Seeking answers in ancient dirt

Why unearth old answers?
Why seek gods in the secreted corners?
Will they help us remember?
Will they restore our faith?

The myths of tombs are full of dangers
Long buried pressure plates
And propped up boulders
Ancient evils best left alone

Careful what your beam catches
As you probe down deep
Not everything is a reinforced arch
Some are old barbarisms

The ancient ruins of our past
Are tempting sirens retold in odes
While there is the occasional gem
Most are lies hiding ignorance

Look at the past with a Roman eye
Take the fables as foibles
And seek new treasures
Outside the tombs of the dead

What a glorious day to be alive

What a glorious day to be alive

When the drugs wear off
and the dopamine’s low
That’s when the angels swoop in
With their swords of vengeance
And arrows of self-doubt.
On another crusade to make you feel bad
About yourself.

As if they represented the good in life
For they are the murderous zealots
armed with a history of judgmental patriarchy
They represent the holy atrocity
Responsible for some many deaths
And so much derision
And they come in the guise of self-recrimination

But when the sun shines
while the birds sing their hopeful song.
You are reminded that life is still lived.
There is a sublime satisfaction in self actuation
Where you tell the angels to fuck right off
For they hold no dominion over you.

You see them for what they are.
Fables. Lies. Stories used to explain hallucinations.
The drugs have allowed you to see them for what they really are.

When you can wake up on those days
And realize you lived by your own moral code
When you did right by everyone
And harmed no one
Or at least minimized
your impact to unintentional antipathies

When you kicked off the safety
And turned the gun of temporary madness
Back upon yourself.
You reveal your truest self.

That’s when you can stand toe to toe
Wing to wing
With Gabriel and his kind.

Hey, fuck up

Hey, Fuck Up

I am talking to you, reader, author, everyone alike.
And I don’t mean that in the drunken uncle sort of way.
It’s not that same Budweiser tone
Shouted from a vinyl arm chair
Submerged in a leaky kiddie pool

I mean the collect we. The special fuckup.
Ever notice that? “Species”, “Special”
We the people who evidently fuck up.
Why are we like this?

Why do we act the way we do?
Why do we practice anonymous violence?
Cling to outdated and exclusionary ideologies
Try so hard to make everyone else different

It’s not the homeless woman
Trying to score whatever necessity makes this life bearable.
It’s not the trans boy or girl or non-binary
or whatever combination of forces and factors they are
It’s not the downtrodden, the lame, the destitute,
The unwell, the insane, the malfunctioning or the

It’s the rich people.
It’s the ones with the money and the power and the say and the platform
And the means and the privilege and the education and the connection
And the alma mater and the 401k and the trust fund
And the summer house.

It’s them.
They’re the fuck-ups.
But so are we.
We let them do it.
Hey, fuck up.
I’m talking to you.