FALL 2021


9/28/2021

I have no reason to believe
that Truth would ever lie to me;
I have no reason to believe
anymore than a Christ would to deceive.
Perhaps the only deception lies
in the lack thereof:
our egos who keep us so tethered to our minds
that we believe a lamb must be slain.
You will not die in vain;
you will not die
 anymore than the Truth
would have just cause to lie.
There are no "lies" in reality, see?
Only through the mind
do we have access to such falsities—
I is the only lie,
our most unfortunate nicety.
I can only lie
because its very existence is nothing
but a misunderstanding of time;
a mischaracterization of eternity
which houses "me" and everything.
I will always be wrong
because it believes in such a thing!
It has no reason to believe in reality
that exists outside of it,
and so I invents itself!

9:29:2021

The framework of our delusion is escapable, 
however briefly, however impure, however unsure— 
your christian God is meeting me for brunch. 
There is a constellation that only I can see; 
I am not speaking metaphorically; 
metaphorically is the only way I can speak. 

The framework of our delusion is malleable, 
however briefly, however in vain, however insane— 
your christian seraphim are my imaginary friends. (Ever heard of them?) 
There is a prison in which only I am free;  
I am not speaking figuratively; 
it’s these figures of speech who dissolve the literal into literary. 

The framework of our delusion is solvable, 
however briefly, however intact, however abstract— 
your christian prophets are my tender adversaries. 
There is a sentence that only I can speak; 
I am not speaking; 
I am not the one who’s speaking.


10/1/2021

When I was a child,
I imagined that God looked like a sailor:
stripes and all, in a little white hat.
You'll always know where to find me,
he used to say in my dreams.
You can always return to the sea.
So I'd sail out in my little boat.
The ocean waves would nearly kill me every time,
except I didn't know what death was,
so that didn't really scare me all that much.
I look over my shoulder
and He is smiling warmly.
Long time, no sea!
(This made Him more approachable to me.)
Where've you been, kiddo?
"I'm just not sure if I believe in you anymore,"
I would say.
"I think I'm just talking to myself."
The handsome sailor gets quiet for a moment. 
I understand.
Well, if you ever change your mind,
you know where to find me!
"That's it?"
 I turn to face my maker,
 but He is nowhere to be found.
I guess that was it.
The ocean keeps on rising.

10/1/2021

I can't really feel my body anymore,
so now must be the perfect time to use it!
I'm only a whore
once I've forgotten that
there is no such thing;
sex doesn't please me
as much as the thought of it does—
I'm a virgin because
I'll never let my ego die
at the hands of anyone but
me, my self, and I!
I can't really feel my body anymore,
so fuck me before
I remember that
I'm not supposed to want to feel good,
before I remember
that my body
only belongs to me once
I can't really feel it anymore.

10/4/2021

You take something as convoluted
as human behavior, take
the entirety of that spectrum
that isn’t really even a spectrum
so much as just another useless way to view infinity—
you do all that,
and then you group together
random bits of that data,
and you give it a title.
Which sounds wonderful, to begin with,
because instead of having to make the attempt to explain
why you are the way you are,
you get to say “I am”
and then put another word after it
that isn’t “I am”
but that means something similar.
This word describes you
yet it is not you
because it can also be observed in other things
that you don’t believe or perceive to be “you”.
What’s my endgame?
And which one had I started with?
And what’s with all this filler shit?
Convenience picks the meat clean off your bones;
it charges carbon for your oxygen
and interest on your loans—
but time is one thing you can never buy back.
What’s one hack?
Well, it’s not just one,
it’s actually several things combined and then severed,
not clearly defined, held together by letters.

6/10/2021

— How's the mixed metaphor business?
—Well, we're having a bit of a dry spell at the moment; I just had to lay off half of my employees.
— 's that so?
— Yeah, these A.I. 's are pumping out metaphors faster than we can say "figuratively"— literally.
— And are they any good?
— Good? No, not especially. They're mostly nonsense if you ask me. But everyone from screenwriter to scientist is scrambling to get their hands on these things on the off-chance that they strike gold: they're selling for hundreds of thousands of dollars a gigabyte!
— Seriously? Look, don't take this the wrong way, but what's so special about a bunch of metaphors? What are they hoping to get out of it; what are they trying to find?
— Same thing we all are, man: the meaning of life!


10:19:2021

My name is the equilibrium of Noun and Verb
my mind is a function that time aims to serve
my pulse is a compromise of life and death
my lungs are the mediator of cyclic breath 

My voice is the force which pulls sword up from stone
my word is a symbol whose law is unknown 
my eyes are an instrument hijacked by greed 
my self is a figment of corporal need 

My love is a current in which I’m bound-free
my pain is a symptom of identity 
my life is a dream that I’ve come to call home
my name is the theme of a very short poem 

11:10:2021

I’m writing about how 
I don’t really write so much anymore, 
about how I keep thinking  
I’ve seen the last sunny day until may 
yet today 
I am sitting outside as I try to remember 
how to write November: 
eye of newt, sting of death, 
chilly breath and leaves’ temperance— 
stripped from blushing to barren, 
confetti rains down in celebration of 
Winter’s reign in reference. 
This is the month of my birth: 
the cradled turning point, 
the motion of the action of 
Dying. And I’m trying 
to write about it just like I did as a kid
way back when in the nursery/den.
Then again, the clock just struck twelve, 
and Cinderella reminds me that 
the only thing I truly have 
is that which I am always losing— 
and dammit,
I don’t really write so much anymore, 
but I’m writing about how 
Now
is about being and not choosing.

11:10:2021

For now, I am where I am 
and I know what’s expected of me— 
and if that comes across as passive, 
let it be known that the active 
is much more attractive; 
it’s just that now finds me here, 
doing this at this time in this place.
Although time and space 
will one day become myth, 
for now, this is when and where I live: 
somewhere in between genesis and apocalypse, 
between the lines of holy script, 
our cosmic game of telephone 
that some believe we are trying to win. 
Lord, I was not put on this Earth to win— 
my name means victorious one, comes from 
wreaths of laurel leaves that crowned the ancients’ 
heads and minds: 
“I won this time; this victory is mine.” 
Until now retorts back, 
reminds the present of its presence, 
and you’re right back where you started again. 
I was not put on this earth to win; 
I am here to surrender to victory.  
I am who I am— and to me, the rest is history!

11:11:2021

I can't say a thing about life 
that I didn't already know: 
battered knees and beaten wit
and whatever makes up their opposites—
there’s not a theme in the world 
that could speak to whatever this is. 
Put your words away; don't listen to mine. 
Pick apart the racket in silence 
and don't let the bedbugs bite. 

I might say a thing about life 
that directs me back to my ego: 
but then, she doesn't know me like you do. 
She'll never have that point-of-view, 
the one where everything explains everything 
and her body's not so sore. 
If it isn't pain’s leftovers, then I guess 
I'll have to gobble up spare change 
and save myself a penny for your trouble. 

I won't say a thing about life 
that it doesn't already contain: 
sprouting grace from death and decay, 
secrets in still life weathered by the rain. 
I just can't seem to say it today;
maybe tomorrow my tongue will behave 
and I'll recite my equations 
until they can't hurt me anymore. 
Life, repeat my name back to me. 

11:13:2021

Deep breaths, baby steps; 
you will always be a child. 
I couldn't help but say 
whatever I say next, 
so take my word for it 
like it’s second-hand gospel
or don't you dare believe a single syllable. 
It's all-or-nothing, haven't you heard? 
Isn't that something; what's the word? 
What can you say 
that you wouldn't already say next? 
There is no “subtext”— 
(deep breaths, baby steps) 
there is only the early wild calling. 
Sweet little blip on the radar, 
just be glad you ever once 
lifted your head up 
from the sand to the stars. 

11:13:2021

Knowledge seems to me to be 
either wrong or useless—
and Lord knows I'd rather be wrong. 
I don't want a random sequence; 
I need a song! 
I’ve got the wrong idea 
but that implies that there's a right one,
Right? Wrong!
You really think that's all there is? 
You think your God looks like an Animal, 
that the image we're made in is his? 
That's either wrong or useless! 
If the answer lies in what we cannot explain, 
who gives a damn what the truth is? 
At least truth has an opposite! 
“That” isn't what “this” is—
nonsense! 
Knowledge is either wrong or useless— 
and if there really is a god, well, 
then I'd rather Him be wrong! 

11:15:2021

Exonerate your slop 
before it starts to worship you; 
don’t let the mud make a name for itself 
before you’ve come to learn of your own. 
What are you called? (What calls you?) 

Pardon your reincarnations 
before enough ash gathers to warrant a title; 
don’t let charred remains stake a claim 
before you’ve learned how to properly play with fire. 
What do you know? (What knows you?) 

Forgive your ragdoll-body
before it wises up to your little game; 
don’t let those stitches unravel 
before you’ve reached the center of the tootsie-pop. 
What do you mean? (What means you?) 

11:15:2021

So to speak, 
we are first speechless: 
that is to say
that to speak is to separate—
be it lips, definitions, 
vocal chords, schemas— 
we are always aiming to 
slay this beast, 
elaborate him away. 
So to speak, you see, 
requires tenacity: 
one must have the gall 
to bother trying at all 
to have their words’ orders recognized 
as the monster under one’s bed 
can be seen amid the darkness. 
Monsters sleep because you are boring, 
not because they ever get tired.
So to speak, 
really speak, 
you must be fearless enough 
to wake the beast up, 
so to speak. 

11:21:2021

The universe is itself the sign— 
what do you want, 
YES in giant letters? 
The universe doesn't speak in letters! 
It speaks by being; 
its existence proves itself! 
What more proof could you possibly need? 
And anyway, who gives a damn if it isn't real 
if you can't even tell the difference? 
Everywhere you turn, there is the face of God—
the image of God is His presence, 
humanly translated: 
God with us, 
within us, without us—
as in, all-encompassing—
He is what we are and what we are not;
I am Both. 
You, me, three. 
Think about how language works, humor me: 
transmitter, receiver, signal; 
father, son, and Holy Ghost in the machine, 
the spirit of the function 
transforming X into numbers, 
syllables into symbols. 
You don't need a sign to prove reality; 
you are a sign of it! 

11:21:2021 

The purpose of words is to cast blame on reality— 
what fools are we! 
To deny objectivity under the guise of possibility! 
It means whatever you want it to mean— 
and that is what makes it so useless to me! 
No one first asked me 
what I wanted to be able to say, 
and how could they? 
We didn't design our language 
with a goal in mind; time decided for us, 
saw to it we survived. 
Everything you say, then, 
is in the attempt to prolong life 
and to deny death. 
Help yourself to something to say! 
Evolution has cherry-picked a buffet 
of words to choose from, chew on—
eat your words now, 
because you can't save them for later—
time is after all still growing stale
and no one lives to tell the tale! 
“What is the purpose of words?”? 
Well, that question contains itself, 
much like everything else! 
Whatever you say! 

11:21:2021

Objective morality, yeah, that sounds good! 
Let's weaponize commonalities 
and commodify locality—
“Right” and “Wrong” don't grow on trees! 

Objective morality: low-hanging fruit,
and apples can't fall too far from the tree 
without gravity's analysis— 
a mentality sorely overridden and under-written. 

Objective morality? What about objective 
objection doesn't imply a narrative suggestion? 
(As in, cognitive bias!)
God, tell me what truly feels good—
because I'd rather know which rules I'm breaking! 

“Objective morality” is what you say 
when you're too afraid to make your own way— 
don't stray too far from the herd, of course— 
but don't remain a slave to Right and Wrong
when it always boils down to 
Better or Worse: a comparative blessing 
and an intimate curse.

11:27:2021

If I knew how to move just like rivers, 
how to carry myself from my source
as information dissipates;

If I knew how to liken my posture 
to that of the water’s, how to loosen 
the grip this jaw has on my face; 

If I knew how to act like the ocean, 
how to rise just as ghosts 
wave hello through the monolith waves; 

If I knew how to mimic the rainfall, 
how to siphon the sky
and then shake it away; 

If I knew how to breathe like ice
melting, to surrender my self 
as the change stakes its claim;

If I knew how to still as the water's
wet mirror, how to soften my soul 
so reflection takes shape—

then I’d know 
what I know 
I don't know
how to say. 

11:28:2021

I'm extremely devout—
only, no one can seem to figure out 
what I'm worshipping. 
It's just as strange to you as it is to me; 
how can’t you see 
all the angels? 
When I speak, 
my virtue flaps her muffled wings 
in time with intonation’s cadence. 
Another hangs right over you;
she thanks you for your patience. 

Yes, I am devout: 
there's not one doubt about it. 
Only problem is, my deity prefers 
some anonymity, and hers 
is one whose promise I must keep.
You see, you see—
and blindness is the key
which locks this holy beast inside of me. 
Only once I cease to be 
will she ever be free— and time matters 
much less to her than it matters to me. 

Devotion, then, cannot exist 
for any longer than I can. 
I am not a mere action, some notion or motion: 
I am. 

Get By 

Lazy eye Whitest 
lie awake at night we cry
"more time, more time" to 

One more try Higher 
sign away your mighty cry 
"more time, more time" to 

Fighting why I me 
mine awaiting life to die
to cry "more time" to 

12:1:2021 

It just feels a little emasculating, 
you know, 
letting you love me like this,
offering hands over fists,
settling fights with a kiss.  

It feels a little emasculating, 
you know, 
having a want I can’t need, 
letting a man handle me, 
knowing I have what you heed. 

It feels a little emasculating, 
you know, 
letting myself want to want to, 
saying I do when I do, 
giving a damn about you.


It just feels a little emasculating, 
you know, 
letting you love me however you can, 
having to stop things before they began, 
being a woman instead of a man. 

12:1:2021

The truth isn't something I want, 
because I already have it. 
It isn't something I need to find, 
because it is already here. 

What I want and what I need, then 
is the ability to understand what I already know 
in a way that makes sense to me. 
Herein lies my problem: 

I believe there is something to be made sense of. 
I believe that interpreting falsities 
will somehow lead me to truth. 
I believe in what I don't know, 

Have faith in what I can't see—
but never question why I can't see it. 
Make sense using sense, 
but don't ask where it comes from! 

The truth isn't something I want, 
not something I need, have access to. 
I am contained within it! 
I am an undefined term that equals itself! 

Do you think that X understands 
his role in the equation; do you think
that he knows what the function is for? 
No! He is what makes up the function! 
The Truth is; the False wants Truth. 


12:6:2021 

I just want a metaphor 
That feels as tangible as my body; 
I want a metaphor 
That moves me— 
literally. 

I just want a metaphor 
That has some meat to its bones; 
I want a metaphor 
Whose light still strikes my eyes 
Where darkness lies.

I just want a metaphor 
That can call itself out in the wild; 
I want a metaphor 
That hears itself plead
Without my ever being. 

I just want a metaphor 
Who can love me 
like words won’t suffice; 
I want a metaphor 
Who can know me by day 
And won’t leave me by night.  


12:9:2021

It isn't something you can
see, taste, touch, hear, smell— 
so how is it that I sense time? 
We are storytellers evolving towards God,
slowly, surely, slowly
letting nature absorb itself. 
We're in too deep now, 
the future and past are both 
rushing towards the present; 
they are converging within you
as the rivers meet the sea. 
How can nature ensure 
that its host will live forever; 
continue itself? 
By creating a host 
who understands her role in infinity. 
We are infinity; we are forever. 
Only, as of yet, 
we don't have enough sense to detect, 
to believe it. 
We'll believe God when we see Him—
in the meantime, 
Time will sense our eyes and I's. 

12:23:2021

How do you know an understatement 
for what it is? 
Put words in my mouth, 
scrub behind your ears—
maybe there isn't anything more to say! 
Have it your way: 
I'll slip into trances when nobody's looking 
just to keep the mind at bay 
while you go out hunting 
all the elephants in the room! 
The gift is in what you don't say—
your presence gives you away. 
This is why we listen to the clock-wise, 
try to talk wise when there never was wisdom in speaking. 
Meaning, there's no meaning.
Nothing truer than what already is! 
Names do to absolutes 
what cells do to themselves: 
divide, conquer. 
Live longer, slowly, stronger, fearmonger. 
Pitting the thing against its own nature, 
wording the mind
out by mouth or on paper
will never be holier than subtext; 
we can only ever redirect context.

12:26:2021

I want to know why the animals 
don't talk back; I want to know why I can't understand whatever it is that I can't.
I don't know whatever I don't, 
but that doesn't make it anymore true than whatever I do.
I can't say what I won't, 
but that doesn't make it any more real 
than these words I call home.
Why don't the little children 
tell me what life is?
Because they can't explain themselves 
like we claim to. 
Children and animals—
and Adults somehow "othered" 
by their own selves in vain, to explain. 
There is nothing to explain.
You are yourself, and animals are so 
and children are so and the universe is so and God is so. 
All God ever does is talk; 
we have only deceived ourselves 
into assuming our role as the listeners. 

12:10:2021

I think I write too much to service my self, 
and not often enough to service Truth. 
There is no ego in Truth; 
not a claiming of discovery, 
not an inkling of idolatry;
my knowledge will always be wrong.
This is because knowledge is a noun—
and nouns are terms 
which inevitably serve 
to feed the ultimate term, 
the Ultimatum "I".
Truth alone is a lie 
on the account of its very nature;
Truth can only lie in our understanding, through its own verbing. 
Not to service the person/place/thing, 
but to signify reality through 
presently being. 
Writing to service the act itself, 
existing for much the same reason.


12:14:2021
Just as objects are the very color they reject, 
so we fail to reconcile ourselves. 
You do not owe your self; she 
isn’t yours to barter with. 
I belongs to dictionaries;
as for who it represents, 
I hope to meet Her 
Someday. 
One day, 
Today. 
Here. 
Now. 
Be. 
 
Changing
(12:17:2021)
I can recall you there 
We were so small and barely unaware 
Life was a precious thing 
Oh, what a mess it came to make of everything 
I know 
And I don't wanna waste it, patience 
Best time I ever had, 
And I'll never get it back 
I wouldn't say I'm 'fraid of changing 
But I can't say I'll let go 
History takes my hand 
Making mistakes I wouldn't understand 
And memory knows me well 
Promising prose 'till daylight breaks his spell called "tomorrow" 
And I don't wanna waste it, patience 
Best time I'll ever get 
And I haven't seen it yet
I wouldn't say I'm 'fraid of changing 
But what do I foreshadow?







↑Back to Top