Thursday, December 3, 2015

Hypothesis: 'But Then You Write a Poem and You're Fine'

Bone cave. Capable of holding the life of death. Perhaps waiting
is death enough. If only convincing was needed: all will be well;
all manner of things; be well, be well. Been swallowing placebos,
knowing their lie—they prove less effective when death is needed
for biology festering inside. Maybe truth is void—death without
life. Only in the mind—this narrative of mine—a personal Hell—

Monday, November 16, 2015

Contact: Attempted

I open my eyes and slowly lift my head. I am in the white room, sitting with my back against a wall. My legs are drawn to my chest, arms holding them tightly. The walls are smooth and emit a blindingly bright light—not only the walls, but the ceiling and floor as well—yet no light fixture is visible.

I allow my sight to rest and focus upon the figure in the centre of the room. Sitting still on a simple metal chair is a man. His physical appearance is difficult to discern, such that if I hold him just outside of focus only then does he appear distinct. He appears perhaps 35 or 40 years of age. His dress—black shoes, dark jeans, and a white button-up shirt—fits to his well-kept body. His hands rest upon his knees, and he is leaning slightly forward. His face is unshaven and his chestnut hair threatens to fall into his eyes. His hazel eyes are watching me.

When my eyes first meet his, my stomach lurches. But I recover with a snort of laughter. Of course you’d look like that, I think, wryly. The man sits up and crosses his arms in front of his chest without taking his eyes off me. His posture challenges, Like what? I purse my lips, refusing to respond, but the thoughts form in my head regardless: Like someone I would want to trust and respect purely by look alone. I frown and glare at the man. “I’m not amused,” I say aloud, accusingly. The man neither blinks nor moves—no sign that he has listened to my silence.

I close my eyes, sighing, and let my head fall back against the wall behind me. I feel the man watching me still, and—worse—I feel him moving around slowly inside my mind. My irritation spikes, but I do not hold onto it. “I’m tired,” I say, without opening my eyes.

“I know,” he replies.

I open my eyes and shift my head just enough to glance at the wall above and behind me. There is no outline of a door and no doorknob. The room is completely sealed. I should have figured, I think. My man remains in my mind, silent but moving. I glance again at him—still watching me—sigh again, and re-close my eyes. I allow my mind to wander, knowing he will follow, and yet too drained to raise barriers.

I should have known that I would end up here. The Room. This time with no door—no entrance; no exit. And yet, I can leave at any time. This room is not built of physical walls, but rather a projection of my mind—firings of the neurons in my brain. I can leave—leave this dream world. Return to the world of sound waves and solid-state matter; of people discussing philosophy of mind and debating the ecological ethics involved in purchasing eggs from caged versus free-range hens. Return to the “real” world, the world that matters, the world that determines whether I will earn enough money to purchase meals for the rest of my life; the world of apologetics and theological debates and church-splits over doctrinal disputes; the world in which religions simultaneously delineate and obfuscate life and death. Some within that world—perhaps many within that world—would disapprove of this room. Disapprove of the man sitting in it with me. Disapprove of what I am doing here. With him. In my head.

“No wonder you’re tired,” I hear him say.

I open my eyes again and look directly into his. I am silent for many seconds, trying to prevent any thoughts from forming in my mind. Pointless.

“I don’t know if I should be talking to you,” I finally say.

He vanishes instantly.

I stare at the empty chair.

“But I thought it would be better than nothing.” It is only a whisper floating through the air.


I glance at the corner of my computer screen. 12:15 pm. I’ve been wasting my morning, I think, angrily to myself. It is nearly lunch time and I’ve done no work! 

Friday, November 6, 2015


James 4:9 “Be wretched and mourn and weep.
Let your laughter be turned to mourning and your joy to gloom.”

     I am sitting at my desk, perfectly still; head bowed into my hands; breathing deeply, slowly; trembling.
     So it’s still there, I think. The anger is still there. I focus again on my body—willing a cessation of the adrenaline pulsing through my vessels.
     Is it anger? Or is it fear?
     So it’s still there, I think. The fear.
     No. Not just anger. Not just fear. It is a cry—a cry of anguish: “Why do you have freedom while I am thus bound?!”
     So it’s still there, I think; my body stilling into tautness. The jealousy is still there.
     My body begins to cool, my muscles start to ache, and tears slowly well in the corners of my eyes.

Monday, October 26, 2015

Running Just to Lose Myself

Today—I can’t think—
that’s not actually true.
Today—I can’t focus
because I’m thinking of
—too many things—
but that’s not right either.
Today—there is One—
my mind and I’m trying
to run from it—from idea
to idea—stuffing different—
into my brain—to try—
to distract—to drown out—
to suffocate—that One thing.
And yet—it will—not—die.

Friday, October 23, 2015

Travel with Me to the Undiscovered Continent

Beyond the Country Unforeseen
Lie Mysteries for you and me.
Precious jewels: Unknown yet told;
Birth, Death, Life—but never Old. 

Friday, October 16, 2015

Oh, Death

A dangerous thing—
Courting one’s death.

The sweet whisper—of Wintergirls;
Angels—Tempting us—to Fly—
Soar to Sirenum Scopuli.

“Renounce the Spirit of Death”—
What I chose not to do.
That Spirit remains—
Enchanting—what might have been.

Along came a Singer;
Along came a Weaver;
And then—came you—

Another who had stood
Out on the Edge—Wait for me—
If I take—one more step—

Welcome your death—
He’s always waiting—nearby. 

Thursday, October 15, 2015

A Hug in the Right Direction

His place—Mine—
All are fans
But I’m loath to commit—

Blithe and full—
Will his touch
Lead where Desires go?

Tuesday, September 1, 2015

You're Free to be Me

And so it begins—
You turn left; I turn right
And one of us is wrong—
You should’ve turned right
Or I should’ve turned left
But not simultaneously—
That would leave us condemned.

It’s not okay to be different.
Difference is Bad—

Only same love now.
No you; no me.
No hetero Us.
Only mind games now.
I seduce you,
And mold you into Me.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Counting the Cost

Something you search for—
The Pearl of Great Price.
But how it is sore
When you’ve found that Great Pearl
—Not shining nice,
Nor yielding its ground—
It firmly stays put,
And stiffly says “No.”
Will you Die for that pearl?
Or will You simply let Go?

Wednesday, August 19, 2015


Home is where the thunder rolls
—And crickets play—
To lull us back to sleep.

Home is where I toss and turn
—Till you awake—
Inviting me to rise.

Home is where I sit by you
—You hold my hand—
And my mug affirms our prayers.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

It Comes from Within

            I wake with a start, my stomach tightening. What is this? Am I scared? I open blurry eyes to glance at the clock. 7:30. Half-an-hour more. I close my eyes. But my heart begins to race. I follow my rapidly-clarifying thoughts. It’s last night. It’s you. I conjure you before my mind, and I ponder. Another surge of adrenaline. So it’s happening…
            But what is happening?
            I stand before you, in my mind. Paralyzed by all my fears, all my hopes, all my haunting memories, all my unmet desires—
            Beep. Beep. Beep. 8:00 alarm. You don’t dissolve from before me. I reach out and force you back into my heart—or maybe back into my knotted stomach.
            I pull myself out of bed. I know I should eat, but I’m not even hungry—

Monday, August 3, 2015

The Door Without a Knob

I close the door—and stare—

Silence—Why always Silence?
The door stares back—eyeless—

I cite: your face—your eyes—your lips
—Pursed—Say something!

Is this what you need—desire from me?
Speak—and I will listen—

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Don't Look Into My Eyes

You ask me “Why”—
How honest should I be?
Should I—lie—
To protect you from Me?

I dislike certainty—
I’d rather dwell—
In Possibility—
Avoid that hell—

I’d rather maintain—
This Undefined mess.

Friday, July 17, 2015

"Hope" is the thing with feathers--REVISITED

“Hope” is the thing with talons—
That latches to the soul—
And sings the tune of sirens’ cries—
And never stops—at all—

Those strangled—in the Flood—are heard—
Air bubbles popping nigh—
Yet none abide the little Bird
That lures with cunning Lie—

I’ve heard it in the chillest man—
And in the desperate Plea—
And—sadly—in Extremity,
It plays its trick—on me.

Tuesday, June 23, 2015


No words—just emptiness.
Or too afraid—perhaps—
To admit—this fullness—

My Confession mishaps—

Wednesday, June 17, 2015

As I Am Taken Out

I thought I held together
My microcosmic world—
Thought Peace was all that mattered
To make us each feel Whole—

I held up sprightly flowers
To link them with the bees.
Perhaps I was the Nectar—
That tryst necessity.

But Harken—leaves a rustling—
Wind warns untimely Frost—
Will these bright bees keep buzzing—
Or will my Springtime—lapse—