Fold inward. Reopen.

Sometimes, I melt into you. My knuckles glide over your stomach – my eyes fold inward. Reopen. Reopen. Reopen. Pupils skipping along your lips, down your chin and breasts and folding again. With ease. I toss my eyes left and right, misshapen circles. And red to blue floods like clouds. Reopen. Reopen. Reopen. You’re still here. My hand has found your fingers and glides around their tips.



You mouth these words so fervently to stick against my eye whites. Hair pressed, wet, matted and against your eye whites. Your words and hair and eye whites. A repeated phrase of disbelief. “WHAT THE FUCK”. Even my neurons become individuals. The smallest blocks of me, blind of others.

It seems impossible to worry anymore. As the boat rises along the wave, I am unaware of the inevitable fall. I’ve never let so much go… I will be either powered or murdered. Anything but stagnant.



P1 - The only meaningful investment is in the improvement of the functioning of society.
P2 - The only meaningful investment is in the improvement of the functioning of the self.
P1 - Improving your self automatically improves society. You cannot separate the two.
P2 - And improving society automatically improves the self.

all we need to say is "improvement" but in relative to what? isn't everything subjective? hmmmm, some things seem objectively universal. like gratuitous suffering is ALWAYS bad. perhaps the emotion/feeling is objectively the same, but the stimulus for that emotion/feeling is subjective.

roller coasters make jim sick. roller coasters excite sally. roller coasters anger frank.

we all understand sickness, excitement, and anger. that is the objective part. however, the only thing society can control is the stimulus. it is possible to give free roller coaster rides out to all but impossible to give out happiness.

the key is this! money can mean many different things. vacations, food, drugs, material possessions, sex. it can purchase many things to fulfill the individual.

due to money's variability, redistribution of wealth can "improve" both societal and individual needs.



Perhaps when we look at another what we truly see is some core element of ourselves. The more we see of ourselves, the more that person appeals to us. When is that reflection the strongest? When the levels of self-acceptance for both parties are at the same level.

Can two people have completely different interests with equal levels of self-acceptance reflect into each other? Yes. The core is what reflects.



I wish this language were more precise. Diamond edges and prime numbers. But really, they say nothing. No amount of words can describe how chocolate truly tastes. The artist’s paradigm perhaps.

A slice of paper folded again and again into an unbendable mass. We admire who folds tighter than the other. But, this power must be used for good. Otherwise, you manipulate and cause confusion, Andy Warhol.

I guess there is an objective truth.



Yellows sharpened like knives without sunglasses to enhance the difference between grey and yellow and grey again, but this music plays on on on on onward. The space betwen moments is closing inward, until one day I will no longer be aware of a future.

Then I am Emotion.


You can only love another as much as you love yourself. To love yourself, you must do what pleases you. This connects you to reality in the most important way. It builds, focuses, and strengthens your identity.

No activity is pure however. There are downsides in any activity. Too much of anything will cause the downsides to become overwhelming, even if they are small inconveniences at first.

Thus, reaching pure identity and pure love is impossible.



Visibly collapsing. Obvious and strategic with out knowing the desired destination. Flail arms to grab some sort of control. Pushes people away. Like a sinking swimming. Bricks for bones.

Enamored with purity. Whole acceptance. Excitement for a deeper understanding. That look. More whole. External fills internal. Limitless risks worth risk. Because, you have yourself. Always.

When you realize you already have everything (yourself), you are complete.



During the pirated song titled "Kaleidoscope" by Tiesto, there is a dubbed over voice which utters "musical freedom, don't steal this shit"

Until today, I have always thought it was part of the song and quite enjoyed it. It was unique and seemed to fit well into the music. Yesterday, I downloaded the album and heard the same dubbed over phrase throughout the entire album. At that time, I realized the overdub wasn't part of the original song but an attempt to keep people from pirating music. Now, I dislike that overdub. My feelings about the overdub completely reversed.

John Cage was wrong. Music (art) is NOT completely subjective. After learning the dubbed voice wasn't part of the artist's vision, the value of those sounds lowered dramatically.

The artist's intention carries weight and holds value. There is objective value to art that is based around the intention of the artist. The artist sets the objective value (intention) which is unchangeable.

Art is objectively and subjectively valued.


Oh, the appeal

Too terrified or not terrified enough.
Sideline watching.

There is massive appeal, magnetic appeal. Oh, the appeal pulling me.
Stop! Browse again. Redo. Undone.
This is where I stand: The ones who say I'm too much -
- are not enough for themselves.

I've held back.
Browse again. Redo. Undone. Not terrified.
Others' assets are either appealing or intimidating.

Energy is my addiction. Childlike wonder. People like this, oh the appeal.
You see it in their movement, smile, eyes, laugh, touch, being.
I will not settle.
Settling is mutual. Always. Unfortunately, it's masked as a loss for one.

I miss what I have not had.
But, I know it will be there.
I wait while smiling.
Oh, the appeal.



This world begs to be taken. It gives without reason. To you. Do not prove yourself to this world. It has already accepted your faults and strengths. Take it. It begs to be taken, and you're worth it. One thing keeps us from everything we desire. Ourselves. Our self-doubt. I wouldn't have it any other way. The more we grow, the more we have. Indefinitely.

I take:
people, music, dance, art, laughter, philosophy, health, adventure, passion.

Be stupidly in awe. This life is perfect with every silly emotion. Do not sacrifice this moment for any other. Magic is happening, regardless of any injustice. This very second is the most important. And then the next. No need to force them. Their greatness is vast.

Thank you for this.



This is global. Pain and hope blossoming, withering, churning.
Fact. There. Always.
Emotional plan, logical plane and surfing both. Hopscotch.
Make me jealous. Turn the emotional plane resistless.


moment of my life

Abnormal now normal and glimmering behind the windshield
Every pour dumping from inside to outside to inside to outside
Old and flashing colors shaking with my skin
And those speakers
I saw myself as wrinkled - aged. And then smoothed over. Repeating.
Sweating brow and hair sprouting between my lids.
And the power shook. Noises. Little playing noises.
That moment. The moment. Of perhaps my life.

this song was playing:


something simple

Sometimes things are hard. They just turn that way. Even if we work and do maintenance on them, they still seem to slip into something difficult. It’s hard to understand why. Even things that seem perfect can turn painful. It’s like a white sheet of paper that crumples as we paint it. It becomes far too difficult to paint what we had planned as it wrinkles, but we try anyway. We think that concentration and precision will smooth the paper out. Sometimes, no matter how much effort we put into it, the paper will crumple anyway. If the paper is a giant, grand canvas, there is so much hope and potential. Our greatest visions seem possible with such a large canvas, and we feel much excitement. But even a grand canvas can crumple. We see our dreams folding, and we work very hard to keep it from collapsing and destroying our hopes. With something so attractive, we must be careful, otherwise we feel like we’ve lost everything.

But we haven’t. This world has so many places to paint our life upon. Will they all eventually crumple? Maybe. Perhaps there are some that wont. I do not know. Regardless, there are always clean spaces for us to begin our work. If it becomes painful, set it free. This world has tools for expression everywhere. What a wonderful thing.



it’s gonna be a shit show.
punch and fuckin kick, cause it’s
gonna be a shit show.
and pigs and their dogs.
we’re gonna bleed
skinny fuckers swallow mud
and then get sick, puke.
i’m gettin real fucked up
at this shit show.


string theory

I imagine string theory expanding like soft balloons, where perspective quakes, and moments collapse before they rupture. Suddenly space slows, expands, and freefalls through orbits of light shavings. Neurons and stars merge and infinity appears burgundy.

Life spirals and accelerates in every direction with kindred light and matter.

Grasp and refuse to release.


I rectify my personality by chalking up impulses as well-placed logic piles.
I dream words are math tools of expression.
Cowardly enablers turn potential into pain.
These modes of experience are not controllable, yet they change.



Creativity comes in little sporadic pockets, which are far too temperamental. Input = dull desk drawer dangling downward. Output = spring forth onto my plywood tabletop and begin my march to liven this office space. Brown shards tossing and falling like snowflakes onto my hair creases.

Repetitious twitching scares the health officials where blood and semen are both powerful and viewed as too thick for anything other than disgusting and functional beyond our direct use. The blood does its work. We transfer it from working persons to failing persons. Doctors earn their possessions through the mastery of pointy steal tube insertions.

Fortify liquid with vitamins to fulfill the recommended intake of vitamins. It even tastes sugary. Where in this equation have we lost? Glucose and processed grains keep my neurotransmitters flickering quickly. I can now drive motor vehicles with much precision onto shallow curbs, in reverse, red line, and slowly in construction areas. They are risking their life to better America’s infrastructure. America is my birthplace. Odd really. Odd. odd. odD. I am american. amerICAN. I CAN. It is only up to me. Earn. Spend. Earn. Spend. I CAN.

better off

Sometimes I feel so much,
I wonder if others feel this much,
I want to tell them, but something stops me,
I worry it will be too much,
Why am I afraid to be human?
Are we all like this?
Sometimes I think yes.
Maybe I am better off this way.

Empower Vulnerability

Empower vulnerability.

Music is the energy, intensity, joy, easement, and despair that reflect the inner emotional state.

Music is magic.

We strategically select words to communicate our desired identity. I discover people in their sentences.

Is this written Nathan or authentic Nathan?

There is Party Nathan, Philosophical Nathan, Sex Nathan, Music Nathan, Exercise Nathan, Crazy Nathan, Stable Nathan, Giving Nathan, Selfish Nathan, Terrified Nathan, Numb Nathan, Passionate Nathan, Excited Nathan.

Rip away chains and let your ego flourish.

Empower vulnerability.



Today, I felt trapped by my own patterns. Being idle made me closed and annoyed, and everything seemed like waste. It wasn’t living. It was processing, like a computer.

I miss Kate. Last weekend, while on ecstasy, Dane told me Alan is here. He wanted me to believe him so badly. I don’t know if I didn’t.

Heaven, continued existence, the hardest question - I have no idea. Following anything is so difficult. I feel clueless about almost everything. Ideas and rules seem confusing and paradoxical.

I need to focus more on sensations. Regress into an animal. My food is spicy. An oakish, blurred spice that lingers lightly and consistently. But now I’ve categorized my experience. There are shelves and boxes of labeled experiences in my brain. I’m trying to make sense of this insane place.

Everything is so different, yet similar. Everything is free, yet forced. I build and build and build with time, energy, self identify, addiction, for something new. But, in doing so, I sacrifice.

I say, “I hate money”. But that’s not it. I hate my love for money. I’ve never had trouble making it. My unquenchable want for more leaves me powerless.

If money is freedom, then why do I feel trapped working for it? Does obtaining freedom trap me?

I’ll reiterate my earlier focus. I will focus on sensation, the here and now. People that do that are so attractive. They have energy and magic within them. They are unstoppable. My quest in life is to become more and more like them. To love life upward. To not become stagnant. I am worth more than that.


(you're flying)

Stretch your limps into a star shape.
Now imagine beams jutting through your tips, fingers and toes.
And out of your spine.
Now listen closely (you’re flying).
Tell me about the rush, the exertion, the adrenalin, the power.
Shout from your deep belly.
When have you felt so human?
The energy you have is unreal.
And, this never has to end (you’re flying).


Try hard to be a light switch. Turn off. Now. Now. Now.

Write poetry, dance, ponder, improvise and compose music, exert and stretch muscles, grow, paint, read, touch, fly, eat, kiss, explore, breathe deeply, smile softly, consume less, work less, lose fear, love.

Reject THE MAN or become him. Fuck profit. It destroys the human spirit. We have turned against ourselves, and thus, each other.

Together, as partners, we can discover our humanity.



Communication filtration complication

Emotion bottled intuition

Balance simplicity FORCED

This, present and powerful.

Thoughts pile into plans and ideas. Maybe I cannot lose myself? Loss seems acceptable now. The more I integrate this, the less fear impacts my life. A choice decided by fear, is truly not a choice.

We pressed into another, like stacked pillows.

Regardless, I will not forget. I cannot. And that is precious. Like stacked pillows, pressing so hard, becoming one feeling, experience, understanding. All we have is honesty.

Is this great tool our great downfall?

No, I feel more human, more valuable, more real.


This is Kate's last evening.

This was one the the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. I love Kate. I never could provide her what she deserved. Kate deserved freedom. She was a beautiful animal, an intelligent animal, an independent animal. She was never meant to be domesticated. I feel awful about this ending. I guarantee you that she was happy. She ran freely the in the creek and returned home muddy and tired. She chased rabits for hours on end. As much as I tried to stop her, I could not stop her spirit. In her final two weeks, she climbed a 14,000 foot mountain, climbed the Manitou Incline Railway, and was taken to the dog park many times, where she was, by far, the most impressive Frisbee catching dog. People were in awe of Kate. She was always athletic and curious. She always provided comfort. She existed as animals should, free.



I am a failure.
I could’ve tried harder.
I could’ve loved more.
But, I’m selfish.
Now, you’ve lost.
Perhaps not.
I will never know.
That possibility is ugly and tormenting.
Risking everything because of inconvenience.
Beautiful being.
You truly are.
You deserve more than I am.
I’m sorry.
My feelings change nothing.
I’m sorry.
Not sorry enough.
If I were, you would be here.
I hate this.



In his later years Tesla became a vegetarian. He wrote: "It is certainly preferable to raise vegetables, and I think, therefore, that vegetarianism is a commendable departure from the established barbarous habit." Tesla argued that it is wrong to eat uneconomic meat when large numbers of people are starving; he also believed that plant food was "superior to it [meat] in regard to both mechanical and mental performance". He also argued that animal slaughter was "wanton and cruel".

Nikola Tesla, "The Problem of Increasing Human Energy". Century Illustrated Magazine, June 1900.


The 4th of July

I hid my contorted smile -
As my face shot jagged, unforgiving angles.
And yours, bulbous and drooping -
Asked me to stop shouting and sit.
Like a prince.

A curious girl in a purple dress -
Asked what I thought.
If we could grind up old things -
Like doorknobs and old statues.
We melted into each other.

We train dogs -
To not be dogs -
But be simple humans.
We still keep them leashed -
In case the dog part takes over.

When you are nothing -
You can see everything.
Desire blinds us.
This world -
Waits to really be seen.


We continue to stretch sunbeams wide insomuch the world revolves beyond our consciousness that we value and refuse to measure like rulers using rulers who confuse the populace where complacently sits and stirs idle thoughts beyond reason to escape their estranged realty that paradoxically fills them with emptiness and glee.

Swirl and spin so our extremities feel pressure from condensed fluids as pressure increases gradually from the heart to the finger tips.

My dad can spin faster than your dad.


The best poem I've ever written.

Reminding me the sun will always rise
Is not calming
Maybe I should start
Appreciating the sun

The amount of possibilities
Is staggering
I prefer less freedom
Until it’s taken away

I have sex
While peering
Now called making love
Because I've slowed down

Are bitter and disappointing
I want to be distracted and diverted
And not bothered by it

Freedom doesn’t start
It starts now


Sprinkling and tiny dots on my face plane.
The night sky on my empty hair spaces.
The sound boiling in my deep stomach.
A deep chest flexing.
I push it --- it pushes I. We push.


Thank You.

I’m ridiculously happy in my life. It’s all about contagious people. It’s all about passion. I wouldn’t trade this for anything.

I utterly adore your dark brown eyes, your sexy skin, and thick hair. I see life bringing you so much simple enjoyment. Your energy amplifies mine. I feel on top of everything. Knowing you exist excites me.

This seems unreal. Thank you.



I’m slapping my hands hard, hard, tremendously hard, against the floor. I’m forcing the beat through my hands and into the floor. When you feel alive, you do strange things.

I’ve kissed my reflection in the mirror. Does this make me narcissistic? Yes. Yes I suppose it does.

I fill my mouth, throat, and cheeks with water as full as possible. It hurts very much to swallow, but I do it again anyway.

I dream about falling off sky scrappers. Terrifying. I don’t know if I can bungee jump.

That person has magic inside them. They feel good about themself. They are free. They have found something many have not.

I can pick a favorite color of the day. A permanent favorite color is too much commitment. Why not enjoy colors as they come?

I don’t feel sad when my dog runs away. She’s freer. She always returns, exhausted and happy. I don’t want to control her life.

Money controls me too much.

I will not be embarrassed for my actions and thoughts. This is a work in progress.

Sex is good, love is better, beauty is everywhere, time is precious, I want a hug.



Darling, I want to make you happy, but I see a more powerful force than me, something very appealing wrapped in torment. I’m sorry. I wish I could make this easy for you. I know it’s difficult. I have faith you will overcome the torment. How could you not? You have overcome so many things before.

I want you to see that you’re worth more than this. You’re worth honesty, respect, consideration, love, and caring. You are worth everything that you are. People are worth what they are.

When I look at you, I see something worth being vulnerable for, someone worth taking risk over. You’re worth risking my sanity.

This is not an easy road. Part of what makes life grand is traveling awful roads. Awful roads shape our shoes, define us, and we grow. Grow to the stars.


Dear most people,

I want to see things clearly, like a child does, with full wonder. Imagine bricks and mud as art, something worth considering – and reconsidering with amazement. We build bricks from mud – small chunks for towers. Beautiful towers. Like glamorous wealthy carried by unsightly weak, the sweaty landscaper.

I want to question simple things. Things rarely questioned. More perspective. Am I na├»ve? Or should I trust social preferences? I’ll be the judge. However, the more I judge, the less clear everything becomes.

Why not you? What are you frightened of? What could it possibly take from you? I will not outcast you, but I’m not everything.

But neither are they. That’s my point.


I’m slow dynamite – what I am.

Hard drops falling and I’m below – looking upward.
They fill my eyes and mouth – open.
Remember traveling though the rain? – together – palms pressed.
Wet cloth against my skin – pressed and clinging.
Although warm – and lights burning deeply - eyes.
Simplicity – what I found.

Energy raging. Filling myself from my toes - to head.
I’m brimming now – ready for exertion – to jolt and pound.
My muscles clench – enjoyable – rowdy –fantastic word –rowdy.
Igniting dynamite – only constant – slow dynamite.
I’m slow dynamite – what I am.


Here. here. here. Here here hear hear hear.
BEAUTIFUL beautiful. Beauty
Touch....... touch and and


glob of grayish paint

I had an epiphany. Logically I can justify an entirely material world, a material brain, hard determinism, and the importance of being objective. Maybe this is correct. However, intuitively, I don’t know if it’s that simple. I feel communication happening on a deeper level that perhaps cannot be faked or explained. Maybe we cannot effectively communicate clearly if we pretend to have an attitude we do not. Perhaps our intuition of liars and cheats is often correct and based on a feeling. Can I tell if authenticity is there with or without logical explanation (body language, tone, word choice)? My intuitiveness questions my previous deep beliefs. But would that truly comfort me? Because, I still cannot know. Why pretend? This is a new perspective. I wish to approach life from that side of the spectrum now. Why focus so heavily in defining ourselves? Does our need to define ourselves come from our need to gain a perceived power over our environment? Or am I falling into my logic trap? There are always more colors we can see, more values to understand, and more values to be discarded. Through time will I become numb to this? More pain? More pleasure? I will live 5 lives with my time here. Or will my life blend into a giant glob of grayish paint?


Individualism is for cynics.

I wish my father would start living. He wastes time. Every month he pushes, resentment builds. I refuse to carry the weight. But, he deserves more. How he gives and where he is from astonishes. He has shown me how external influences make a necessary difference. We CAN pick each other up. When we believe in each other, we can more easily believe in ourselves. We are all springboards. We are all gymnasts. Why not work together? Individualism is for cynics.


Do your drugs, and sip them with lips. Stick them like a wad of tobacco between your teeth and gums. Then smash your gums hard against your teeth. Now shake and pump your head to the round techno thump. Dancing (movement that accelerates and jolts in sync with the pulse. I guess). It’s another memory worth having, yet places you further from paying car insurance on time. …. fucking hell. Back up and see the “big picture”. Rules and expectations. Who made them anyway? Nobody that danced. That’s for sure.



I love you. I crave your smile, your giddy grin. You being here distracts me. It interrupts me. I am a child around you. You can’t know this. It’s too much pressure. But, I am contented. I love you.

Glaring sun, washed out fields of sunflowers. White swirling with yellow. And, there you are, dancing. Showing off. Silence, except you. Your slow movement in silence. Am I dying slowly? I smile slowly.

We sit, in fog, on a bench. It’s cold. A bench for the bus. You lay your head against my shoulder. I touch your wet hair. Now warmth, soft comfort. Our attempt to connect. Addictive. However, we do not merge. We do not fuse. We remain alone.

You’re standing away now. You’ve become closed. I wonder. I worry. And then I anger. My fear is on the table. Bloody, black, sticky fear. Unattractive fear. Now you see my ugly part. And I’m embarrassed. I’ve hidden it. Until now. You brought out my fear. Why are you standing so far away?

We cannot fuse. We try and try and try and try. We crave it. Is this a waste, or is this an impossible craving? You left me, searching to blend with somebody. I swear it’s impossible. Remember the sunflowers? If that didn’t work, nothing could.


more canned fruit

I’m indifferent to the homeless, unless I’m asked for cigarettes. “Kill me slowly or I’ll kill you quickly.” I’m thinking of an aggressive woman. This one threatens. Also, wears dark browns (her clothes).

“Sorry, this is my last cigarette.” What if that seemingly false excuse is true? Do I deserve my gut punctured (sharp stick or pole) because everybody shares the same spineless excuse? The next time I’m confronted, I’ll use strong body language, carry a deep tone, have an unchanging focus, and maybe touch her arm. “Sorry miss, I would, but I’m honestly out.”

Quickly wash my hands afterwards; otherwise I’ll imagine an itch. That might disgust you. But, I’d probably wash my hands after touching you too.


canned fruit

Don’t read into this. Don’t read into this. Don’t stop reading, but don’t read into this. It hurts when you read into this. It confuses when you read into this. Stop counting this, you’re reading into this. Stop asking why. Stop selecting, dissecting out. Reading books and magazines. You believe you've deciphered the world and placed its truths into labeled glass jars (vacuumed canned fruit). You intend on eating it seven, nine, five years from now. You could be dead by then. Stop canning fruit. Waste of fruit. If you want something useful, start reading calculus books. Redirect time from entertainment to calculus. Then, see patterns in nature again. It has been awhile.


Which year is this?

60 kisses in April. 1 murder in May. Sex in June. A July fire. I remember the August moving to Chicago. That slow elevator in the dollar storage. Humid. I felt potential. A city potential. Open and ready. I fit nicely there.

September kisses. October loneliness. November and December merge. I self indulge now. Egocentric and bored. Egocentric and adored. Having 5 dreams and no plans. Only current money.

Which year is this?



Here, I have learned something useful. You have to close your eyes, close them and open them blurred. See everything in dotty layers. Then, then grab what you want. Be inside yourself. Become heathenistic.

The world has natural perpetuation, momentum if you will. The selfish get pushed upward, while the selfless sink.

Blur your eyesight and become that selfish man. Oh the people you’ll control.


Kate now hobbles.

My dog and a vehicle collided. The car dragged her 2 or 3 feet, according to the vet. She knew the wounds. It really made me think, I wonder if the vet hit her.

That fucking psycho, how many animals has she hit? Surely she prowls around Yorkshire to drum up business. Quite the go-get-er, an expert in manipulation and fraud. She should have studied the stock market (her obvious calling).

Severe pain and possible mutilation for money (I bet she collects expensive, leather mini-shirts.) Maybe she stays between 5-10 mph. You know, the get-hurt-but-not-fucking-kill-you-speed. Oh well, we should support local businesses. And besides, my dog sleeps more. I wonder if she has brain damage. She has never been this sweet and docile. Oh, and when she chases rabbits, she hobbles on three legs (very effectively). So cute.


her ego

She projects that she knows everything. In her head, having more knowledge elevates her attractiveness. She attempts to win me by lying.

She speaks about vastly intangible spirit things. Think of spirit orbs hovering around our bodies. Red, green, and blue orbs that communicate. This, only she can know. This knowledge passes behind closed doors. I am simply peering though the key hole.

I am not impressed. She has pegged me incorrectly.

fingers on cotton and skin



My reality presents itself as a giant block of clay.

I study clay constantly. Its puzzle enchants me. This clay can represent anything worth contemplating. You probably study clay as well.

I start to knock out chunks (mostly corners) with a metal rod. I am making sense of reality. I am cornering reality. I am justifying reality. I am perceiving reality.

After the rod, I use smaller, more precise tools. Chisels and wire. I begin to define, forcing it smaller. That clear goal feels close.

The clay has shrunk immensely. Now, tools are not detailed enough. I place my hands deeply into the clay, expanding my fists, stretching my fingers, molding, caressing, and discovering.

I hold the remaining clay in one hand. I have made my reality very simple, concise, and clear, however still not perfect. Having no clay would be perfect.

I don’t believe reality should be defined. We strive to discover rules and patterns. By doing this, reality can quickly become dysfunctional. The more we corner truth, the more we loose the whole.

How deeply I want to define things. I crave simple truths and definitions. How much this intrigues me.

Unfortunately, the closer I get to a definition, the more frustrated I become.

Perhaps I should focus on defining opposites. Define and justify black, and quickly define and justify white. Then can I sit comfortably in grey?

I toss between black and white. I cannot relax in grey.

Maybe this is due evolutionary psychology. The pattern finders, the black and white thinkers survived and procreated. After all, they didn’t try poison only some of the time. They have defined and changed their behavior toward poison permanently. We live in a much more complicated world now. This world rejects definition.

“I'm afraid that if you look at a thing long enough, it loses all of its meaning.”
-Andy Warhol



I have trouble believing that I am here.


affixation till heaven

Affixation till heaven. Serene synthesizers pound the beat.
Neon lights are smearing together. Affixation till heaven.
A fallen piece of heaven. Fallen into my skull. Seems more filled now.
Affixation till heaven. A smiling coma – controlled.
Sweating fingers and numbness. Damp and pleasant.
Only enough focus for heaven. Affixation till heaven.


brothers at war

I watched two men at war on the television.
Their hearts were unmovable. Reduced to pure burning intent.
This was their chemistry. How easily they could identify with the other.
Their passion destroyed them.
It was like watching brothers murder each other.
Everyone sobs but them.
Everyone sobs but them.
Too much loss. Unneeded loss. Loss for ideals.



Anteaters make deals with other anteaters. They trade anthills for karma. Ants have angst. They’ve been played like poker. Now they charge. Scatter, scatter, scatter, scatter toward our shoes. We have less karma. I haven’t played enough poker. And, I wont eat them.



This is now turning into something much more constant. Something that can be read and followed without pauses of misunderstanding and boredom. This is now something that brings hope of clear meaning. It has never had clear meaning. Not even to myself. It has always been in the fringes of something tangible, yet jarring. This is a different exercise. I try to hold nothing back, but it's more difficult than assumed. I still have preferences that are based on calculation. Free myself like an animal. Like a dog running for a squirrel. The dog has no plan. Only reaction from instinct. Calculation constrains. It straps me down. It leaves me confused, empty and obsessing for a future that may never come. It confines me to endless thought until there is only regret. Now is good as any. Life doesn't begin at 30, 40, 50, or retirement. Now we dance.




lost faith

What happened when you lost your faith? Was it worth it?

My chin grazes along your hair.
And I breathe you.
I place your palm inside mind.
Fold my fingers to tangle yours.
Light lips along your neck.
Little reminders.
Is this the beginning or the end?

This justifies the risk. Nothing can stop me know, because, I don’t care anymore.



Then the credits ascend to the top. “ROLL THE CREDITS”. BlackDrop and WhiteText. The WhiteText smothers my glassy eyes. I read nothing but simple prepositions. To. As. From. Suddenly, I am reminded of worth. I remember __________.

The WhiteText continues. Turn your head and look at me. I sense your focus and refuse to look back. Are you intuitive to my thoughts/strategy/manipulation? Notice my ambivalence toward you. I NEED this. Pretending not to notice you. Are you tricked? Or patient with my ridiculousness? What are you feeling? Maybe nothing but a shallow tingle.
Forgotten within ten minutes.

I think for you and I.
I will.
I remember.
From where I came. Our past.
And forget why.
I have to sit as these credits roll.


I Love.

Dancing in my underwear. So what. I’m still a rock star.
Catching up with a friend.
Relaxing in the hot tube with stars above. Or snowing. Blowing snow.
Discussing philosophy. Perhaps meaningless. Love It.
Being cheerful. Smile. Love people.
Running in a downpour. Intense soundtrack needed.
Writing poetry to radiohead.
Playing the piano while feeling especially sad.
Having a great connection with someone new ☺
Snowboarding in tree runs. Relentless… until you fall.
Kicking my dad’s ass in racquetball.
Smiling at beautiful women. Dancing with them.
Going to a tear jerker.
Create some bitchin future plans (rarely follow though, half of life is dreaming).
That feeling after my workout.
Flooring the gas pedal. Tight turns. Loud music. Make the passenger nervous.
Buying something hottt to wear.
Spending money on something unneeded and impractical.
Cleaning my room and car. Accomplished.
Missing my motorcycle.
Reading a clinically insane author.


Sprint for Sprinting

Contentedness reveals so oddly. I’ve sought it in goals and beautiful women on pedestals. Rarely, I find golden emotion.

Now I drop my goals.

My dim room waits.

My tattered mirror frames my naked body. I find a blunt grin to settle myself. Music fills the space, music to match my chemistry.

Then begins movement. My face paints joy, sex and intensity onto my mirror. My body paints an awkward, loose strength.

My calves give a heavy burn, like revolting tools. This place belongs to them as well.

Sprint for the sprinting, not for the finish.