pastiche of self

the softness of subtle under
tones sounding silence the
hard friction of a loud mind,
a tangle of confused tunnels
built upon waves tearing asunder
solidity, stability
is only
this vacancy, within.

a feeling disquiet,
ordinary
like disrepair.

there exist no
words for this
existence. a swelling
tongue to touch thoughts
that embrace that
final exactitude, the
heavy humidity
of descent, the unconvering
of the forgotten
inside. inside
is everything the outside
could not keep
away from us.

a lurch, a
trundle, some
stumbling disarray.

this fog in a mental
trapping, the crashing
reality through the windows
of the mind. losing itself
as circles becoming
other circles, as time
tears through all
dimensions, an obliteration,
as if one's self is
becoming oneself.

to live is to die,
to scorch water,
the frozen fire held.

as bones are buried
beneath the skin, inward
we are a collapsing, a
drowning down to who
we become, staring our own
former deaths in the face
of our distant depths.
these are the ways
of those who think, feel,
love, beyond even those
meanings, as meanings
are given unto the shroud
of misunderstandings yearning
to be understood.

a self pastiche,
as a trace of life,
a future becoming.

the way our lives' present
is a cast of the past,
the shape of shadows
in the form of an echo.
we are never who
we are when we are
who we were, except
i cannot be
me without you, and
you've never been me.
but here we are.

drawn into circles
upon circles, leading away
from ourselves toward ourselves.

this is how we find each
other: within ourselves,
a pressed in condensing
like dancing to the silence
we inhabit so loudly.

art mental

thoughts, the
words the
mind
scratches from
its flesh, its flesh
flogged
as
feelings, skins
peeling back
revealing
the diction of
desires and desires
are lairs
for liars
to twist truth
into being,
bleeding
from a loneliness
so desperate we
invent words
to tie us to
each
other
in a
mutual
punitive
passion.

these are
the ways of
thoughts, how
we each
interpret these
scars scraped
from the fleshed
out mind, hollowed
out from marrow
emotions these
conceits and
pretenses pretend
to be, to be
honest
or
ulterior, even
as we fail
to understand
each
other or our
selves.

and
here we are,
at this
border
of each
other, not
speaking
a common
tongue, so
othered
we are in the
ways we
taught our
selves to speak
within and
without, without
considering
what we do
when we paint
our mental
picture we
invent
for our self's
world, onto
the blank
canvas of life
that every
one
else lives
with us.

and still,
we hope we
will
find those
with which we
can blur the
lines sensibly, whose
colors
we can blend
with, bend
to our will
as they are
willing.

thinking
as art, as
an interpretative
representation
of feeling,
a game
we play
together, often
this
one-sided
competition,
winners losers
and i, spectator
of my own
dimishing
capacity
to participate.

still, i
scratch
this flesh
of mine, mindful
of words
giving form to
thoughts, my
art of mental
hemmorage,
homage
to giving up my
life for life
lived within
this
loneliest lexicon
seeking connection.

coming back (from death)

i am
of my own
winter this

       lone

branch bare, where
none withered
along with
me, de
           composing
into feel
             ings bleak
as whiteness
                       streaked
str  etch  ed    toward     oblivion.

perhaps i
planted my sor
                   row
like spring rain'
                         s
   wind/s/wept
tears, a
future of dream, a
flowering no
                     thing
                             ness
where none
remain but
me,
tasting these bitter
                     sweet
fruits of sleep
                     less
                           sleep.

a
  lone a
            gain, re
                        suming this
journey toward
perpetual autumn, to
shed every
shivered skin, to
bear myself, bare, as
                                 an
                                     other
winter
lays down its blueprint
for long sought and drawn
out re
               birth,
a redemption.
some
          thing
a
  kin to
for
    giving my
                    self
of these aching
sea
    sons.

mine/d fuk

the grinding blade
of the perpetual
imagination broken
into wingless flight,
a mind's sharpening through
blunt
strikes of reality's hard
hammer
driving things together,
smashing them
a  p
       a  r
              t
                .

as in what occupies
this grey matter
nexus of anxiety
and confliction, these
phantom voices
making up this
mosaic, a compart/
                              mental
narrative
             reality,

and what the fuck is it
doing, torturing itself
                          myself
all the time, all the time
trying to re
                 cover
from its own
oppression?

fuck you,
brain, says
the captive
audience trapped
in its theater
of dreams.

fire mind

this
possibility
of thoughts, as if
the ocean in
disguised
creeping steps, how
reality
emerges
from this
horizon on fire, the haze
of mental
vignettes, incremental
murk lurking
like sinister intent.

somehow
life collects
these waves
upon receding shores,
asking always
for more, less
like death more like
waiting
for the inescapable
thorn
buried within
the heart's secret
rose.

sea soul

as is the water's
weeping, sighing
over the sand, a quiet
secret sadness washed
over the rocks.
the sea like my soul, salty
placidly frustrated, always
seeking, never arriving. merely
present as a witness
to strange wetnesses descending.
as if tears in torrents, drops
in droves, driven
from comfort.

an idle despair, inch
by bloody inch. a closeness
of what is
to what was, but
never can be.
blinding silence, mute
light, deafening darkness. this
expectation of nothingness.
too much of a good thing
gone astray. thoughts
awry. still, the stillness
being reborn. trying
to exhale.

?....?....?

i am this
     air of stillness
contemplating, lost
     in thought, or
have my thoughts lost
     their way from me?

where am i in between
     myself and not?
a green smoke of canopies,
     whispering shelter
that birds sing for, nothing.
     i do not sing.

lost in thought, thoughts
     running away,
the dead path of the estranged.
     i cannot go back, lost
and forgetting where
     i began. silent
is this song.

being me

a torn essence, brilliance

unmade. a light

unraveling. i am

a man of many hearts,

divided. a disunity.

so much hope, so much

dread. i am

near this

insurmountable distance,

always

on the edge.

flying or falling,

it's all the same. a

swirling tide coming

going

washing ashore, tumbled

tangled stretched out

dissolving

reuniting with the sea.

where the light is flat,

abused and discarded, worn

to a fray 

speaking like shadows.

i once was lost but now i'm

found, in another place

in another time. always

the same. i am this

light with no limit,

crashing into walls, scattered.

i taste of shadows, growing

inside out. i am this

darkness with no limit,

spread out wingless, filling

the air.

and me? and

me?

i am a simulacrum of

sensation. bound to love

for no other reason

than to suffer its 

every

        d

          r

           o

             p

of confused

beauty.

falling

a fallen body of light, life
like, occupying
warped space and time, dimensionless.
there is no limit to emptiness.
what is given
unto these pretenses we call
life, or love hate happiness
spectrum of light
we inhabit. so narrow
its limitless sorrow, pleasure
we crave, to carve
out our slice of this
existence, a fluid
meat of sensation. we
are animated corpses
resurrecting broken dreams
from an unwoven rainbow.
life is not a dream!
there is no waking, there
is only an enormous
shadow of tears, both
sun and moon together,
binding suffering
to joy.

love is something
to die for or to die
from.
no one here
gets out alive.

loneliness, with mahler

my loneliness ages
as a fine vintage
harvest
of repetitive autumns
forever wintering in
these
depths of dark
heartedness
springing forth now
as i accompany my
self through this season,
a sadness like summer
passing
knowing all
is fleeting

loneliness is knowing
connection
knowing what was what
can be but
isn't

my loneliness is fine
tuned to these melancholy
strings
strung out on love, strafed
by life scraping
by
watching myself passing
through just passing
through,

just

loving hate

forgetting
        you is
a backwards loving
like
back words
to be un  spoken,
broken down
left to
de compose

i vacate
you of my heart
        hating love
and loving
hate, finding comfort
in different
feel  ings
like
things left
withering

hating
you is
a backwards loving
e motion
moving through
rinsing cleansing
rising within me
growing with
out_you

closure

as in some finality, exactitude
of acceptance, that
last word, ultimate
assurance of no
day dawning, a
sunrise not for
us, but
for the memory
of what wasn't

the day of reckoning
that comes, when
truth bares its naked
face, knowing
that hopes and dreams
are merely
that, only subtle
thoughts i cling to,
the ultimate
foolishness.

when my heart, laid
bare, exists in the sun
withering, under
your gaze unmet,
i expand to seek some
semblance of meaning,
yearning, pleading
for peace only you
can provide, whether
for death or life. the only

thing i need is your
assurance, the nail
for my coffin i
bury our memories within,
so i may live with
you, without
you.

love or lie

is love a lie? i ask
earnestly.
being

confronted, faced
with this journey
toward not loving

you, which
is a lie, that
final act

of lying to my
self, saying
i no longer love

you. the distance
between us
measures

how much i miss
you, and that
distance

is immeasurable. my
heart beside this
sea, heart

you briefly held, where
now its paltry wings
now stoney and

scaled, heart
that beats, breathes
your name, even

as i try to forget
your name your
visage, scent.

war is hell, war
within the self
gives hell its flames,

defines the meaning
of cold solitude. when i
force myself to not

love you, i love you
even more.
how could it be

any different, since
i built this room
within my heart

you dwell within, even
as you vacate it,
always remaining.

suicide

pain is a pistol to the head, loneliness
like a knife at the wrist. a sad
handful of pills poised
to still the swirling
thoughts feelings swallowed.
a noose to end the nonsense
above the neck. feelings
are constant, live
drownings bottomless, endless
burning fire.

how easy it would be, slipping
silently away. as i do.

as suicide is this suffering, these
sleepless dreams, smoked drinks
solitary, missed meals
anxious and nauseous. a suicide
not so sudden, more
subtle and sentimental.

how easily i watch myself
slipping away. returning
for more.

journey of a tear

heart's a garden, on

guard, open

to silently

subtle winds,

still. seeds

you plant

before the rain,

sprouting

the inevitable

tear. streaming

cheeks creeks

i have hidden

within. head

waters spring

from the heart,

feelings as seasons,

cyclical, as heart

ache. as hope. as

this journey

toward peace,

closure for

giving. giving

for my sake

of living

to watch this

tear flow

from heart to eye

and back again. and

back again. watering

this garden 

heart i tend

without you.

the 135 lb heart

this heart i hold, an impossible burden, its

skins scars shards hard

to the touch, heavy.

135 lbs of aching flesh, trying to

shed it all, as a long drawn 

out suicide. a heart

that weighs as much as 

me, as much as my

heart outweighs me. an

infinite capacity to love. as

infinite as my capacity

to suffer. the distance between

loving you and suffering

over you, a wilderness of sleep

less nights, in between

two darknesses dragging. i crawl

from loving to not loving

you, alone on these knees,

stuck in the middle of no

where.

why this heart, this burden it

holds me to. laden with all

the loneliest memories

with and with

out you. 

i am this

blank page of suffering written

by your silence. as all hope fades

i cling to my solitary darkness,

tending a tiny flame flickering,

its reaches far from mere

thought, a wordless expanse only

i listen to.

i suffer from loving

too much. i suffer

from loving too little. life

would be better without

love, and should you wonder

whether it would get lonely,

don't worry, it already

is.

not loving you

the way i do not love
you anymore is beyond
the way i did not love you
before when i loved you, never
loving you before. we
measure distance
through silence, a space
filled by endless time.

the way i do not love
you is like letting slip
sand through my hand, like
writing your name in water. you
came from illusion and return
to it, dissolving as one
final tear in my ocean of suffering.

i do not love you anymore
simply because i never loved you,
just the idea of you. and
having loved you not loving you
as you loved me not loving me,
so we will remain here, locked
in this absence. i would rather
grieve over your absence
than over you.

leaving

i came from distance, a memory
of broken fire and disfigured
water, bearing buried
treasures i sought for your
seeking.
and having uncovered
what was there
you found your bitter tongue,
sliver of your own pain
you cast upon my suffering's
proliferation.

your contempt has freed me
of my own conceits, yet
i still hold my hurt, this
heart of mine. only mine
and not for you. i remain,
facing my own path with certainty.
of yours, i can not say
for certain, only:
go, and seek not what i
grow into, as i unfold,
away from you. leave
me no clouded memory, only
the feeling of your departing
silently.

distancing

in between loving and not
loving you i
find some kind of
peace          in between re
                   membering and for
                   getting you i
                   find some kind of
                   bliss

each day is better
than the last     at first
                        the worst

the way you dim
                            inish
from me un
                    til
you are a differ
                          ent
subject of foc
                       us

as time and space
forge this
d      ance
   ist
our new be
                    coming