afraid of nothing

[some time i will (might) edit and revise this. for now this is how my god-brain bore it.]

[this was not dated, so i don’t know from whence it came exactly, probably the last couple few years?]

clouds and legs

central to love

at the deep inside of it

is the space it creates within us

and we know love the clearest

when we are alone in that space


alone is where love is the loudest

loud as your heart

if you were a baby curled up next to it

swimming in the waters

of the world before you were born


i know you want me.

but do you love me?


what does it mean to love someone?

we seek it from the beginning of memory.

and yet.

the older we progress

the further we are from knowing what that is.

don’t breathe too hard

you’ll fog up the glass.

children, always standing too close.


there are days that pass like pages

slowly folding over and on top of  you, like a blanket that lets you remember but not look back

i have so many ideas for you.

we could put them all in a basket.

the white blankness of january, lets you remember but not look back

somewhere in the long beat of that annual rhythm is my depression wanting to go back underneath the blackness of a new moon summer night

humid safety like a uterus, hot, pulsing, maternal yet erotic wtf

it’s that week with too many deadlines, too little sleep and too much drinking

confluence of crazy to put our finger on that magic button of creation.

like a wormhole

like an episode

like a moment of centrality and dislocation of your universes all at once.

it is the last sentence

and you have been holding the corner of this page in anticipation

wanting it to last wanting it to be over in order to see what is next not wanting to know wanting to hold on

cause this day will pass

and it will let you remember but it will not let you look back.

after a poem hurls out of me

i say thank you.


after a poem evocatively makes love to me and let’s me share it with the world one fucking line at a time

i say thank you.


non sequitur.

it’s always fucking time to go somewhere.  my thoughts are nothing but roadkill strewn all over the city, flying out the tailpipe of my god damn car.

looking back

i realize that i had this idea that love got easier as you got older

that it wouldnt be so confusing, so painful.

that losing a lover wouldnt feel like all the noise had folded inside you and you could hear nothing

but it’s not true

love is always a fucking hassle. a worthy hassle, but still .such a monster.


analogies invite criticism and argument.

metaphors are lullabies. it sings to you or it doesn’t, but you’re much less tempted to argue with it.

some days after a particularly bankrupting transaction

you drink the drink to put out the fire

long after the fire is over

the drink is to bury the ashes

the drink is to cover the noise

the drink is to clean the wound

the drink is to placate the gods

the drink is to placate the drink

the drink is all there is.

all these men looking for angels.

all these women looking for poets.

is one the other

so hard to tell in the night

lights disfigure



playing dead in the dark


if the mind has a repeat button

i have it.

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