Archive for June, 2012


Posted: June 25, 2012 in me

my hand made tiny by your heart

fingers melted into stop and start

go and pause never ever stop

together in the nougatty middle, no bottom no top

the way my eyes see your eyes

the way your soul comforts my cries

is it just a memory or is this our now

im still so stuck in love but lately wonder how

that peace that given knowledge im craving its embrace

is it there or is it gone, embossed then erased

find me in your sleep tonite

ill be the one in white

with golden curls across my lips

your arms around my hips

your spirit knows my address

my face your caress

please come to me my far away love

even if nightmares you must push and shove

find me where ive always been, neighboring groove in your bed

in your heart your hands your head




Posted: June 25, 2012 in me

my words have turned from pink to grey

in limbo in my larynx, not much to say

fluffy clouds now draconian rain

my happiness silenced by ancient pain

the summit now a valley flipped and flopped

my speech bubble deflated erased and popped

in my head the conversation between the royal we

my myokymiased eyes blinded to myself by me

the only solace i can find is the screeching cries

revolving who what where when whys

lulled by the madness and the cyclic sickness

smothered suffocated snuffed out by the thickness

all this strife confusion sadness is just self-inflicted

no drug no drink no vice only negativity addicted

spinning spinning spinning fast, once what was slow

tomorrow will be different, but where will all THIS go?



My GPSless Soul

Posted: June 22, 2012 in me

You ever experience one of those “hit the wall” moments in life? Well, if you’re like me there have been several. And here I am, once again, at a place that only a person with idiocy of a certain magnitude could repeatedly experience. I am more stubborn than a man and a squirrel on a bird feeder infiltration mission combined.

What is it that makes me follow unhappiness until the bitter end? Lord knows I’m not committed, I lack tenacity more often than not and it’s usually over things that I know I care very little for. So, what IS it? My only guess is boredom. Control could be another sadistic probability. Or is it, in fact that I like pulling myself out of the muck so much that I create these situations, hoping to be my own hero? That’d be a great one to buy into. I blame my lack in faith of people on a deeper seeded lack of faith in self.

I just bore so easily. I tire so easily. I have a short rope. I don’t do a lot of second chances. Dead horses are not the stuff of beatings in my life, they’re swiftly stepped over and melt into the background I so apathetically ignore. They say a life not analyzed is not worth living. Well, riddle me the value of the life of a self-absorbed, neurotic, over-therapied over-diagnosed, insomniac, artsy fartsy musey type?

Maybe in the middle of my life, it’s time to swallow I may actually like problems more than solutions. Or I’m a solution addict in need of a gluttons lot of chaos. Am I so clever and elevated and insane I can convince the masses that I must suffer bad karma from my past life’s tour with Genghis Khan? Yes, in fact I am. Always artfully dodging the crimson letters that adorn martyrs and victims.

I find myself wondering, “Why am I here?” That’s a question I’ve successfully answered in several different contexts, but today, it means something more. It means I need to answer truthfully. It means I need to actually THINK before I speak and not rely on the reflexes of my wit. It means I have to take into consideration my latest recruits in “Jenny’s Box of Playthings.” It means I have absolutely no fucking idea.

Why am I here?! Why NOT be here, I ask. Oh. That bullshit isn’t going to fly this time? Dammit. Can’t say I didn’t try. Well, you can, but I’ll be mad. Because I think that’s what it is. I forget the last time I had to TRY to do anything. Funny how easy success once was, until I began to fear it. So now that I want to earn something, I’m at a loss and paralyzed by the weight of such an endeavor’s accountability. It speaks volumes that in this case, I’ll only have to answer to myself.



Ballad of the Black-Hearted Artist

Posted: June 15, 2012 in me

Since my Kung Fu grip laid it’s fury upon a pencil, I have harnessed the infinite power of the word. Words of love. Words of confusion. Words of hatred directed at myself and others. Words of prayer begging for the cessation of respiration. Words of loss. Words of hope. Words of abandonment. Words of suffocation. Words of erotic fire existing in every inch that lays between heart, mind, soul and pussy. Words of fear being passive aggressive, yet blatant.

I have written plays, love notes, haikus, grocery lists, jokes, essays, rants and Dear John letters. As I write this, I write. IT will tell me what it is. IT will tell me it’s name. IT will give ITSELF life. I’m not confused. I’m just the vessel and the catalyst. IT runs me rules me and rapes my time and ravages my tongue.

As aware I am of the strength of my words, I’m also just as aware of how easily I can hide behind pen, pencil, paper and a glowing light at ungodly hours of the night. What began as an involuntary soul cough, evolved into my feeding into other’s appreciation and expectations, fear of failure, rejecting the “gift”,  to where I am now. Writing. All the same. All the emotion. All the thought or lack there of. MY.WAY.

This is my emancipation. I write what I write, regardless of you. I write what I write, regardless of me. This is what I do: I get the idea or compulsion. I manifest it in a readable way with the media of my choosing. You read it. You get to decide what, why, where, how, who…who…who do you think you are trying to ask me what I meant? YOU tell me what I meant. I know what I meant. If I meant for it to be transparent and slap you in the face, I’m more than adept at technical writing as well.

Reliance upon another’s interpretation of art is the clearest indication that you, yourself suffer from non-existent creativity. This is the way art works:……… Now that I’ve explained that no one owes you an explanation, least of all the artist, figure it out. Enjoy that journey. Embrace the open road of possibilities. Or, give up. I’m just doing what the universe dictates. I’m not indebted in any way to anyone but the muse. This isn’t to say that I’m not capable of focus or direction, this is to say I sometimes don’t give an actual fuck about anyone but me. News flash: Artists are insecure narcissist. And that, once again, isn’t my problem. It’s my super power.


Posted: June 9, 2012 in clarity, facts, me, poetry, repetition

amputated tongue
mouth stitched usless
words escape & mutiny
time sucking syllables
scarred into mind, soul & ear
speech becoming screeching
mind & heart void of consideration
the meaning long lost
motives made moot
phonetic failure my only fortitude

i see the flicker across your face
the smell oozes from your pores
more dead than alive
you gasp for air
heart nonetheless beating
beating for spite & out of habit
stale exhales cross dry unkissed lips
artificial hair color
makeshift soul
heartless sleeves hide your scars
journeys void of straight lines
heels hardened by hellish walks
you are me
i am you
unless i change

itd be a lie to say i never lie
i lie to myself
i lie with men who lie to me
my heart upon a shelf

i yearn for the honesty
though it scares my soul to death
unsure id even handle it
and manage the management of breath

seems odd to brace off truth
seems odd to run from fact
but run i have and run i will
never looking back

true truth is self created
self truths the elusive dream
unfrequented often foreign
uncomfortably tearing seems

can i fault you for who you are
can i ever trust your word
lies from self & others
the only things ive heard

tenuous tedious time tried & tired
i haven’t seen the mountain top
i’ve just heard it exists
slippery sliding stranded & sucked dry
crying out to the echoes & the ether
looking for a new path in my old grooved & worn road
eyes dry distracted divided & dumb
resistance is as futile as lies
heart educated by repetitive madness
crushed cracked crazy & checked out
no longer tethered by hopes stone
the little red balloon departs my heart
exhaustion of excuses explanations & eternity
i float in the linear streams of truth
sinking, all the while strapped to your back