Fresh Start

it’s the eve of

new year’s

and it’s snowing

puffs of flakes

in sugar cube sorrow

clinging to the

tips of

frozen pussywillows

firm cotton-like

wispy down

clumps of

cauliflower

observing people

drunkenly careen across

the whited out

blacktop

infants daring to

take their

first steps

they all have plans

i’m sure

resolutions are easy

before you start

let’s wait to see

if they greet

tomorrow

Alien Lights Just Before Daybreak

lights are so

eerily beautiful

early morning

after a rain

serene

haloed against the

smoke and cobalt

of a cloudy sky

just before the sun

burns it away

how they float

with phantasmal grace

against the ink of black

pen stroke forestry

writhing on the pavements

in halogen ecstasy

quick silver tracing

past the dead pool of

divots and ruts

brimming with acid rain

how i long to sit

splayed beneath the alien beams

a sentience i can behold

yet never truly

understand

drink it in

til the sun purges the night

and extinguishes

all other light

the sun suffers

no pretenders

Against the Fissure

join hands

grip tight

while the ground splits

the rift expands

splintering tectonic weight

rumbling in low register roar

rolling ‘neath uncertain feet

piling

a coil of rough hewn ribbon

erecting new

rock faced monuments

against the pressure

perhaps

if we can hold on long enough

we can weather the

changes

before us

the worst is

behind

Deadbolt Diary 2

Music plays from the corner of the room. The window, cracked, allows the chill to seep in, crawling to me from sill to floor. It lunges, unseen, in widening bounds, descending upon me as I lie suspended in a cocoon of varied fabrics. The roar of the furnace erupts in intervals, combatting the vicious cold.

Flashes, fire and ice, trade kinetic energy behind straining lids. I can’t sleep. Restless foot juts and ruts in anxious palpitations while I take in the disturbed cadence of my own breath. I grow more frustrated with each passing moment as a schizophrenic cacophony of thoughts grace me with their fleeting presence.

A dead weight grows within my gut and I can’t explain why. It’s just there now. Never saw it coming, never heard the click of the trigger, but it hit me dead center.

There’s an urge to cry, but tears don’t fall. It’s the kind of buildup like when you want to cum but can’t. A ruined orgasm, leaving you on edge and eager for more.

I’ve discovered a penchant for masochism, more of the emotional flavor. Feeling something at all is so intense, overwhelming. This hunger for submission. I want to relinquish control, hand over the key, but the fear and the weight won’t allow it.

Instead, I mull over the thoughts under the covers.

A Walk at Midnight

took a walk at midnight

mid december

neath the full moon in

open air

past lonely cornfields

barren

cut to the quick at

harvest

didn’t speak just

kept walking

through empty streets

across from

apartment complexes

storage units

street lamps

desolate strip malls

i don’t like this world

in the light of day

only when it sleeps

can i appreciate

her beauty

when the impatient

insufferable masses

retreat to the comfort of their

egg cartons and

mortgage rate domiciles

affirmations of their success and

sound decision making

may i emerge from my own

cubicle dimensioned

discount housing unit

i pace aimlessly

for hours

soaking in the ambient noise and

mating microbes

content with the illusion

of all other

human life extinct

alone in the world

in isolation

the illusion will

not last

evaporated in the heat of

rising sun at

daybreak

rousing the swarm of

insect humanity

to entreat on tranquil

ocean earth

i shall

bar the door

draw the shades

mute the television

and feign absence

til the daywalkers

take refuge

Word Salad

hey

read that draft you sent me

have to say

couldn’t hear your

voice

i looked and

looked but

i couldn’t find you

on the page

there were so many

people shouting at me

you were inaudible

neath the cacophony

took me a while to

chew through

the word salad

even with all that

dressing

layered on top

it was a bit unsavory

try to use your own

ingredients

next time

instead of

someone else’s

Lip Service

i get her on her knees

and she won’t look at me

but i’ll take what

i can get

these days

i don’t get much anymore

and it bothers me that

it doesn’t seem to bother me

like I think it should

even the tease of

this wet mouth

bobbing indignantly

while tracing the ridge of my

inflating member

does little to stir my interest

performing the act

more a social obligation

than intimate coupling

expressing any

deeper meaning

like shaking hands with

someone modestly familiar

to you

we’re both undersexed and

underwhelmed

and I’m sure that if this

comes up in conversation

we’ll both mention how lousy

the other was

she tugs on me

softening in her pursed mouth

withdrawing then

pushing her back on the bed

returning the favor

maybe one of us

will get off

at least

Deadbolt Diary

The yellow tint of the cool morning sun bleeds through the plated shades of my sliding glass door this December morning. A sense of nauseousness refuses to lift, blending with an anxiousness from the past five days. I apply five cups of french pressed coffee to the sick, making it worse. I want to vomit.

I sit in the center of my living room, listening to the hum of machinery from the outside world. I take solace here, hidden away from the others. A delivery has been made and when they knocked I became even more silent. Holding my breath, I wait until they leave to exhale, retrieving the package. On my days off I can’t be bothered to interact without necessity. Perhaps if I need supplies I will slink out when no one is about.

My energy is waning. The dullness of integrating into society no longer seems feasible nor particularly valuable. I fantasize of driving off in the dead of night and setting up camp in some far off cave. I imagine I could farm mushrooms, forage the wilds, perhaps even trap small game. This is fantasy though. I have no true survival skills, a fact I disrelish. At least I have books on the subject.

All these people, caught up in the monotony of it all. Taking pride in sacrificing themselves at the altar of commerce. They give themselves to these companies and allow themselves to be shaped and molded in their image. They want to be good employees and not question the way of things, get married, have children. What a horror that is, to desire the truly mundane.

Each day I observe them and feel grateful. I still have my identity in my isolation. I still have my dreams and my ambitions. These people speak to me, but I sense their discomfort in my responses. My dark humor and sarcasm grate them. As long as we’ve been together, I’d imagined they’d no longer expect a comforting retort. I was wrong.

I suppose I do this on purpose in a sense. I push people away. I view them as complications and one could argue it’s based in fears. Fear of intimacy, fear of connecting, maybe even of my own vulnerability. There are times when I no longer am sure how to define myself by available terms. Sometimes I see myself as a misanthrope, as a nihilist, or even an objectivist. I’m a pile of inconsistencies and contradictions.

I’m prone to serious bouts with depression, but I continue to struggle through those dark waves as they come. I focus on self improvement and am succeeding on that front as of late. Through the rediscovery of my passions, the rejection of ideals I don’t hold, and becoming more physically active. The depression remains, the suicidal ideations, the troubled sleep, strained relationships and all, but I’m getting there.

Today is a day of reflection, to change the wrappings of these open sores and heal for the coming week.