I didn’t think I cared for photography

And even my weakness, I despise for the wrong reasons. It’s not a question of whether or not it should be despised, in that I have made up my own mind, and each attempt to shake me from the familiar stranglehold is met with more than barred teeth. You don’t understand at all. Even for this, I fought.

For precious little, I fought.

The microcosmic narrative into which I waded, eventually escaping the chill of the air, for this I fought.

And I despise my weakness for other reasons.


making plans to drink too much

you read yourself in the gold-crusted words of narcissists; humming their benedictions with innocent submission to their cosmic missions of suicide; I can feel the world growing wide in your eyes; sense the way each bone in your body becomes a conductor for the will of the child’s mind; they taught you to seek a sanctuary in low lights and racing hearts, but they never thought you’d make it so far without a single word; now their words belong to you – you take them for yourself – you wear them like perfume; they cling to you, and you cling to me


there’s a blonde out there saving my life

roots torn through soil;

this crusted rot our inheritance snatched up from below in armfuls, in mouthfuls; endless regurgitation in all manner of forms; a breeding ground, it has tasted of us in return

yet our lungs have vindictive capacities;

our minds have capricious visions;

and at the base of my fragile fumbling tongue there is a wailing – at the base of my trembling medicated heart there is a stampede


savoring the gashes on my skin


call me on Thursday night

I thought I was loving you, but it turns out I’ve been ignoring you for years. Not your presence; not your memory; not the smell of your hair or the angle of your eyes or the bold petulance of your voice when you believe in your own infallibility; not your diet, not how often you exercise, not how much sleep you get when you’re motivated by that perfect score, light on late into the night, make-up on thick the next morning when you go out; not the times you laugh, the times you smile, and what it must mean in regards to your chemistry; not the boys who take you to dinner and the girls who get you drunk; not the books you quote or the heroes you profess to have; not the ignorance you possess when dealing with the unknown, not the polish of your walk and the force of your mind; I could never ignore the way my chest constricts when you head out into deeper waters; I could never ignore the rage that burns inside of me when you arrive at some conclusion I’ve long sought; I will never be able to ignore the pain I felt by your heartless, thoughtless design and the love I experienced when I told myself that I deserved it; and above all I cannot ignore the fact that if I had only resisted my own mind and body, you might still worship me as you once did.



The hand that grips the pencil is hardly mine; I can admire it, not lay claim to it, for it acts in such rigid understanding of its purpose – strokes appear on a sheet of notebook paper and the notebook I had purchased wasn’t meant for its current use, was an oversight on my part, I only needed four. And it was black. I thought, a stark use, an important one, because the color black and my imagination are complimentary, but in the end I kept it open for so long that I forgot its hue and turned my attention to the wastefulness of a pile of unused paper lined at that – so tailored to their specific purpose that the sight of them nearly made me feel ashamed of myself. It is the same with books, these days. Words, cleverly developed – ruthlessly ordered – impatiently scrawled in a flurry of vitality and in the presence of a thousand whispering voices of affirmation and terror – there are some of those ‘words’ on the notebook page now but they are not of the same make and model. Do they receive the same treatment? I can hardly tell, for some were written in service of the others, but in such a way that they simplified and mystified and stupefied the first. And anyway it’s all a matter of shame to begin with, for now the book lies closed and I cannot remember its hue. It cannot touch me. And I cannot seem to touch my working hand.