i never intended

to live so many lives

or to be so many people

shifting from desire

to return to myself—

filling my cup with

the strangest confetti

the universe allowed—

only to end upside down

intoxicated by the unavoidable


to exist without existing

this god damn ghost of me

if i could live with someone’s hope

forever till we part

i’d at least be able to see

beyond the ashes on my fingertips

and the cough tucked under-sleeve,

perhaps then maybe i could sleep?

longer than it takes to wake and find

who i’m not, or who i’d rather be—

cause it’s such a drag to smile

then to give a laughing nod,

that even when i do it’s like

my mind just says enough—

so when sitting becomes quiet

with my shadow and the curb

i hear within the darkest corner

that hope i don’t deserve.

and if i know you well enough

i know you’ll disagree,

still hopelessly devoted to

this god damn ghost of me.

and it’s hardly ever good enough

in retrospect you’ll see

that hope distilled in all of us

is that in which i bleed—

banana cream pie

with the sun in my eyes—

in they come and

out they go,

these spirits wrapped

in skin-clothes.

whether drinking coffee

sipping wine, or

devouring slices of pie

they come in droves

regardless of the day.

and I only wonder

about them

for as long as my cup ring

takes to disappear,

by that time they’ve too.

then it’s back to my text

of peace and war

full of satire, humor

and the ambiguity between.

while I’m left thinking—

sex sounds good, but

banana cream pie sounds better.

Laundry Day

Drinking’s become a chore

as boring as laundry day.

Except, I love doing laundry—

and the dishes—and the chores.

And all that day to day business

you swore you’d never do

when you were young and too good for it.

But I’m fine with it. In fact,

I enjoy it. Perhaps too much—

but I supposed there’s worse things

than clean underwear and folded socks.

Halfway Even (a recording)

You wake up feeling halfway even almost like you fit in this place, your conscience pleads the fifth.

Your memory like some orphaned son who keeps quiet around everyone.

You walk down sidewalks thinking forward then it’s back to the past, your lifetime’s just a myth.

Did it start when you were young, believing you could fool everyone?

It’s your own cruel addiction holding on to their suspicion, no one is who they say they are.

It’s all you know so it’s just become the way you are, broke down before it even starts.

You play with people’s feelings using them to fill in the cracks, running through your head.

Are you good enough for them, believing that you could fit in?

It’s your lack of intention becoming part of their invention, no one is who they say they are.

It’s all you know so it’s just become the way you are, broke down before it even starts.


it’s beautiful really

how nobody gets what they want

yet everyone gets what they deserve.

everyone’s gotta act so tough

when they know nothing of that’s pure

everyone’s gotta be so right

nobody has time anymore to be unsure.

well, I’ve given the better half of my existance

over explaining myself and inconsistent

I admit—but we play the parts we choose.

and I haven’t an apology left except

that one for myself, left by myself

for all those times I became the pillow,

the pillow to cushion the fall—

see after I gave up wanting to be saved

I realized that all that time, I was the cause

of all those wasted nights.

of all those broken mornings

picking up the pieces of myself

and cutting my hands on those of another.

it’s ugly really

how vulnerability’s questioned, but never heard.

how weakness is hardened, rather than healed.

how it feels happier to be alone

in the company of strangers,

than unrecognizable in the company you keep.

it all becomes so ugly

that it’s beautiful.