Nihilistic Zen...

Who I am... am I? I am?

The moments exist.
That they're not very important is in itself an unimportant observation maybe.

To be useful. Useful. Useful.

Fuck. It implies valuation.

So does living.

Fuck.

Inorganic granite pink.

The color of knuckles and concrete.

A naked eye. Some ragged claws.

Aware surviving unfair.

Do they sleep or not sleep?

Sometimes Panic

Sometimes the panic turns,

spinning into accomplishment and excitement and worth.

Sometimes it does not.

Sometimes, today is a dead weight to be endured,

a time of darkness, tied in back of a van, as streetlights race in mocking lines across the filthy carpet, moving without will, without hope, under another’s impetus.

Sometimes it, it’s pitch black closets after the giggles were forced away, duct tape peeling painful free from skin.

Waiting. Laughter turns to terrified coals in my chest, impossible to express.

This will be a funny story later.

Black eyes become jokes and unsubtle warnings.

Love and safety only flow through very narrow lanes.

Both are lies.

Both are truths, poorly considered.

It just takes time. Finite terrible time.

Sometimes panic turns to memory to terror to breathless present.

Forgetting that this is not for always.

Not for always.

A wink of a blink in a cosmic sneeze.

Sometimes panic.

What else would there be?

flying fuck b/w rolling donut

vision blurs like glass tiles
in opulent office spaces 20 years ago
eyes thrumming to a staccato beat
pencil necked geek from some
record I don't remember

this is how I fall apart

I imagined it would be like coming home
sliding into sleep
But not asphyxiation
It wasn't even sexy

I can't get the pencil to fit
broke the lead
Still trying

Two scars like track marks all it bought me...

Memories hollow hope, nihilistic zen behind bars

Bend Bend Bend

This is how I fall apart



A dress not that dainty
but nice.
A wife not that dainty
but nice
A life not that dainty
but nice

Hate sits in the living room.
Hate needs to see the news,
at one at five and two.

Hate stares through me with dead eyes.

I was riding out the wrong side of a mediocre high.

Pain is mine.
Personal property, like a medical bracelet.
Always close, an epipen.
Something unlikely in case of overdose.

In a dress.

This is how I fall apart.

Slide down, the bell curve and sigh
Wrong end of a one way line
Riding on ghosts of embers of wisps of smoke
Wrong side of today.

Wish I was high rather than alive.

this morning on the swing

Spiritual significance clung like a cloying stench,

Daylight to Nimbus to daylight

What then?

Beauty revealed in a burn heap

What then?

Sirens signaling the signal can yet be signaled

What then?

Superfluous.

Cosmic Tragedy takes a back seat

The sun shines, the dog sniffs about,

Leaves crumble under feet.

Smile.

Is it any less real since the fire came from a bottle?

Functionally it is the same.

As authentic as my meat computer can get… 

shadow stache