it’s one in the morning and i wonder if it’s too late to get drunk. i haven’t been able to write anything lately, work included, and i wonder if i just don’t have the words anymore. if entire species can extinguish and cease to no longer exist then so can the limits of vocabulary and what’s left of my language. it’s the same thing with heart, soul, whatever those “wish you were here” chakras are that the mexican flea markets don’t sell. and these days you can buy anything, including sometimes happiness, and don’t let people tell you otherwise. there are some not ready to live in the coin of an atom spent toward something other than all the this, the this. and i don’t know why i care about this. i don’t know why i can’t get it off my mind, i don’t know why nothing’s left, it’s all vacant. i’m going places, growing up anyway, successfully pursuing being an entrepreneur at 20 fucking years old and isn’t that supposed to mean something to me i mean isn’t that supposed to mean something at all? but what does it matter? wherever i go, i’ve already left behind. in some other life. in some other self that never quite makes it to morning. in the relief i wake up with every time time it happens.

i’ve been losing poems 

and i don’t really care

and i don’t know if that means i’ve healed
— or what’s happening to me because i just tried 
using words the guts of my feminist won’t let me
so i lost that line too

i don’t know to what these dead things will come of
and if i could ask god one question, it’d be

where do i leave the hearts stuck,
left to rot in the canines of the jaw
of all the many things I don’t believe?

if i get less apathetic someday maybe
i will come back and remember to bury
these many ghosts i never looked in the eyes
of while they pretended to be alive
— and so did i

and i don’t really care i’ve been
burying poems everywhere

I am a goddamn fool that only writes of love. The occasional rupture, the systematical failure, the hand grenades of memories that close fists and beats on the soft of my heart. I wrote once as a madman, delirious and eager to abandon the God complex buried in my wrists that thinks my pulse knows how to handle this. I read recently that the bacteria we have in our gut makes us crave the foods we eat and I wonder if it’s same for the heart, I wonder if any of this has been any thought of mine at all.

What’s at the End of the World?

Tonight a lady emailed me and requested I write a creative story of which she can use to cheer her husband up who’s having a rough week.

"I’m not good at prompts, but here are things his inner child likes. Maybe something combining two or three of these: Star Wars, Beastie Boys, The Lonely Island, Pokemon (specifically, Charizard), Mass Effect. legos, trains."

Cutest gig/commission I’ve ever received. Result:

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Let me dip star wax along the timid of your hips.
Your curves turn a nihilist to Thoreau, your mouth
is a concept the great drug of philosophy
is too scared to question.

And don’t you know that fascinates me.
And don’t you know nothing makes me throb more
than the back alley of your impenetrable self,
the trouble I know your neurons to cause,
that impulse in your veins to detract from and dismiss.

That great artillery of the inarticulate and inauthentic self,
that mirage of impossibility the eager of my teeth
gnaw on daily. You, the nutrients of an ambrosia
the Gods were scared to indulge in. The yield of
an influence that knows better than us. The ecstasy
of our intellectual compatibility is a catalyst to
overcoming that great void of nothingness, that
choke of monotony we let ourselves die so well in.

And don’t you know that fascinates me.
And don’t you know nothing makes me throb more
than the intimacy of your vulnerable, than
your cerebral cortex on all fours, your spine
the rope burns it takes to fuck a lover
into the giant dome of a dizzy heart.

To Those Who Don’t Love Back

you are the aortic aneurism of an anticlimactic antithesis
— the disappointment of an arrhythmia demanding the morse code
of a heartbeat you never tried to understand, did you?

you just made roots in the dark side of the moon
and expected we challenge the sun in exchange for the
entropic nature of your endoscopic indifference,
the micro-tendencies of your inability to commit
to anything more than the ritualistic discourse of your
own defiance, responsible for the recluse of a pulse
that didn’t want you to happen to it in the first place

— so we translate the many tragedies of your youth
and what led to here:

an immense lack of self-respect fostered from the
titanium alloy of your make-believe mind —
I mean my God we bring sacrifice to the witch doctors
of your impestuous indecisiveness, the riddled id
of your Ego behind the bars of the brutality it takes
to open the cathedral of your heart just to
burn it down
before I study the scripture.

God forbid we pray to the good of your heart (that
great ghost that lives in the purgatory of
never hearing you say it back)

So I will write you a poem of greatness.

Use it as a napkin for lunch with your dad.
A spinal disc for the paralyzation of monotony.
The stem on your favorite wine glass, next to
the sharpest blade to cut hearts with.

Darling, don’t you know I murder my muses?
Don’t you know I lock them
inside the neurosis of my chest
and the moonbox of my mind
and the questions, the many thousand inqueries
of what realities are these days

and when there is no answer
(there is never an answer)
I weep in the temper of my madness,
fucking a poem I never meant to write
into greatness I never meant
to understand.

(I’m getting a guest post with my own byline on a popular blog with lots of traffic and this is the first big thing yay yay)

"For seven years I went about, day and night, with only one thing on my mind— her. Were there a Christian so faithful to his God as I was to her we would all be Jesus Christs today. Day and night I thought of her, even when I was deceiving her. And now sometimes, in the very midst of things, sometimes when I feel that I am absolutely free of it all, suddenly, in rounding a corner perhaps, there will bop up a little square, a few trees and a bench, a deserted spot where we stood and had it out, where we drove each other crazy with bitter, jealous scenes. Always some deserted spot, like the Place de l’Estrapade, for example, or those dingy, mournful streets off the Mosque or along that open tomb of an Avenue de Breteuil which at ten o’clock int he evening is so silent, so dead, that it makes one think of murder or suicide, anything that might create a vestige of human drama. When I realize that she is gone, perhaps gone forever, a great void opens up and I feel that I am falling, falling, falling into deep, black space. And this is worse than tears, deeper than regret or pain or sorrow; it is the abyss into which Satan has plunged. There is no climbing back, no ray of light, no sound of human voice or human touch of hand.

"How many thousand times, in walking through the streets at night, have I wondered if the day would ever come again when she would be at my side: all those yearning looks I bestowed on the buildings and statues, I  had looked at them so hungrily, so desperately, that by now my thoughts must have become a part of the very buildings and statues, they must be saturated with my anguish. I could not help but reflect also that when we had walked side by side through these mournful, dingy streets now so saturated with my dream and longing, she had observed nothing, felt nothing: they were like any other streets to her, a little more sordid perhaps, and that is all. She wouldn’t remember that at a certain corner I had stopped to pick up her hairpin, or that, when I bent down to tie her laces, I remarked the spot on which her foot had rested and that it would remain there forever, even after the cathedrals had been demolished and the whole Latin civilization wiped out forever and ever."

- Tropic of Cancer, Henry Miller