A fragmented assortment of poems, thoughts, and prose.
The self in the moment craves death.
The self is an imaginary construct to
The self in actuality.
And so the imagination of the self
Is dying every moment.
Change is not dreaded, change, is
The adherence to our constant yearning
Take me to the unconscious
Show me the light
Reveal that inner spark
A summer dream
A warm night remember
I remember how real the
Depths of space can feel
To a mere child
I ride the dark parallel, I bought tickets
Before the light went out, to take passage
On the dark parallel
I might be from Paris in the cabin of the train, where a luxurious lamp would turn the room a warm gold. I’d say nothing, but the tapping fingers of a man near the opposite door would catch my attention. He’d sit in a leather chair, before a high wood table where his unfinished glass of liquor slowly turned invisible.
            And his skin looked sewn together, like the undead or Frankenstein’s monster, but he was perhaps more like a scarecrow, at least just in the way he looked at you, still, with a witch-like wooden nose, and eyes made of immeasurable shadow.
            I thought he might be the devil, for I saw all these dark phantoms in him, but strangely it only intrigued me because he was like a patchwork of fantastical stories, of human fears and wonder. If he was not a devil, then he would have done well as one.
            “This is the last way out from Purgatory” he spoke without lifting his head. “Next you will find a boat, just a small one with a paddle and it goes along a river underground for quite some time. The way out of purgatory is around twice as long as purgatory itself”
            “Is this a dream.” I didn’t stress the phrase as a question strongly enough.
            “No, this train is the dark parallel. It’s the only way out. No one remembers how they got on, for their protection, you see. We cannot allow the memories of purgatory on board.”
            “Why?”
            “Because purgatory is just a state of mind.”
            “Who are you?”
            “I am on board the dark parallel, and on the dark parallel, the self is named only by actions. You are curious of the dark parallel.”
            The chandelier trembles on the rails.
            The devil’s red tie slips out from the shambles of his overcoat.
            “How much do you want to know and how badly?”
All, I say, and he answers:
            Higher beings only see truth in the form of riddles, and for this he apologized.
            I felt more like another chair, or piece of furniture covered in velvet rather than a person. The room, any room, is just a space in the mind. He had just gotten up to leave through the adjacent door, but then he turned to me and said:
            Where do birds go
To die. Obviously somewhere else, or the world would be endlessly littered with their bodies, with the absence of their melodic conversations. Does an aviary holocaust sink to the ocean floor? Does the wind and dust bury the feeble skeletons so quickly, so invisibly, or do we truly just pay no attention?
            It must be the cats that drag away the bodies, and god knows I don’t know what drags away the cats. The dogs? Maybe, but then that begs the same question…
            –at the bottom of the sea. The birds fly to the ocean when death draws near, and they fall down, down, holding on against the will of nature, and so they wander the seas as ghosts
–fish, I believe people call them. Fish are the ghosts of damned birds.
            “Alright, you are not the devil after all.”
            What is the dark parallel. It is a construct of an unreal passage. This is a nightmare, and this feeling is the kind you get from walking in a nightmare, down a pathway as it converges and narrows in front of you but never ends.
Tell me more,
I’m a cruel sadist, but since there is no one else around, I’m also a masochist.
And I approach this lifestyle
By humoring delusional narratives
And pretending to have flaws
For the sake of them being entertaining
So that I may recognize my recognition
Of these flaws and assume I have overcome delusion
How can I win the war against myself
The only thing I can really do
Or live into
Is playing it cool.
There are no mysteries at this time. Everything makes sense, and I’ve only got my dread to deal
With. I must live a full life. I must be independent and live a brighter, more creative life.
            I haven’t even the energy to clean my dishes. Reading through a whole body of some one’s poems
Their life’s work
Makes them sound
Like they’d been
Circling the dreaded
Corners of a single room,
The same four corners
For all their lives
Somebody shoot me
I dreamt many things
That I do not recall
I was in a yard
And I realized it was a dream
And tried to materialize
Her in front of me
But it was not working
I was on an adventure
Aliens
We made dinner
My dad on the phone
Said to eat there
I have no clever language for
This haze
No one will ever read it,
Or care for it
But me. I dreamt I drank rum, like a man
I dreamt very far away
I am losing my chemistry
I am losing my “in-the-moment
–charm.”
My smile has been disappearing
I am turning invisible
Soon, I will be farther still
I do not feel special
I do not feel anything
I am not the phoenix
I am the ashes
Of a suburban housefire
That
“row-of-boxes” kind
Of sad.
Bradbury died
And so I made a post about it
On facebook
And as I did so
Bradbury died
Again
Luke warm, the temperature at which facebooks burn
It’s sad, that I can’t set on fire
What I cannot hold in my hands
Sad that I can’t set fire
to all redundant knowledge
When I look at the sky
Or really see for what sight
Really is, then I wake
And in my wake
I leave the nightmare
Of the real, the allegory of
The world ran by banks and
Consumer advertising,
My mom through a phone
In a morning minute, this
Money, this money
Something or the other, my father
It’s the end of the world
And we can’t be loaned a loan
And no money how hard I try
No one understands the profound and dry devil
In boring things
Pull up the tether
I tug
At the safety rope
And I can only assume
That prior to my descent
Into being, we agreed to
This fail-safe. Give
The tether one good pull
To signify a safe
Landing, another for
Distress, and if you’re
Not sure which of the two
Is you, tell us by tugging
And whining and stubbing your toe
And getting hungry, old and throwing fits until
They send you the other end.
Even if all my parts are together
They are together nowhere
As if someone built a home
In the desert—no,
The whole city.
A ditsy girl in a dress swoons
Over her boyfriend, in awe
of how He grips his German shepherd
Walking forward, as friend
I open my arms, more than wide
enough
And the dog leaps joyfully
Into my misguided embrace.
Touché, douche bag.
Every thought must be as dramatic
as flaming shit
or else it passes by without remote care
a leaf fell from thine tree
ye motherfucking gods
I can’t believe trees
Like these
Have leaves
And seas
So far away
–Are there