No amount of squeezing you, loving you, will let me disappear into you.

Your love will never be enough to save me from myself.

Our story shatters like a mirror upon reflection.

It was never us in those spaces anyway.


Major League

There is this great game we all play. It’s called something like, “Who can be the most distracted?”

And the happiest win.

My body grows thicker with fever while the Earth burns.

You tell me to be more positive.

The Earth dying is compartmentalized, along with every other thing we are incapable of processing because it is just too tragic. To let it in all at once would consume us.

So we go on, and we focus on the things we can handle, the ways we can make a difference. Like taking the trash out, or helping someone relax.

Isn’t this the way it’s always been, though?

To ease the pain of tragedy, we cope…

we smile and dance in spite of ourselves.

We hold each other as the world ends.

We witness one another.

This is the way the world ends,

this is the way the worlds ends,

not with a bang,

but with a…


And the next right thing is…

Some people hear pronouns as loud as glass shattering in a quiet room, words so heavy they have their own moment where everything else is sacrificed.

Some people are some people that get to know other some people. Why does everything change when I look over my shoulder?

Is it important when you know something about quantum physics to exist in a state of pure potential, to eliminate choices and decisions? As a people, we seem to be anti-matter.

Coagulation and solidification are so repulsive to us we destroy each other.

It is only nature after all.

Is there a somebody that is an exception to this experience?

But you can’t make homes out of human beings, right?

Am I already the one who can only swim with others for a little while? Until the current shifts…

Why is it that the things I prioritize in life leave me all alone?

I am specialized.

I am my own lover.

No one can hang.

I drew an oracle card last night, on the new moon, after I consecrated my dream pillow to ask for guidance, that was entitled “leap of faith”. And this is the message I keep receiving…that the energy I seek is beyond my comfort zone. What does that mean for me? Commitment is beyond my comfort zone. Going deep with another.

My dreams were laced with idiosyncratic symbols…like I’d been searching the cosmos for an answer that was experienced as pure chaos. That feels right.

Pure chaos.

Because we are infinitely creative in a world that has no sense of judgment beyond the value systems we were raised in. We are, in an ultimate cosmic sense, non-judgmental. My teacher has a bumper sticker that reads, “Non-judgement day is near.”

It is in my blood to break free. Is it cowardice or bravery to stand still?

Just as the cosmos have no sense of right or wrong, there cannot be a right or wrong in an objective sense, for me and my life choices. Can I be further on the edge?

I have tried. I get there all the way and find myself riddled with fear and regret, like Job wandering the Earth for eternity.

There is such thing as going too far. But there’s always salvation. Because choices do not exist in a vacuum~  polarity does. The second we solidify, there is exists the opposite. When chaos reigns unimpeded, there is no opposite. Everything is fluid. Should we learn to swim?

It always comes down to putting one foot in front of the other.





To Embrace Life as Cognitive Dissonance

I am old in a young body.

I am young in an old body.

I am carefree and beautiful,

deficient and stuck.

I want to throw it all to the wind

and I want a mortgage.

How can I be in two places at once?

How can I be one person wanting something else?

What have I done so far?

Is there anywhere but here that I would be better at being myself?

Is it true that I am here right now because I need to be? Because the universe is bigger than me?

Or is there somewhere else I should be?

I am a tornado. I go deep in place and then spread out.

I am not winter. I am not spring.

Is there a better place for me?

I don’t think I believe in fate anymore.

Except that we’re in charge of our own.

And the next right step is forward in any direction.





How do we talk about death?

Is death where my innocence was lost,

when the psychic was knocked out of me?

Was death when a body disappeared,

or when anxiety changed its name to sexual repression?

Was death when I graduated,

or left my first real relationship?

Was it death when I left?

Was it death when I left?


It is death when I reach with my right hand instead of my left.





I want the life that only happens randomly,

in synchronicity,

the kind you cannot plan.

But I try to plan the life that cannot be planned.



What does water look like as it drips off of your skin?

Why am I so scared to lose everything when I know that is the only way to have it all?


My Pens Ran Out so I threw them at the Window and Decided to Screw Tradition

I stuffed chicken salad and coconut ice cream where my self-help practices belong. Then I got ready for a jog, pulling too-small shorts over my 3,500 dollar legs that have stretch marks from years in recovery from disordered eating habits. Ironic.

I have plans to change the world with my words, but tonight I walk down dark alleys covered in trash and barking dogs. The foundation has cracks. I am breaking open.

I planned to change the world today, to stick up for women and feed the hungry. I had plans to figure out where to live and how to make money. I had plans. I had plans. I sat on the couch and embodied Wall-E, numbing myself to the screen. I will give up my addiction to TV, I say. I have plans.

Truth is, I eat when I’m hungry and cum when I’m horny, call friends when I’m lonely. That is all I do. I breathe in whatever this experience is and blurt it out on the page. So be it. So it is.

Today, I masturbated to fem-dom lesbian porn. It was so hot I looked up “dungeons in America” and watched my romantic life as a professional submissive flash before my eyes.

Then I got hungry, lost interest.

When the day comes, where I have to leave all my physical comforts, when I can’t be reached by telephone, when home is where I collapse, I’ll have realized that most people are good. Most people are kind. There was never anything to fear.

Today, though, today I have dark purple and brown hair that was summoned from the trenches and chains of karmic past. It is the inheritance of a girl who begged me not to move on, not to move forward. She wanted me to be stuck with her. I was not ready for death.

And I sit here now with her hair on my head, to remind myself of the chains I bear…like my ancestors, like my karma.

Waking up to battle the mud of daily ennui is my reckoning. I will be quiet today. I will listen.


No Words Necessary

There is a cross hanging from the rearview mirror of his truck and I wonder if he sees the cross as a hard dick, penetrating and abusing the Earth and women. Does he pray?

It has been my experience that a majority of men do not actually love women, or at least they don’t show it. Some know they need women and resent this so they hate-love women.

The proper way to love women is unconditionally. The proper way to love anybody is unconditionally.

I am a collection of stuffs every-changing with an aura that spans yards. You can seduce me before my conscious mind senses you. You have. You do.

Open me from the outside, slowly, meticulously, careful not to miss any. See me unwaveringly. Penetrate me with your stare. No words necessary. Love me enough that the kill you seek turns into a good fuck. Intense and purposeful.

Don’t make me give directions, make me beg. Let me have access to every part of your body that is capable of pain and meet me there with resistance. Make me scream your name. Make me intoxicated with you so I sing your praise throughout the day. Make me know you’re mine.

Tell me, don’t ask.

Touch me with your words when you do decide to speak.



Drain You/Love is the Answer to all the Terrible Shit

Don’t you know,

I want to drain you of everything.

That I am this dry receptacle wasteland without you?

I don’t wanna waste you,

spilled cum on the floor to be wiped away

just won’t do,

just like I don’t leave my blood


Why am I the only one who wants to

jump in the flames? I am brave.

You are scared,

your voice shook,

reverberating from your emotional

body into your heart.

I want all of it. I can take it.

But you are always scared.

Can you imagine what it means

to be the Earth and desperate to create different dreams?

Do you know how desperately you

need to give?

Can you admit it long enough to surrender?

To surrender more than once?

To be constantly surrendering?

It is so easy for women, the

orgasmic fluid circuit machine,

to feel it all. But men can

only see her, experience her,

through increments of giving,

not of his wallet,

of his expectations. Of his control.

And his release is getting a taste of the Heavens.

Plant medicine came from the Earth

when man cried for the divine,

for the Goddess,

for ecstasy,

for release.

And we find in the plants the feeling of home.

It is the mothership.

Where have the Feminine Arts gone?

We need to be the spider whose web

is a silvery, crystally rainbow castle

that we cannot wait to bring guests to,

not a dark sterile hag who tortures like a tyrant

because she has encased herself in cement,

but to lead with a chain of flowers,


Take your pick.

They told us that seeking divinity

was a sin because there is no way

we could be as holy as God.

They told us prayer and true spirituality

were a waste of time.

They told us what they were told.

They were showed that religion and fear were synonymous.

They attached the state to it,

and in the name of God decided what was holy,

based on an ethical morality of the kind of

human who is isolated, Alexander standing, staring,

looking over at the kingdoms of the world he conquered,

contemplating his jump.

Entrapment is the way of true love’s sinister sister.

And we listen because she seems like she has total control.

To hell and back.

Life is a journey to hell and back,


trialed and errorerd,


In other words,

move to the places that scare you.





Feed women.

May women learn to hunt.

It’s the only way we can begin to worship true divinity and un-tap the power of potential.



Nothing is True All of the Time

And during the day, I am a vegan organic crunchy hippie with lifts in my shoes and a moral code built on ethics of Christianosity but I’m Jewish looking around going, where am I?

And at nighttime, it’s give me all of the drugs and screw a bra and torture me. Let something terrible happen because I know that destruction is the only material I have to work with.

Commedia del Arte. People laugh at the tragedy survivors carry with them. Transcendence is a gift and this moment is all there is. In the nighttime, I’m only a puddle of darkness occasionally chastised by the moon. But her light is no match for a bitch like me. Go ahead and give me your best shot. I’ll take it in the chest and use my blood to write the poetry of my death. It goes something like, “I’ll be back.”

And during the day, when the sun scorches my youngish skin, I change my hair and my clothes hoping to make my face and tits look better than they did before. But they will never look better than they did before. Nothing new will hide the fact that I’m a corpse in the making. But still, ain’t it fun to put a shiny wig on rotting flesh? Maybe death won’t notice me, we think. Maybe just this time, I’m too cute to die. I’m too hot to die.

And the addicting power of no shits, of escape, of depression, of caring so much we don’t care at all, teases us with early death, the promise of a brightly burning light aflame, fast and gone. During the nighttime, I want to kill the princess. I want to fuck my way through the United States. I want a microphone. I want the confidence to castrate. I want my tongue cut in the center so I can shock and lash. I want a bullwhip and vagina dentata. The daytime is oppressive with her moral highground and fear and expectations and doing the right thing.

Isn’t this the end? What is this good life we promise people? The privileged, those of us who stand there and show others the good life? The western way, stuffing your face, addicted to suffering, to being miserable and fat and aching for transcendence, to be fucked, locked in a cage of desires we’re too stupid to touch.

The pressure of expectations: babies haunting me, the umbilical cord attached to my mother which I hold in my mouth, drinking in ancestral bribes of mediocrity. This is not for me. This is not for me.

Do what makes you happy. Do what you makes you happy. Drugs make me happy. Sex makes me happy. Cruelty makes me happy. Friends that  burn bright and ask where we should bury the body makes me happy. Is that good enough, ma? Is that okay to share with your friends? Can I come to dinner parties and family reunions and weddings with a sword in my cooch?

I don’t wanna be good. Don’t wanna be good. Do what makes you happy.

Being bad makes me happy.

Any institution places the bar at a level no one should aspire to be. Mediocrity.

I wanna blow it up, ma. I want to dance free, on the street, encased in leather.

I wanna burn through them, ma. I wanna poke their eyes out.