Get it Gon’

How many times ’til time forgets
What petrifying occurrences we left
No doubt an expletive
Behind with
What would have been suitable
for such undying circumstances
to citizens
of some non
directional advancement.

What time will remain
Considering absolute finalities
All which concern your regrets,
Confirm your subtle intolerances,
of none figured without your privilege.


Partner to Pretext

I wrote today, in order to always possess my belongings. The sediment at the bottom of my teacup was granulated, creating a hemisphere of its own, contrasting to the white of the porcelain like a diaper to a garbage truck.

“I don’t need to stay that long”, she would say.
I recall the setting as being different than all others I had experienced before those moments, although most of the time they occurred at my nearby subway station. The stop I always traveled to to return home.
I never thought she was serious, serious about the suddenness and closeness of her mortality, mostly because she was as healthy as could be; a poster child for staying fit, albeit simply in mind and somewhat body. The decision was all mine when discussing death, however, she just the partner to my pretext. Never did she initialize this conversation, though. Her conscience was so wavering that it caused me frequent paranoia, in relation to myself, and of my correspondence with her being.

Never once had I considered the extreme mental trauma she carried within her day to day, a fatal flaw in our relationship. She never struck me as an unstable human, as someone with inner contrived issues. Not even issues that I could surmise were rarely brought to light, although we seemed to discuss difficult and macabre issues every time we were together. Maybe it’s not truly me who brings up these situations; maybe I like to ignore truths when it benefits my psyche most.

It turned out to rain one day, today, and the humidity began to wet my clothing so as it stuck to my skin. The cleanliness I had felt merely hours before now wore into a sense of unwashable sweat swimming through my pores. She approached me, sort of smiling, but more so heaving, out of breath from running to make our meeting on time, I suppose. Why did I not automatically assume she was in the same boat as me, the humidity hitting her in her lungs, too?

“Sorry, this humidity is really messing with my stride today”, she commented. “Same here.”
So we walked a little bit, I still daydreaming about what she was thinking rather than just out and ask her what was up. She paused a few times, and then would re-instate her part in my inner monologue by asking contrived questions to create dialogue. I listened, answered, never really putting all of the conversations, including this, together cohesively.

The next day, or the next week, as I remained in a daydream while we were physically in cooperation, she disappeared.

Well, she passed away. And I awoke from my ignorance and small-mindedness to an even greater, truer nightmare.

I think that was it

Paranormal Activity could
never be considered adequate
in a reality such as ours,
where actuality takes the wheel
and we are generally forced
to the left.

seldom a maneuver,
rarely exquisite pain,
is it found,
our mentality,
breaking ties with time,
forcing upon it strict guidelines
to abide by our crass reasoning.

And sporting shoes unlike
What’s needed
In some few men
And seldom women

in the deepest of our extremities.
the shallowest of our souls,
we become soulless
yet of another’s
although we may become
to untold tendencies
and overstated dramatizations.

‘that was hard, man’


Love is an empty bench.
Created by man,
Yet it’s obligations permeate
Throughout time,
Without the conscious decision (intention?)
To suspend ignorance.

Love is an empty bench.
It does not grow cold when winter hits,
Or warm when spring returns.
It may wear overtime
If abused,
Made only for those
With mistakable motives.

Love is an empty bench.
Honed to be completely utilitarian
To those imperfect wanderers
Unaware of the culmination
Of their unwavering confusion
On the matter at hand.

Love is a stable bench.
It rests, stagnant,
Left on the assumption
It will varnish heat
Once more.


Built with a purpose in mind,
not for those with purpose.

do you overanalyze? are you the other woman?

It is a true contradiction, in simplest terms, to define love. Yet, love precedes all schools of thought on it’s own subject. This is in how love is handled by those in possession of the emotion in question.
Is it love when comfort trumps all else? When fear of the future based upon prior engagements, or, better yet, tumultuous conclusions seen second hand, determine the course of love–is it truly a realized feeling? Can it be realized while we harbor these feelings within us, unknowingly pushing it upon the lover under consideration?
Can such a thing as love come to fruition without risk? Or need risk always be of concern and, without it, the feeling is simply attraction, want, temptation, sacrifice…without motive?

I don’t believe that any of us can say for certain, as we all feel love differently. Many at the time of being faced with it cower at its shape, shrink in its shadow. A shape unfamiliar to one’s own empathy, a shape that is not easily described, as it is out of the realm of one’s own mind.

The future is unknown, but not undeniable.


fancy meeting you in the dark

few instances have occurred in personal anguish
over the maceration of tart apples,
that long for denouement
at striking peak value.

it seemed a black night,
visuals corrected by the wont for less
so it became bright with expiration
as theory would place it.

many occasions have materialized
under tyranny of renegade,
whom fancy understatement
and struggle to cope with fidelity.

I will be your beacon in the inevitable cessation of day,
to break your wounds with my senseless script.

Thank You

We are not conditioned
To acknowledge heroes
Until they are no longer able
To commit to the task.

We are not taught
To understand the reality
That some are gifted
With unwavering confidence
That calls them ‘friend’.

I am not an outsider
Because I do not have the conviction.

I am not unique, as the definition states,
Because heroes alter my ego
For me to portray such a trait.

We are not acclimated
To believe in theories
Until we have heard them before
Through friends, politicians, little people,
Or in our dreams.

We are not prepared
To receive our dreams
As discussed with our motives,
Until we have seen it accomplished.

That, my friends,
Are what egos are made of.


As you place your phone down,
Table shakes,
and you ask why.

It was manufacturing, I say,
something malfunctioned
in the break room.

But, then, he says,
why do you keep a table
broken from the onset?

Isn’t that
human nature? I reply
in return.

I would have complained,
maybe sent it back.
He states.

I could not do such a thing,
think of all of those people
Putting it together

As if it were their last
will and testament.

Some exist
without consideration,
thought, for so far down the line.

This gift was still

to be continued…


I am a pawn,
Moved for the betterment of one player
And the demise of another.

I am a piranha,
Rarely seen
With teeth to maim all those surrounding
And the few above.

I am a prawn,
Sometimes incorporated in movies
As other-worldly,
Nevertheless grotesque.

I am a painting,
Slowly constructed,
A final product
Up for opinion by others and others only.

I am a pedestrian,
Moving without assistance,
Speaking on my terms,
At the end of a street.

I am the panic button,
Rushing, riveted,
Unable to calm myself
Until silenced.

I am a powder brush,
Clearing up your insecurities,
Slowly wasting my bristles,
Inevitably recycled fabric.

I am panting
For the air
I grasp.

I am still panting.

I am paranoid,
Not of you,
Nor the future,
But of possessions.

I am possessed
By nostalgia

By a pawn
I moved too soon.