Human Hatpin

for Franny

Trees thrive like eyes on potatoes,
growths,
natural driller rigs sucking out energy and nutrients,
but, somehow, living harmoniously.

Ultimately, we are all parasites.

Am I growing?

Am I changing?

Getting better or worse?

Wiser, stronger?

The critic in my head skews my perspective,
takes away from reality (as that which is),
changes me into this thing that wants something
separate from reality.

The critic wants.

It wants to do something, to be someone
to be somewhere different all the time.

It wants to have an intense epiphany.

Doesn’t know what to say to you when we’re sitting in a diner, drinking coffee at 2 a.m. or 11 a.m.

The critic has many jokes.

I, its vehicle, am empty of words to say them to you.

The parasite sucks life from life, is life.

Emptiness is freedom.



03 Jan 2010





The Dialogue of Our Wandering Minds

Lying,
her hands clasped
nude in the fetal position,
with a countenance apathetic
and heart resigned,
to the man
hurriedly
slipping back
into his soiled peel,
his hair disheveled,
cock still half erect,
heart concealed,
so he does not detect
dissatisfaction, and feels
oblivious
distracted
by prospect of food in the cupboard.

Lightning,
drool oozes into her hair.
On the climax of a steep cliff,
not the first time she’s been there,
but fear is her reason for
and impediment from
the obvious solution.



06 Jan 2010