Days like this scare me.

I hate depression.

I know I should go out with friends but my friends are all so busy these days it seems like our schedules never quite match up and I worry that I’ll be too emotionally drained or anxious to enjoy hanging out at all and if not that I don’t want to see anyone who wants anything out of me other than my friendship which is a conundrum of its own.

Don’t get on me about the self-pity either…because I really hate it.

That’s the kicker.

I cannot stand that I know how to fix this from a logical, textbook standpoint.

I recognize my thoughts and hate them to a great extent.

I don’t like this person these low moods make me.


I want to let it go, but to be honest…


The girl from the dream, screaming “I don’t wanna go, I can’t”

Is still at the other side of the earthen bridge.

Someone is stuck somewhere in the past, someone can’t get over something-

Something or someone is buried and it’s trying to bury me.

Did I block something out?

They tell me they believe I did.

Sam tells me it doesn’t matter because I’d have to deal with it either way.

But I don’t know how.


It plagues me because I feel like all these issues keep forcing me to transfer my thoughts towards some issue or a world somewhere else than here because I always have to have something to deal with because I’m hiding from something or hiding from reality.

thus I shouldn’t be this way now.

I feel mentally impaired.

This sticks with me, this story where…


Lots wife was told not to look back,

if she looked back she’d crumble, wither away with the blossoms of coming old.

There’s not abnormality here-

Many of the greatest writers, actors and thinkers of history struggled with ongoing depression;

Freud, Einstein, Poe, James Dean, Audrey Hepburn, Sigmund Freud, Van Gogh, etc.

I think we’re almost driven to engulf ourselves in something-


It’s just so human,

because she looked back

and turned to dust

and aren’t we all

fading elements in time?


In the forest here all is quiet

And flattened leaves with their waterproof coats

fall in swivels like gliding tortoise shells


Piling onto the ground

Where no one notices

The tree ultimately

Has to watch itself it’s whole life

Seemingly at peace with it’s role

And while it may not understand a beating heart

It’s energy changes with the sound of a sweet voice

The tree understands

This world expects nothing of us

other than our breath

and probably feels bad

at how much we forget

how to just be.


Before Audrey Hepburn died she sat outside in cool crisp air and gazed upon the icy mountain tops painted upon a not so distant place-

She tilted her head to the sunlight and smiled,

“Mmm, that’s delicious,”

She said-

And so it goes…

My Ex Husband: The Muffin Man


When I was eighteen, I was able to bake vegan cinnamon rolls without a parole officer standing in my window.
I was able to knead out the dough, and sprinkle in maple and coconut sugar without my hands shuddering.
I was able to place the tin into the oven without immediately regretting the double homicide I’d just planned,
By shutting the door and setting the timer.
I was even able; to twist them out and plate one, as a casual civilian might,
And stab at it with my fork, without blanking out on its taste.

When I was eighteen, I was able to bake vegan cinnamon rolls,
without hovering my head over a toilet shortly after.
Jail time didn’t seem to scare me quite enough to keep me from relapsing into the attempted murder of my many different memories.
It’s as if I gave up one way of robbing myself of my own self-worth for another.
Now don’t get me wrong; my conscience isn’t free;
I regret every crime I committed against myself back then,
I ache in frustration about how naïve I was.
But if there were only a way to expel it from my gut;
That disgust I feel for letting myself be thrown around,
And playing games of sadistic chicken with broken minds missing puzzle pieces-
If only I could get it out, but it isn’t all coming out
Like I wanted it to…
So I pace wondering if I keep hovering, or forget about it.

When I was eighteen I was able to bake vegan cinnamon rolls,
And yesterday my older brother called to ask me for advice
He expressed his views on subjecting women who weren’t “good Jewish girls”
To sweet talk, sex and bitter disposition.
Somewhere in the middle of our conversation, I realized that the man I looked up to my whole life, is just one of the men I’ve been trying to throw up.
It’s the morning after that and by now I’ve lost faith in people again-
Begun to notice that now it’s the world I’m hovering over,
That it’ll eventually just expel itself on its own,
And decided to forget about it.

When I was eighteen I was able to bake vegan cinnamon rolls without a parole officer watching through the window,
I can’t do that anymore.
I start to lose my patience.


He rests his head on the steering wheel While the car is running

The rain outside pounds the beat of a strange funk

He’s tired of the disco.

Outside lights spin blood red and Christmas tree green with an occasional yellow

The yellow doesn’t visit much anymore

We’ve forgotten how to slow down We’ve become too busy swaying round the puddle graced floor.

The time is five and the morning fog hasn’t lifted a lazy finger except to shake me awake.

I’m here, sitting on the shower floor Watching the light pour in from

Behind the rippled glass of a frameless door

The water forms a fall when my palm sides kiss and my wrists are attached at the hip

I know they’re right outside

Sleeping soundly in the warmth of their blankets

Times like this their laughter lingers But the whole world empties except for myself

And this running water

Everything is beyond me

In a thunderstorm of beauty

So simple

I’m tired of the disco

But he assures me

We can leave

That this will require patience

It’s important just to breathe

So I do

The world is alive again.


There’s a man in lusterless denim and knit hat

All the shades of blue fall from him,

onto the woman on his shoulder.

His 5 o’clock shadow rests inches below

sweater button eyes in teardrop sockets


The world can see

All of her pale memories surface,

under a nest of curls

the hue of an inflamed Raggity Ann,

then are pulled out by the draft

of his sure and revering breath


“See? It pays to be sexy honey”

He spins her with a thread of his pride,

her giggle, a charming snake

which slips out of her mouth

to weave about his once sun burnt neck

“It sure does baby, it sure does,”

She swoops a paper cup up

with the dip and rise

of an expert seamstress

and they hustle off to other places

for its Monday and the Lord knows

there’s work to be done

plans to be made;

there’s still life to be spun

until its honeyed thread runs out.


Magical Mystery Parade

If I drew the back the velvet curtains here,

You’d see,

The remnants of a wall where

A grandiose canvas used to be,


And the magical mystery guy

Stands up at the front

To sell you a ticket and take you inside

The organs holler and the children scream

Inaudible muffles from a fortune queen

Stripes and dirt of a desirable dream


The gypsies dance while the hems of their skirts

Create whirlwinds of sand and kick up the dirt

Glimpses of thoughts

Homes sitting on wheels

Drifting along towns to

Beg borrow and steal


It’s a hocus pocus

White rabbit in a magicians hat

Smiles happen often

So they don’t mind telling you that

With a life on wheels

Contentment doesn’t dare stay

And the curtain that close

Try hard not to bestow

One hell of a gloomy ass parade.


When you left today I cried,
There was no reason for any sorrow,
But somewhere inside of my twisted mind, someone untwisted me.

So here are my rifles, here are my knives. I may hate myself come morning, but even if I could, it wouldn’t do any good for them to be kept on me.

When you left today I cried,
There was no reason for any sorrow,
But somewhere inside of my twisted mind, someone untwisted me.



, ,

The young cambodian boy must be about seven, 

His big black almond eyes peer over his sausage sandwich and the morning shine outside casts shadows the shapes of willow branches over his face.
His dad wears knuckle sized, thick rimmed glasses, his eyebrows are sleepy caterpillars, and he dresses in Saturdays nice khakis, fleece, flip flops. 
The boy flashes a half moon of crooked teeth up at his dads grinning face. Everything dad does, bite for bite, he copies- his hero.
One day perhaps, he will wear flips flops and khakis, his sight quality will fade, so he will sport dads bottle-top glasses. All the shining stars in his half moon smile will align perfectly.
Or maybe he will look upon his father, one day, and see him in his rawest state; as a man, much like himself, with faults, prone to strength and error, simply trying his hardest not to pass on anything but the best to his son.
Not a demi-god. Just a man, in affordable fleece.
And maybe he’ll turn out as someone completely different, and that’ll be okay. Because life is this way, and such is life; as salty and as sweet as a sausage breakfast sandwich from a tiny worn down donut and bagel shop. And Saturday, is just another day to hang onto.



There’s this firefly, who resides near me on the porch

As I swing from the rooftop.

It’s more luminescent than the others of its kind,

Yet lingers in its modesty.

& I try to forget it, because it feels so out of bounds.

Preoccupy myself with the other soaring lights that come around.

But it’s no use; there isn’t another creature like it-

They don’t measure up, nor can they see the hidden pieces of me that the distant flyer sees;

The mere presence of it somehow puts me at ease.

It gets so hard to lock these thoughts up, and wait for my lingering feelings to fade.

As I continue dangling in the night

Careful not to get too close,

I am the murderous blue light.


Don’t be attached to the past.

Don’t be attached to possessions.

Don’t be attached to an identity.

Don’t be attached to a place.

Don’t be attached to a person, “my mom, my brother, my friend, my boyfriend,” they aren’t
yours” they are their own.

Don’t be attached to life, or a religion, or a philosophy.

Things change, people change, life changes, these things are not permanent, they have a time limit, be happy to appreciate them they they’re there for you’ll have to eventually let them go.

And in death don’t tell them don’t go, if anyone ever has to take on their own path they have to go, and if you love them you’ll be happy for them, not create more pain out of selfishness.

Things are liable to change.

They’ll go, they’ll come, let it be.


Hands grasped mine- then gave way

Something I tried so hard to not dread

Unfolded and then folded again

To be re-opened, peaked at every now and then.

I’m not sure what I’m doing here with

my hands held back out

awe-sticken at

history repeating itself

Somewhere where that brain ticks in an upperhanded manner

On the face of a clock where all it seems is well

Peace will set itself in

and just like clockwork

These anxious feet take off running



distant and saddened at the dull grey matter of fact that…

I’ve abandoned all hope before giving anything a shot

I’ve been

All out of sorry’s.


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