For What Words Can Never Give Their Due

I am forever grateful your love was mine to lose,
For I still love you.

And you’re in Boston
And I’m okay

I’m okay.

Thank you for that
For what words can never give their due.

I am sorry I didn’t get to know you better
That I didn’t listen more,
Didn’t implore your beautiful heart to open all the way,
Didn’t give you the safety to

And my heart breaks remembering all the times I made you cry and my heart didn’t bat an eye.
Breaks.

I know you were a very important part of my life;
You are a huge piece of what makes me whole.

And I was toxic to you.
Toxic.

But I hope you have a piece of solace in me, some quiet comfort in what was and what will be

I just can’t believe it all

We were just kids, really
Okay, maybe just me
But we were still growing up
We still are.

And I don’t know what closure looks like for us
How to heal the wounds we made
But I think it has something to do with time and age

I just can’t believe that this is all there is

I just wish there were an easy way to let go
It’s almost as if I am asking for your help

What ending can we write?
Or is this it?
Tell me what I can do
I owe it to you

For what words can never give their due

Three Ditties on Love

Ghosted

I want to scream at the top of my lungs
Burst them and lie down and die
My life is passing me by
And I look in the rearview
And I see the graveyard of lives I’ve lived
hers, and hers, and hers, and hers, and hers;
I was:
I was hers.
Before I got ghosted,
Before they lost my number a long time ago.

These shipwrecks still live in my heart
And they make it hard to look ahead
How can my otimism persist?
I live in a world where some days I just want to **** ** ******.

But this is life.
As Tom Petty told us:
The good ol days might not return
So, I’ll give her a diamond,
Knowing that the rocks might melt and the sea might burn

Postscript to an ex lover

Suppose you read this,
No, not you you spineless traitor.
You, my sweet schoolteacher

I know that we sometimes still text,
Or rather, you mostly text me back
And I honestly don’t know why
So I am asking you anonymously to just let me go
I can’t be your hero

Because if you keep me on a line
I’ll always be there
Bunny, you know how much I care
And I know I can’t be the guy at the alter
I dropped you from heights too high for that

But that doesn’t mean I don’t want to be your secret,
The weekend you pen in your calendar next March
But that can’t be
Because I just remembered
I wasn’t good enough.

Note to a girl I will love in return oneday

I don’t believe in love anymore
So, if you love me, hang tight
Hold on; bear with my Baltic heart

I promise not to push you away,
But I won’t pull you in close either

I am burying my love this winter like roses
So, if next spring we meet and I am frozen,
Please set your love to defrost


Note: Confessional poetry pains the ego; although, it greatly doth act as a balm to the soul; and, ultimately, this is what we need; for in our age there is an excess of art catering to egos, i.e., every instagram poet writing those trash odes to the self-imfatuated. Ex: ‘She was free and wild, her soul shone like a thousand suns. Even in darkness, it could not be denied.’ (Add centered text alignment and faux typewriter fontface.) That is not poetry – that is marketing – written by wanksters for wankers. Real poetry bleeds, even if that blood be a balm. /rant.

In Darkness, Light

It’s been a long time,
A long time running in the woods
Crying on tree stumps,
Mourning yesterday

These shadow games I’ve played
Setting the stakes against myself
The yields of low expectations,
Leading me time and time again to the precipice of my own demise
Thinking, this can’t be life

I never meant to become who I was
I never meant to cut the wings from angels
Never meant to live in the clutch of vice
Lying to maidens fair, far, and faithless
So distant from the firm clutch of soft thighs

I am one who is has been unfaithful to his own religion, foe to himself
Woe to he who he denies the existence of his own demons,
Who beside himself finds not a friend
There are no words that can speak these inaudible pains

But try I must,
For this indifference has taken me down,
Beneath the depths I swam at twenty-three
Seven years later and I’m still breaking stones
Famished desires gnawing at my lonely bones
We once had a home,
Yeah and yadda yadda yadda,
I can’t look back down that road

Tonight I miss the grandfathers I never got to know
As a grandchild I am an orphan,
Dying for the love of ghosts
Living for the love of a family I don’t yet know

And from here, the quiet, barren shore,
Where will I go
What dreams flow in the August breeze

Tell me G-d
Promise me more
Show me I can trust myself
That I don’t have to go to bed hurting tonight
That in darkness,
I will find light


Note: I have a fairly large number of drafts saved – I do not know how many, but I suspect the number considerable. This was written this past week, and, being that it still resonates, I am publishing it tonight (5th Sept) as I lay awake, too lazy to sleep. As far as those other drafts, perhaps they will be published in a volume when I have attained the kind of literary fame to warrant such a thing, perhaps, even, posthumously. But if there is one thing I have learned this year, it is that telling myself I will go back and complete an incomplete piece of poetry or prose is a damned lie. – Law

Mindsight: Going Back to The Start

The imagination is the greatest ability we have – for what may be born of dreams extends far beyond the reaches of the eye, which is limited by our reality – yet the bounds of reality extend far beyond the morrow, all the way into the clouds and past the horizon. Mindsight – our ability to see past today, past practicality, beyond the abyss of fear and the cove of doubt – this is the key that unlocks doors where others see walls. It is through this magic of evolution that we may dream while we are awake, seeing what others do not.

If you think this is the stuff of mere daydreaming, fancies and whatnot, then you, my friend, are seriously shortchanging yourself.

Things do not happen by mere chance: that couple that is going to make love tomorrow on the yacht of their dreams, you think that is mere fortune? No. That, my friends, is the product of a dream, a plan, a goal, and, of course, hard work.

The problem is, most people confine their dreams to their resources rather than letting their dreams detemine them. If your dreams do not guide your reality, as a needle does a thread, your reality will guide your dreams. Unfortunately, most people lose their ability to dream – both through lack of use and the normal setbacks of life. We’ve all given up at some level.

That last sentence is heartwrenching, isn’t it.

You see – dreams need to be curated, protected, and evolved, but the difficulty is that we live in a society that applies immense pressure on us; our values, our goals, and our desires are constantly being dictated to us by our peers, our parents, and ultimately our fraglie and insecure egos.

I hit a point last year when I realized my dreams weren’t even mine.

They belonged to an ex or someone I felt I needed to best, or my wish to gain approval from someone who doesn’t matter. Ayn Rand was right; selfishness is a virtue. Luckilly, I can still afford to be selfish: no wife. No kids. No limits. It sounds absurd but it’s true; if you’re out there and you’re feeling sorry for yourself about being single, you are seeing it all wrong. No, you can write your own ticket.

But most of us, single or taken, struggle with this – with determining what is we really, truly want.

The irony, and the key to unlocking the mystery within us, lies in the past; before society replaced our dreams with things: flat TV’s, great shoes, nice cars, a great place, this is adult shit. Children, on the other hand, know better. We all know better. We’ve just forgotten.

Go back in time. Remember when you were a child. Remember that thing you did that made the hours pass like minutes. The thing that dissolved reality into a mere sidenote. That; the call you stopped answering a long, long time ago still lives within you, and if you pick it back up, it will ring as true today as it did on afterschool afternoons twenty years ago. It’s 1995, and you are on the floor in your room looking at a book, feeling like you just set foot on the moon. Fast forward ten years and you were working in a call center not even realizing what happened to you. Five years later and you just wanted what others had. It’s a sad story, but it’s the story of an adult life. Wrought down by the weight of living, we forgot what we loved. We traded in our dreams for flat screen TVs, twenty inch rims on our leased SUVs.

It is time to reach back in time and take back the light that once kindled your soul.

“Your vision will become clear only when you can look into your own heart. Who looks outside, dreams; who looks inside, awakes.” – Carl Jung

Awaken. Please.

I am begging you, as the pain I brought on my soul has long begged of me.

I write this because today I am taking full responsibility for my childhood dreams: I own them once again, and I am no longer owned by the pressure of society, a pressure no child really knows.

When I was a kid, I loved nothing more than books and boats. I read every book in my school library on sailing, even Kon-Tiki. Dove, Spray, Adrift – you name it. I remember one day, while reading a story of sailors eating hard-tack at sea, just wishing I had some old, stale bread in my kitchen. I just wanted to taste it, I wanted to live it. And for a time, I did.

But then life happened. That drug of love, and the desire to be cool, to be admired, the desire to admire myself for the things society upholds as measures of happiness and success took over.

I’ll save you my autobiography, but at thirty I am once again as bitten by those same bugs as I was at eleven.

It’s an incredibly beautiful and healing thing. This, my friends, is as true to myself as I can be.

Books and boats.

P.s. We may know the dreams most suited to us by the ease and comfort in which we can clearly imagine ourselves in them. So, try them on, until, just like Goldilocks, you find the one that feels just right. So chill out; you had it all figured out as a child. You need only remember. Now go get lost in it. Once more. For your own sake. Don’t let yourself down another day more. You read this, and I wrote this, for a reason.

Dear Society

There is a pain to growing up, a hurt inherent to not knowing how to ease the woes that accompany a given life.

Woes arising from the truths we dare not face; our identity naturally in opposition to anything that threatens our core underlying beliefs about who we are.

These core beliefs are typically unconscious, childlike assumptions about life, formed at in early age in order to allow us to understand our families, thus becoming our blueprint for navigating the world at large.

This is why childhood patterns of anguish persist throughout adult life. Our guiding stories – paticularly in regards to relationships, and generally from a gender correlative view – in turn become our very limited and incorrect assumptions. It’s as if our parents are the unconscious, assumptive benchmark by which we judge everyone else – for better or for worse.

And from an evolutionary and anthropological standpoint this no doubt equipped us with a set of intutive assumptions about our kin, by which we could cohesively assimilate into primitive, tribal, or village cultures – essentially the world that humans knew for tens of thousands of years before the relatively recent development of modern, high-density societies.

Only, today, instead of a few hundred, interrelated realities intersecting, we’ve got tens of thousands in a given city, all with their own homegrown beliefs about how people are supposed to be. And if you grew up in an average middle class family, with relatively neurotypical parents who instilled fairly vanilla values into you, this might not be so terrible, for you are apt to follow a fairly typical life path, and assimilate healthily into a world that needs more accountants, realtors, or whatever you end up doing; however, if you grew up like I did, which is to say the typical childhood of a writer, painter, or whatever oddity life has made you, well then, your woes are apt to be much grander – at least in your own eyes – for life is a little more difficult for those whose values do not center primarily around fitting in. The artist has world views that often oppose reality entirely, or values which fall into direct opposition to society’s priorities. Read enough ‘great’ writers, and you will see this truth time and time again, both in their characters and in the lives of the writers themselves.

This is why the artist is such a tortured soul. It’s his values that torture him; he is a misanthrope – a castaway from his own people – he worships different Gods, which is to say he cares naught for the trappings of society, and if he does, then he secretely detests what he lacks the courage to renounce.

Story of my twenties; so rife were the last five years with torment; I lived as one does who lacks ample courage to be completely true to himself; in a word, I was miserable.

I spent the last five years trying to escape my woes, afraid to face what I could not, opting instead to cling to my innocence, as if my idealism were the Jedi force by which the world would magically conform to my view of it (This is a fantastic recipe for self-pity, by the way).

Ironically, our futile attempts to deny or escape the truths we find ugliest only strengthen their presence in our lives, proving the adage that, what we resists persists.

I’ve quoted it a dozen times, and I again lay the words out like a blanket on the grass:

Until we make the unconscious conscious, it will direct our life and we will call it fate. – C.G. Jung

The unconscious, repressed truths we feel incabable of accepting posess us, directing our fate back to them in a grotesque paradox. But it’s through the same inescapable and utterly painful truths that we become whole, mature, actualized adults.

For me this has culminated in a coexistence between my ideals and reality.

To quote Jung’s protege, Marie Louis Von Franz:

If we can stay with the tension of
opposites long enough —sustain it,
be true to it—we can sometimes
become vessels within which the
divine opposites come together and
give birth to a new reality.

Which, after years of the unuterable. and inescapable truths I fought to deny kicking the absolute shit out of me, I am finally managing to do; for, my beliefs are in almost all aspects directly oppositional to reality. If I did not posess the learning I do, I surely would have found the chasm between my soul and reality too great, and would likely have killed myself. But, having the balm of art, philosophy, shamanism, and psychology, I have tended my wounds and in the process kept my head.

My soul intact, my heart whole – my spirit resilient – I am ready to dive into the gulf, to live between the hard facts of life and the comforts of my beliefs, refusing to again sacrifice one for the other at the expense of myself.

Wonderfully, at this same time, I am reconnecting to my childhood dreams in a very realistic, almost magical way. I do not want to say too much – for I desire to go about my plans quietly – but it is as if I am becoming who I was meant to be, who I dreamed of becoming. The priviledge of a lifetime, as Joseph Campbell said about being who you are.

The depth I have as a man and as a writer has been hard won, but it would be completely false for me to say my life hasn’t been guided by something greater than myself. And if I had let the world shape my values I simply wouldn’t be who I am, which is an individual – in the most rugged and impractical sense.

Have your life society. Get fucked. Swipe right all day. Keep up with the Joneses Kardashians.

I am going to keep on following my intuition, my heart, my G-d, my dreams, my passions, and my purpose.

And that is the difference between you and I.

Dear Society

Reached a truce at truth
Let go after thirty years of youth
“Innocence lost”
Feared the cost
Clung to notions,
In oceans of debauch

Feared for naught
Never taught
Bitter truths
As a youth,
Thought my family was the bad of the lot
Hah

Planes or Pills

We must be willing to get rid of the life we’ve planned, so as to have the life that is waiting for us. The old skin has to be shed before the new one can come.

– Joseph Campbell

I am thirty and I don’t believe in anything anymore. Only G-d and books. Love feels like a dream gone wrong; for life never made any sense before or after her.

Fate has her cruelties, just like nature; there are seasons that wash away dreams.

But what is underfoot, at bedrock, on the riverbank of your life – beneath the ceaseless torrent of change – what is the truth that does not yield?

For me, it’s my life as a writer.

The other kind of life is killing me. Trying to fit in. Trying to date. Trying to pretend my constitution agrees with this American life.

So I think about planes, and journeys: places altogether unlike this capitalist empire. I am coming to see that I need to shape my world as I see it fit to live in; for this is no life for me. No life at all.

Best case scenario USA: I become famous with my books, live the Hollywood dream, and am loved by a bunch of people who wouldn’t otherwise even look me in the eye.

There is a reason a certain kind of writer has historically left this country; too many heartaches and bad breaks and the psychic baggage reaches a tipping point; his values pull him over, beckoning him toward distant borders.

So, after I finish my story, perhaps I will buy a boat. Sail a southeasterly course from Marina Del Rey. Or, maybe just a ticket to Mexico. I don’t know. But I’m dying to go.

Planes or Pills

Give me planes or give me pills,
I can buy it
Hundred. dollar. bills
Money mania
Consumption kills –
Camille

Life will not last
Yet strength of will can keep a soul intact
For naught is immortal but love,
Heroism and the heart above

Saving Daisy,
He became a martyr in the final act
But he was lost all along
Trying to love someone long gone

An American horror story

Hearts of men – heroes – dying for coquettes
Gamines, drinking honey without ever breaking a sweat
The fuel for bittersweet regrets
The selfish are not due a mortal debt

You see, she was my executioner

Her magic skin
Sweet was her love but fatal our sin
For little did I know,
Her kiss would take my bliss

I now retrace my Nihilism back to her lips

For my life’s never made any sense,
Before or since