Sometimes looking back

you get livid with yourself

for being angry/pathetic/vulnerable when you shouldn’t have been

the permanence of the past rapping at the chamber door to your soul

find solace in the fact that while the past is permanent

the past has passed



Same sad news,
dark sky, cold winds,

Fat cats checking investments,
ignoring corruption at home in favor of the like abroad.

Despots disparaging/dictating to other despots.

And what of my generation?

We’ve revived taking to the streets,
grilling/screaming at our legislators,

Demanding change,
asserting alt identities,

Casting aside stigmas,
living how we want with whom we love,

loving ourselves openly.

Not lost nor lazy, but
creative, innovative,
brutally honest.

You can’t fuck us, without paying first.


I don’t believe in Gods or Fate,

(The only devils I’ve known are men of flesh and blood)

But I do believe in love.

And Hell?

Hell is







I don’t believe in Gods or Fate,

But your love is


(Barely) Swimming

Truth spilling out like salt

Fire in my guts

But stiff legs keep me from flight

Holding on to the happy remnants of the past and trying to trash the rest

Punch a clock, pay the bills


Return to stress

Gnawing at thoughts, eating skin

Deep breathing, deep sea of relaxation

Oils, candles, scents, and bath creams

All amounts to the same thing


When Melancholy Calls

Unrest written on the walls,

a restless sadness sewn into your marrow.

From composed to utterly anxious in a manner of seconds,

wading through nothing but pure darkness.

Madness, they used to call this.

Carrying past lives around like the photo of a dear departed lover.

The burdens of your ancestors, kings, queens, slaves, grandparents and parents – all the same,

rushing through you, blurring your senses,

buried in your very essence.

Search deep down and you can find it,

drag it out from the great abyss.

Know Me

I’ll drink your tears
dressed in leather, wrapped in latex

I’ll eat your fears
honey-glazed, garnished with blood and thyme

Build us shelter for the winter
burn the whole damn village down

Regarder-moi, je vais tout te devenir
et rien

 (Photo of a self-portrait by Robert Mapplethorpe; Courtesy of LACMA)

Cocktail Party

We’re all the same,
deep down,
driven by fears or desires,
shrouded in different colored wrapping paper, called skin.
We’re all the same,
searching, scratching, yearning for
adoration, success, acceptance
breathing in conversations like second-hand smoke,
faces, names, all jumbled up.
We’re all the same,
repeating past mistakes,
breaking promises,
you can fight it but
We’re all the same,
trying, needing, hoping to
unknown ends,
finding temporary ways to
soothe sadness, heal hurt,
extinguish anger.
We’re all the same,
deep down,
dark insides tucked into
shiny sweaters,
downing wine and craft beers.
We’re all the same,
judge less, love more