20 April 2014

I wish I had a post card of palm trees.

18 April 2014


Nostalgia and longing are one thing.

The knowledge of forever is another.

16 April 2014

corpse flower

There is a complete and total freedom obtained through the act of letting go of the love of your life. In doing so, one rids themselves of any end goal, because you've already obtained and surrendered it. So nothing means anything after that. You can go through your life doing whatever you want, without fear of consequence because you've already chosen the worst possible experience. It's freeing to accept the knowledge that you've already done to yourself far worse than anything else could ever be. It's like being dead already. I go through my days now and I simply do not care. I'm unafraid and unconcerned and sometimes I welcome the very worst. I have made a ghost of myself by making a ghost of her. Tears have never come as freely or as often.

25 March 2014


I told him of my gold mine in Eldorado, of my vineyards in the south of France, of my merchant ships moored at Cadiz; I told him of my seductions of lazy-legged Jewesses in Tel Aviv, of incredibly aseptic blondes in Copenhagen, of golden, burnished mulattoes at Port Said.


"Intercourse," said an old-timer, breathing heavy. He sat up on the rail. It was a word of high danger to his old mind. He said it with a long disgust, glad, I guess, he was not involved. 

15 March 2014


Your red hair still
in my sheets 
wovenin my clothes
among the threads of
stubble I manage.
I discover it knotted,
wound up with lint and refuse
on shirts and coat sleeves,
on the seats and floors
of a car you’ve never ridden in.
Where can I find privacy from you,
if not a living room sofa
listening to every door’s constant slamming,
glimpses of you
increasingly seldom
to the point of you as fiction,
conspiracy theory.
Skeptics doubt the red threads I display for them,
pinched between
thumb and forefinger.  

24 February 2014


A loneliness that does not cease, without end or limit.