I'm hopefully lost.

I can only classify this moment as one of supreme uncertainty. Brushing the ground of many who have left their indelible signatures scribbled on stones and steel and paper reprinted for the thousandth time, I feel a kinship of hope of possibility, one that will either inter my corporeal existence or lift it to immortality. With such contrast I have been losing my mind every morning, regaining it around mid-afternoon, and manically scrambling in the evenings to fight the urge of seductive nightcaps to normalize it all. I don’t believe there is a cure for this self-prescribed madness, less it be an indentured state to corporate state to a lifeless state. But then is this life? Is this constant loss with reality, then back, then astral excursions to summersaults of carelessness what life needs to be?

To my sponsors - my sincerest apologies that I keep on promising the world with these dreams and have nothing to show for it. You hold me warmly, wipe my tears, and encourage me to show up the next day, and the next. Maybe you see something that I do not, or maybe we see the same horizon. I will paint it for you; I promise again.


It aches.
It’s a dull ache as it takes
the form of nothing in particular
nudging itself forth through
the spaces between a ribcage
that’s holding in a monster
or a cure
but the key is dreamless sobriety
and in the palm is
dreamwater that soothes burns
but will never mobilize fingers to find the lock
that rests on the crumbling bastions
of determined confusion.
It aches and it calls again.
It aches and points to the universe of itself.
It aches
and asks
then calls
then basks
in its own incomprehensible genius,
lascivious and proud and forgetful
that it’s a part of a whole.

This silent rage can blind a man.
This silent rage can build a Rome.
This silent rage knows all but doesn’t understand its form.
It aches until
— yours dearly