Fool The World.

Who do you think you are?
…to tell me anything of my success (or lack thereof) in climbing out of my own very personal Hell to face the world on my own two feet, without the shelter of duplicity; when that girl you used to think you knew has been dead and buried for 27 cold months, without your having the slightest clue of that fact…like you’ve been here…ever…like you can even begin to count my sorrows on your ten arthritic fingers…like you can even begin to fathom the hem of my garment…like you can ever say that you “know” me or anything that I am or am not. Who do think you are to pass your own pompously final judgment on what kind of thing I can or cannot be? Who the fuck are you to render me unworthy of walking in your park? Who do you think you are to attempt to make me feel “loved” and “appreciated” by sending me boxes full of my sledgehammered heart’s dusty remains…with a grenade pin at the very bottom. Who do you think you are to poke my unhealed wounds? Do you think you are something special now, after all is finally said, and, I unquestionably know how little I ever meant to both air holes on either side of your neck, despite the sweet nothings blowing out of each one? Who do you think you are to tell me that I’ve won…won at a game that I never wanted to play…that I’ve won, when it feels like sheer nothingness…
Your meager attempts at life have always earned you too much of a harvest with little effort put forth…so self-absorbed and incompetent at being the things you try so hard to portray…
But that’s all you are…is a portrayal on screen.
You’re image is grainy and you’re faded beyond recognition, you always were.

Really, who do you think you are?…to burrow yourself into my soils and explode like nuclear fission beneath the roots of my stunted trees? You hold no sway over me, you can’t hold the tethers that string to my blackened, squelching heart…you can’t hold the tethers that string to that cavernous pit in your own chest where a heart should be…who do you think you are, anyway…to surprise me with such a heinous and poisonous truth behind your essence…to release the toxic particulate of your explosive insecurities into my atmosphere…raining down your ice cold rivulets of self-loathing from the skies above my fugue. Who you are to the rest of world, the world you try so tirelessly to fool, the one all around you – you are what you are…but just who do you think that broken thing is? You ooze brokenness…despite your self exonerating conceit…
I know who you think you are…and let me tell you that it actually coincides with who I once thought you were, the similarities are uncanny…but the lights go out over the memory of all that. The lights go out behind the curtains of your fucking languish…and evermore, phantoms of your gains and losses will trickle through your simple brain and leave a stain across your nose. You clean up nicely though, and need not worry about the soul you’ve sold to fool the world.


There’s no pattern to the trend
That teeter totters without end
No method to a madness that mends,
The sadness between every exhalation,
I pull, you push.
You’re slow, I rush.
There’s nothing happy in the end
To go and slap me in my face again
No loss of sleep, no skipping heartbeat to maintain,
No giggling, no tickling the inkling in my brain,
I give, you take.
You bend, I break.


Disenchanted by the headlong rush,

that got the attention of both of us,

beginnings are things that eventually must,

become the contrasted endings that suck,

no apologies to be accepted or said,

no singularities that turned it all bad,

it isn’t just me and my tragic instability,

it’s also due to you and your insecurity,

the instant I recognized the feeling I had,

a tapping began in the back of my head,

a sensation I couldn’t quite put into words,

a commanding thing in demand to be heard,

this feeling grew increasingly familiar to me,

like something hazed over by the glaze of a dream,

that makes itself seen at the edges of sleep,

just before I awaken to the sound of my own screams,

singlehanded have I wrought havoc in reply,

understand it, that I brought my own demise,

its turbulence and ordinance have me seeing things,

possessiveness and unwillingness to say what you mean.



I’m sorry; I…
don’t want to try,
any harder –
at the maintenance of lies;
I don’t see how –
it helps anyone now,
to sweep the truth aside;
I’m finished with…
the likes of this,
any further –
buries me in a ditch;
I don’t quite grasp,
like everyone else has,
the futility defined by it;
I’ve been overthrown…
horse is down, map is gone,
any senses left –
scream at me to move on;
I don’t care to –
further indulge you –
with secrets that I’ve come to know;
You’ll see too…
how things misconstrue,
with any deviation –
from the actual truth;
it’s never been a game –
the patterned guilt and blame –
until there’s no one left to play with you.

Reality Check, One-Two.

Once the long game is over,
and regardless of which color has won –
there are not separate storage boxes,
in which the different pieces belong –
No matter how valiant or measly,
a King gets thrown into the box once again,
right alongside of a Pawn –
His Majesty learns the hard way:
at the end of each and every day –
that he is NOTHING once the Chessboard is gone;

It matters little what the King is actually made of,
his knighted horses follow his every command –
not a single Bishop dragging its marbled feet,
loyal to a language that none can truly understand –
the Queen, after so long spent being so well-protected,
receives a sting from reality’s whip-lashed backhand –
beyond the squares of the checkered black, red and white,
lies no purpose for a polished marble Rook or a granite horseman.



Its dark…
The night is cold,
The fear is old;
I grow tired…
Of waiting,
and reading through
All these notes left scattered
Written by you.

Where do you go?
What do you do?
When the real-time footage
Plays the loop through…
“Dinner is served”…
The bloodthirsty nerve!

It’s late…
The night is silent,
A painful quiet;
I grow sleepy…
And hungry,
I want to bite into
Every inch of the vinyl
Played on your queue.

What do you know?
What can you prove?
When the real-time footage
Of your dashboard plays through…
Red-lettered digital words…
Describe the song being heard.

Its puzzling…
The night is long,
Without your songs;
I grow weary…
Of listening,
For the sound of your steps
Coming to me.

What do you want?
Why can’t I move?
When the real-time footage
Of the road ahead of you…
Cuts abruptly off before…
The camera falls on you.

Circus Games

just passing through

“What forces are at play here that delivered such power, light and love to this old Centurion on the edge of darkness?”…

The words rolled around in the most embittered recesses of her well-numbed mind forcing a tickle to arise in her lethargic spirit. A broken, but shining smile appeared on her down-turned face as the phrase repeated itself like a broken record again and again in the background, but the instant she felt herself smiling like that, the shine disappeared again from her swollen face.

The forces had most certainly been that – at play. No more, no less, she recalled sadly – just a cruel game in Life’s circus.

A sharp, long sigh spewed from her dry, cracking lips like a whistle while she begrudgingly revered in the memory of the void of meaningfulness, promised lies and so much self-absorption; she was spent. As the humming sound of machinery tugged heavily at the sleepiest places in her tired spirit like an anchor on its way to the floor of the Mariani, her brain wove a tapestry of those things that disturbed her most – constructed in vivid color true enough to bring tears to her eyes –  embedded with tastes, smells and sounds of foggy scenarios that remained opaqued by a blurry, superficial residue.

“Just because you got the monkey off your back, doesn’t mean the Circus has left town.”

-George Carlin