Tuesday, November 21, 2017

When the Words Don't Come/On finding out you're Autistic

Sometimes when
I communicate
dialogue comes out
in streams,
2D and 3D
long and deep,
seemingly unending
in uncomprehendable

Like a dragon
that exhales
flames of words
to silhouettes with shields,
the languages I speak,
are broken-

I comes out in fragments
crack, banging on the edges
of artificially arranged teeth,
minus retainer, and
tumbles out into air

Throwing things into the void,
especially in ways that
others don't understand,
or try to, over explaining
when you find
the channels have
been blocked
your entire life,
only invites confusion.

I don't know how to be
human I only know how to act,
yet I continue to search for
my voice.


Wednesday, November 8, 2017

Epiphanies While Walking The Beach

In the days of innocence,
a newly reared cub picks up it's head
and stretches it's body towards the sun,
while I take a walk along the beach.

Trapezing along, I enjoy the feel of
infinitely numerous grains of sand,
one of Earth's natural exfoliants,
playfully partying about my toes.

Relaxed by the peaceful sounds
of mid summer concertos
emanating softly from the waves,
a sensuous breeze drops down to bid
hello, and I'm able to train my mind on
simpler things.

Like, say, the zombie apocalypse.
Probably one of the more exciting choices
to lock in for world's end,
but no one ever talks about the smell.

Skipping along, splashing in wonderfully
titillating tides, and cheerfully distributing
greetings to the local fauna, I recall a moment
when I was cooking and forced to face the
smell of raw meat for the first time.

As I pick up the stiff package, aged yellow styrofoam
accompanying wrinkled plastic sheets
dribbling droplets of perhaps once warm blood,
I proceed to mutilate the fillet, dicing the beef
into 2" cubes in my own style, and I presume
that this must be what death smells like.

It is a smell like no other: musty, dead,
sour and putrid, with residual hues resounding
of scraped mixed metallic iron and all
notes that smell wrong to the nostrils,
maybe even a bit sweet, and it clings
to my fingers as I hurry to shovel the meat
into it's container and run my hands under the tap.

Dejected I almost throw up
as I wrap the ingredient bowl in it's
sticky plastic, quickly placing it in the fridge
as I continue to prepare the Beouf Bourguignon.

Back at sea my mind wanders, this time
to a short story we read in class, called
"How to Tell a True War Story," where I
recall a scene where Lemon sees his pal
blown to bits by a booby trapped grenade, as
I fish out seashells from the water by the shore.

The scene was gory, with Lemon's friend's
guts splattered all over the brown bark of a tree
and not my favorite, but it was a beautiful one.
liver pieces and bone splayed against a canvas of
darks and light, patches of congealed blood,
maybe intestine, bones and skin, all of it
sparkled under the warm Viet sunlight.

I have found scallops.

Glistening shells of many colors and shapes
make their way into my collectors bag as I ponder
the story's significance. It was just a random thing
that happened one day to a group of friends.

I glance at my watch, half past six,
and I know that it's almost time to go,
putting deathly thoughts to rest as I concentrate
on braving the long commute home.

I wonder why I never thought about the steak
as a cow before, who once ran in bright green pastures
and fostered milk for it's young, innocent eyes
forever on it's loving parent as it was carted away,
before they were killed and slaughtered, parts
of their corpses packaged and sent to the grocery store
where they wait to be picked up as my food,
and I bow farewell to the orangey red sunset.

But not before seeing
the corpse of a bird
silent tribute to a tan colored sand,
outline of ruined ruffled black feathers
and light blue specks, in the center of which
appears to be an organ, half of a breast,
and sole heart lightly dusted and
garnished with festered feather flakes.

I took a picture as a memento.
I don't think I'll be having the Beouf Bourguignon today.


Sunday, November 5, 2017


I reopened a wound. The threads
appeared in midair and crisscrossed
all around my body. I was wearing a T
shirt and jeans, and they sliced half
moon crevices all over my skin. Shocked
and bloody, I gave in to gravity's pull and
slid to the ground like those characters
you see in soap operas. I didn't know
moments like this could exist in real life.
Half delirious from the pain and period
hormones, liquid stars began to fall.
Pandora's box had been opened, and
ashy half moons drifted silently through
the frigid air. After what seemed like
an eternity but was in reality only a few
minutes, the box shut with a slam. While
the stars continued their inward descent,
I picked myself up and thought about
my next task.


Thursday, November 2, 2017


"Love the life you have, not the one you expected to have."

Some of the most terrible things are
felt in between that pocket of time
between unconscious and awake.
The most vivid dreams you can
recall are also born during this period.
On the second or third snooze the
mind becomes entombed, forced
to jury the things that hurt it the most,
bringing the most pain and
hindering the progression of a life.
Without knowing it you start spiraling
downward, lying on a bed.
The boogeyman sympathizes
and slides his knobby fingers out
from under the frame as you are forced
to recall the worse things that have ever
happened to you in life so far, and
your essence becomes shrouded in lies
starting with why. Feel the presence of
your barely tangible life force once again
start to fade, and with it your sanity
as you are coerced into making a choice:
lie there and continue to foster the abuse,
allow it to take over until the effects of
a good night's sleep are scrambled and
fried, or get up right now and lie awake,
if only for a few moments, and
reset yourself.

Distractions are gifts. FIND ONE.
Writing poems, recording feelings,
is what you're experiencing truly real?
Are you going insane? News: It's just
one of the many things you've felt
while being alive.


Saturday, October 28, 2017

How to Travel

One of the worst things about travel
is having to wait
with your bags all packed up
at the airport with nowhere to go
standing in line waiting
only to have to wait some more
when you find that your flight
has been delayed.

An unavoidable "series
of unfortunate events"
once on the plane
past TSA
you meditate in a
crowded monotone cabin
trying to relax among
similarly positioned mammals
with the same soul draining instructions.

Doing nothing but "fancily waiting"
you brace yourselves,
eyes and ears plugged in
to mind numbing devices
that stream

2 novels, 4 Television shows
6 movies, a few musical
interludes, an audio book, podcasts,
forced conversation between species
and a medically induced coma

just when you think
you've reached your limit
you step out of the cockpit
onto firm ground, a cool breeze lifting
shoals of playful petals about your face

you turn to your friend,
tuck a loose strand behind your ear

and you know that it was worth it.


Wednesday, October 25, 2017


I want to ask people
the price they would charge 
for clothes.
Because right now I 
try to make full time, 
and it makes me sad.
One thing I learned
from working retail is that
the customer is not
always right. And when 
clothing is made cheap 
by large machines or 
tiny worn hands
people still bitch because 
they do not quite understand 
the importance of what
they've been given. The 
sheer amount of blood, 
sweat, and tears.


Saturday, October 21, 2017

HeARTbrEAK Packet

How do you forgive someone for things
you no longer remember them doing?

When I said goodbye
it hurt me that you faked it,
as if the fact that my existence
in your life would happen
to disappear
would even faze you


The Antagonist is that character
in a novel who is unwanted,
usually part of a set of three.
I never wanted to be that person

My heart broke when I met you,
because I knew that it would
never be worth it.

I'm not strong enough to be a creator
because I'm not strong enough to be alone

When it's night time and you have
nothing else to think about, why
is it that the mind automatically
circles around the things that
make you sad?

The longer you drive the more you
become immune to it's effects.
I'm used to the strain of travel now

When you truly care about someone 
it doesn't matter if you get your
heart broken or are let down
time and time again

you start to loose sight of what
really matters as the floorboards
of your world are flipped
up into space

whole black moving in patterns 
that defy gravity

One lonely night in August,
I am holding in my tears.