Stomach Ache

It was hard to tell you I wasn’t feeling good. It’s hard to not feel good.

And now, I can think of it vaguely, but I cannot feel it.

It’s dipping my toes into the whirlpool. Feeling the purple waters of existence splash against my legs. Listing the ways in which I could stop the feeling. Comparing it to other things.

“If I were awake I could go for a run,” followed by a sharp pain in the stomach. “Nope.” I begin to massage my abdomen. Slowly. 10 minutes later I try to sleep again, and fail.

Why now? With you being so tender, holding me and calling me woman (which touches the meta-poet and earthling so sweetly), what do I want? Right now to imagine myself comfortable is to be naked on the cold tiles of my bathroom floor.

Bumping around in the taxi, trying not to think. Arriving at home, then crawling on the floor next to the bathtub. The knot gently untangles. Thinking becomes less painful and I’m led to the following:

The importance of a job is as important as lovesupport. Projectwork, not necessarily money (but yes, money) is the other side of lifeforce. The masculine energy that keeps our relationships and lives meaningful. We can die of softness, I was dying.

Value, art. It’s the other half of existence. To live is to pull, and too, push.

Shelf Esteem

I’m sorry I couldn’t answer the phone. I was having a crisis of shelf.

This is the side of me I try to keep hidden. But it makes itself known when the stars align, if you will. I don’t know about astrology, but my roommate told me Mercury is in retrograde.

Part of me knows that Mercury goes around the sun like every other planet, and that this retrograde is just an ancient misinterpretation. But that rational cool-minded part of me isn’t the one ripping shelves off my walls.

I’m drinking green tea, lukewarm on it’s second round of water. Listening to aggressive electronic music and plugging in the electric tools. I can hammer on as loud as I want before 11PM.

The only person who would complain lives above me. The hoarder and thief whose domestic disputes are too loud for my sheltered cubby. This little box that keeps me safe, the one whose shelves are being torn from its walls. Whose deep intestines rumble no earlier than 3AM with throbbing reggae beats from downstairs. Whose walls are too thin to bear shelves and too soft to rest a bureau.

I’m sad. I don’t like to see the wall bare next to my bed. This could be a reminder of my own impermanence or maybe an expression of feeling trapped. Maybe not by my home, my sweet, breathing abode, but by the possessions within. Or the social forces that possess me.

I always saw the state of a room as a reflection of the state of the mind of its host. But right now I see some obvious messes that don’t feel worth cleaning until I know exactly how it runs as a whole. Well… maybe that’s what’s happening inside me.

But there is some truth to getting rid of a small problem by really stirring the pot, or knocking down a few shelves. And unless I can comprehend everything I own, I am possessed by the chaos of folding the same few shirts into the same drawer.

And maybe to most people, that’s not chaos. Just life.


I sit down with a cup of corporate tea, remembering Mr. Monatgue from high school.

“Don’t buy it if you can’t invest in it,” he said, motioning at the coffee cup on my desk. I smiled at this comment, tickled by the special treatment. He spoke to me as if I were a peer, and because he taught calculus it somehow meant even more. Royalty of thought. Math. Or pre-philosophy, as I like to think of it now. A booster course between shock and pain. My aptitude.

I open up my laptop for writing, to Chopin. The opposite of yesterday.

You said to trust your subconscious, the imagery and metaphors that come through. This notion was an effective sforzando to my rolling shore. It washed up memories of long lost metaphors. Piles of seaweed and mismatched symbols make for an ugly beach.

I remember being thirteen, when I wrote through my subconscious.

Back when I shyly crawled into the hollow of my brother’s ex-guitar. Opening myself in the shell of it’s resonance, untangling my heartstrings, I would be learning that music was not a weapon. Almost.

I had not yet reached the safety of honest love when my dad’s aching heart sought the spark of my rebellion.

It was a school night when he asked me to play him a song. I clicked my lamp but it wouldn’t light. Fishing the cord from behind the nightstand, my hands told me it had been cut. I sense my way through a dark room. I’m scratched with broken strings burst out in all directions. Ripped from the body, wires reaching for me, coiled steel all frayed. I pick it up gently, empathy, feeling my body crunch.

“A dissection of a loop into the limpness of strands,” I hear you read to me. “A dissection of a loop into the limpness of strands,” again for me. “A dissection of a loop into the limpness of strands.” Your words tap gently, oscillate, reverberate.

I remember being thirteen, and the voice of my subconscious. And for the longest time I could only write poetry about petals falling off flowers. Now I fixate on the blossoms of rhetoric, or the physics of blossoms. Analysis just shy of creation.

At the piano, I want to play with you. But my melodic interference is just that, to your ears, tuned to Chopin, and the placement of the measure on the page. Until I play about you, on my own thread. We later sit on the roof and you strum my guitar. I tug at the neck but you pull back. I let go. And when it is in my arms again, I hear something tangle and crunch inside me.

I wonder if you feel the same when you read your poetry. Until we stand. You perform. My questions dissolve into the magnificence of witnessing you play with what is so clearly your purpose. I see the parallel.

But that’s not what matters now.

Kind Words vs. Nerds

You receive instruction to “be yourself.”

Confusion ensues as “yourself” is what you’ve always been. Even as you quote Nietzsche (or quote The Simpsons quoting Nietzsche) and style your hair like Diana Ross, somehow within the conception of follower you are not being “yourself.” You are a far-reaching sampler of both wisdom and cliché, a miniature moral blueprint of your guardians with notes in the margins, and a survivor who seeks social comfort through the intellectual achievements of humanity (and especially through voluminous hair). Now “be yourself” despite the “yourself” you think you’ve always been.

You are forced to consider the following:

Maybe you’ve not been yourself.

Maybe “yourself” is not enough.


I relax as the world draws me
It’s great to absorb but the slightest bit is still too much
One facet with two eyes can endlessly reflect
Endlessly endlessly
But the point is lost and now I’m in my head

And every ounce of engagement just hurls me further away
Because I take too much when I try to engage
I see that I fail to engage

And if what I crave is propulsion I have to wonder
Should I go less deep or can I push back harder?
Are both sides of this binary powered by the same source?
What runs me?

I know as I stand my energy is just a reflection of the outside.
My thoughts are tributes and my excitement is a sliver

And from this excitement comes a desire to stop
Succeed my hands to express the brilliance not of ME
But the decadence of every and any thing

Maybe you don’t follow
But I never really learned to lead
‘Cause all I make is just the residue

of what

I entertain at best but often feel unnecessary
The thought of being necessary!
To even believe in necessary

(Which requires context more specific than:
“everything in the universe, ever”
And specifics have never been my strength
Because somehow

Everything is a metaphor)

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Venn Diagram

There are some things I have to say to identify myself. Expectations and observations that inform individuals with similar wavelengths that, “Yes. We are on the same wavelength.”

I am presently more interested in self-preservation and imagination fails to anticipate where pride stops and fear of judgement begins. This premise has kept me afloat but now my urge to dive is relentless. Unfortunately it is still no match for the buoy of not knowing how long I can hold my breath, and fears of inadequacy bob to the surface.

I have nothing more to prove (intellectually) to my speculative cohorts until they find more appropriate answers than “Good question.” I hold my contemplation next to my hedonism, and the latter always seems to triumph in the court of my ultimate rationale. I am unfazed by my own philosophical hypocrisy because I don’t believe that one can be the same person in two distinct instances. The same leniency is granted to my peers but I have no commitment to passivity; I still present argumentative contradictions as one method of interaction knowing that neither of us holds an ounce of truth, but together we can witness it weave strands between our assertions. These strands will not connect us, but our ability to see them will.

No Smoking

Keep looking up. You can trust someone who says you’re a big boy. Everything is complicated, and that’s a grown-up thing to say. Find something you weren’t allowed to have for reasons you didn’t understand. Enjoy this. Be miserable about it. Don’t explain yourself into contradiction, but get close. You’re a grown-up now, and you have the right to be complicated. A grown-up who reaches out for the ambiguity of childhood always returns clutching a pacifier.


I dreamed I left for Aachen. I was in the bus with a suitcase and no means of contact to anyone I knew. I was intimidated by not understanding anyone around me.

I think I’m awake. My possessions have started packing themselves. I’m surprised to find out how few of the loose ends were mine. I thought it would be a painstaking ordeal, untangling myself from such a network.

Is life, simply put, the ability to act against advice?

Protected: China Doll

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