Is this some weird form of insecurity?

I think I may be bad at flirting
But not really bad but just because
I’m not flirting
Or I am but I’m not playing games
or something
I’m just talking and saying what I’m thinking
And what I’m thinking is that I see you
And in seeing you
I see something wonderful
And I say hey, this thing about you is really awesome
But I don’t follow up because I’m not flirting
Not to say not interested
Just not playing a game
I know that sounds like bullshit
Or like a game in and of itself
I’m just being sincere and people say kind or nice
And I am just like, ‘huh?’
Cause I’m just saying what I feel
Not trying for an outcome or to be seen
I’m a weirdo
I’m aware

Slips the day

Waking up regretting the decision
Mind churning for what it doesn’t have
Reliving past mistakes as a movie reel
Drawing out the time before getting out of bed
Cool air conditioned fan sped wind
Warm blankets
Dreading the day

Flipping up out of bed
Padding into the bathroom
Shower almost hot enough to burn
Water off reminded of the difference between winter and this artificial cool
The difference between dreading that forgot to turn off the fan and reveling in it

Sitting on bed
Combing out hair
Losing time to jotting down just a few words
Feel of cloth on skin
Smooth and welcoming
Dry and warm
Button up dress shirt
Scuffed shoes needing a shine
Heart heavy remembering waking up to a text from you
Nothing today, yesterday
Diet coke in a metal tumbler
An extra for later

Brief war with self
Music, too heavy with emotion, no time now to rage, scream or cry
Audiobook, lose self in another’s fantasy problems
Truck idling rough
Engine problem? Simple or expensive
Or just old

Driving in
Core self falling away
Sharper edges press forward
Existential pain hides beyond alleyways of doors
Emerge darker
Without care
Come against me now
Know painful failure

People I love being ground away
Office drama
Bad people rising to the level of their incompetence
Bad leaders
All a slow burn


Dreading going home
Going home means empty
Means that this powerful version of self slips
Piece by piece
But my cat is waiting
At least she loves me

Annual reexamination ’18

I’ve been reexamining things. What I want and what I want to do. And my thinking is this, maybe I won’t be a commercial success. Hell, how many poets are commercial successes? And that’s what I am. A poet. Sure, I write short stories and erotica but that’s not what I come back to. It’s poetry. It’s always poetry.

So what do I want?
I want two primary things for my life. I want to be with someone who falls as deeply in love with me as I fall for them. And I want to be with them. I’m pretty good at finding the former, it’s the ‘be with them part’ that gives me trouble.

And my complicated love life notwithstanding, I want to write. I want to write poetry that has people saying, “yeah, me too.” That causes goosebumps when you hear me speak it. I want a poem I write to be some piece that lives with someone. That is what I want. Money and fame are not worth what we ascribe. I want to be impactful to the lives of the people who read my work. Maybe not all, probably even not most, but to the few that read and this poem is what they needed. This resonates.

I suppose I want to create beauty. And connect with people who connect to my work.

What is creation?

Emotions don’t create change. They merely express it. They inform it. But they are the result of creation not creation itself.

Creation is the act of seeing the shape of things as they are. As they might be. Of describing what is seen. We feel an emotion but to write it, paint it, draw it, sing it, dance it, we must first observe it. We must embrace it and trace its lines like a lover. We must touch it and make it seen. Then through our own inadequate sight we describe it, transform it, connect it. And in the end, it is no longer emotion, but the thing of creation. And it moves out from us, inciting emotions in those who choose to perceive it.

Freedom found

I worry. I worry that whatever I am. This creature, this person I have chosen to be. This person I have actively defined by my choices.
I worry that when you finally see me, all that structure and facade will fall away and you’ll be left with what I am.

And all of that is a lie. It’s a lie that my fear tells my heart because it needs to maintain its control. But it is a lie.

I have constructed myself but it was like chipping away at a hunk of marble. I didn’t build a structure on top of a structure. There is no facade. There is just this false feeling of being an imposter. Because if I’m all that I am and then I fail it will be because I was not enough. Or because what I am is not what is desired. And that is my fear. Not that something I’ve done or not done will be the cause of rejection but that despite it all. Despite who I am, I am somehow not what is wanted.

That’s the fear. It’s not that I am an imposter and will be found out. It’s that I’m NOT and despite it all will still be found wanting. And I can’t do anything about that. I can be me. I can show up and put all the tools and processes and everything I am and if it’s still not enough, then we’re just not meant to be. Not meant to click and choose each other.

And seeing that now, I wonder at what I was afraid of? Afraid that I’d be rejected by someone who won’t, who can’t see me? Can’t value me?

There might be pain because I will have invested emotionally but if you can’t love who I am, why should I allow that to hurt me. It should instead free me. And it does


I feel my stagnation, a hell of creation, founded on my dreams that crumbled away while seeking damnation

I’m a false poet, or do I mean prophet, lost on the way to all that was get,

I founded my life on violence and sex then foundered on the shoals of a love that Pierced me, broke me apart and reworked me, she traveled through space and time and unearthed me

I was buried in the dirt of my own ambitions, trapped by admonitions, saying make money is the way to be happy even if it comes at the expense of your soul, these fleeting lives all have a price and a cost and I have paid for it all in bloody coins

But pulled from the ground I was raw and without skin, so used to trapping my heart in stone that to feel her hands was blood on the blade pressed against lips, and last dribble of false desire fell away and it was this pain, this agony that I needed and yearned for but trapped in the earth there was no way to feel the wind and the rain

She comes a storm and I break beneath her until her name whispers through my heart and I see the truth behind the veil and I know, and I reach that tremulous control and hold her storm in cupped hands, so easy to break her now, but instead I breathe power into her swirling winds and a maelstrom breaks to freedom and waits like outstretched hands to be joined and like that

The storm ends

And I am left broken in mud, covered in blood and bone come pattered back to too still earth, no longer stood astride like giants, just broken and soft and dreaming, dowsing, seeking, looking for a hand to see and know and wake

A city of half closed doors turned inside out

I have made a garden of bones, of sinew
Flowers of synapse sparking lightning to the chill night air
Pathways of blood mark the dark ways wending to the heart
Sits beating a slow rhythm of hope
Topiarys of muscle expand and contract
Exposed nerves shiver in the wind
Thoughts and dreams play out across a storm strewn sky
Broken arrow teardrops fall piercing this exposure

What lays within

Some like to think that there is a demon inside. A darkness that desires wicked things. That wants things. Craves things.
But, oh, I know the truth. It is nothing so easy. So…simple. No demon would want the things I desire sometimes. That outer edge of behavior beyond the outposts of commonly accepted and slipping into the beautiful nightmares of the darkest recesses of my too human, too jaded mind. The things I keep hidden. The scenes that I play out only in the playground of my mind. Because to realize them would take a partner who wanted that darkness. Who was unafraid of both the desires and the dark romance of my heart. Of rose pedals and paddles. Hoods and control. My heart and mind is a labyrinth of doors. What is seen is only what I have judged is acceptable and I will live with that half loaf or crumbs. Rather than break and take all without permission. I know the depths of the monster within. But I have no illusions that it is a demon. No. It is merely my self. Without leash. Without doors. Without mercy. Only tempered by control. And love.

Some information

The simple fact is that I can be a hard man to get to know. The superficial things all speak to a deeper need that I am unlikely to share willingly, without resentment, early on. And I lead with my heart. If I can see you, be around you regularly, then I can temper the desires, the passions, that burn through me.

Fires you are unlikely to note at first. My face is schooled. My expressions minute. I smile but only when ecstatic. Otherwise, note the crinkly around my eyes. That’s me smiling. If I’m nervous, I can seem cold and distant, especially if I don’t know what you want.

If you want to take things physical, tell me. My consent meter is dialed to 11. If there is not clear, often verbal, consent I will not act. I will not touch you without your consent. If you say no, or stop. I will immediately back off.

I tell few stories about the past. I can talk for days about fictional characters or what and who I’m writing, but a funny anecdote is unlikely. Tell me your stories, I’ll listen. I want to hear them all. I’ll try to share relevant details of my own. I have a sense of humor but it’s dark and I’m more given to the one liner or double entendre than a joke.

I love hard. And will never let you go in my heart. But I will let you go, if that is your desire. I want the people I love to be happy. If that’s not with me, I’ll be sad, but I prefer you to be happy. Just talk to me. Allow me the opportunity to sway you, or the dignity to let you go.

I am a BDSM switch, predominantly master. That is a part of who I am. It is not a game I play. If you are a submissive, I will treasure you. I rule through pleasure, care and love. We all have our own speeds, teach me yours. I’m flexible.

I’ve done things, been places, met people. I’ve been around the block. I will surprise you, if you allow that you don’t know how I will react. Very often, it’s not how you would expect.

Rambling thoughts

For all that I have spent time in this world, I feel like I haven’t started yet. Like the only barometer for success I will acknowledge is a life shared. Something I haven’t had in years. I have friends, but I feel like I dip in and out of their lives unable to fully realize that connection that says to talk to them each day even though I desire to. It feels awkward to always be the one to make contact. Like I’m imposing on their lives. With a romantic interest, I feel like I am invited to make contact though I think I take that too far, maybe too fast. I share every little thought even if it’s weird. Is a bunch of little texts throughout the day day weird or one long one that rambles, is that more weird? Am I too concerned that I come off as weird? Anyone that reads my work, has to know I’m weird, right? That I see most things differently. In some ways, I wish that people I am interested in would read my work. On the other hand, I have written extensively about several breakups and their emotional impact and about an unrequited love situation that ended as was inevitable. So they can see just how idiotically romantic/foolish I can be. Or better to know that going in? I may seem a pushover in alot of things, when I’m in a relationship. A soft touch. I’m a big believer in velvet strength. Soft when possible, gentle unless necessary. Then unwavering steel. But if there is no need, you may never see the steel and assume it’s not there. I fight for those I love but I can only do so when I know that there is something to fight. Or to fight for. I want to be chosen I suppose. It’s the only way passion lasts in a relationship. To choose the person you are with, each day. Choose and choose again. Live each day with them in your heart, knowing you are in theirs. That they are choosing you. Maybe that’s too much pressure? To know that I am actively choosing? I don’t know. Or maybe, to their mind, I say I love you too soon? I only say it when I feel it to be true. Not everyone I date hears it, it just happens that those that do tend to hear it ‘early’ in the relationship. I listen to what my heart is telling me. I discern fact from the vapor of nuance. Sometimes, I’m wrong. But I’d rather be wrong about something potentially wonderful and take the chance than be wrong because I failed to take the chance. Though I am, admittedly, a bit wary now. It’s just hard to lose something beautiful for something wonderful, then lose it all. Doesn’t stop me from wanting the everything, despite the pain or the possibility of pain. Though I am a admitted masochist, so perhaps it’s not so unlikely. I could ramble like this forever, one thought bleeding into the next, but I have to go to work.