Necessary Luxury

Ah, to have control over
My debts.
To have tethered
What I owe
To the wall
And say,
“I know!
I will pay you back when I
Get the money.”

I was late
Before this date
And I have to say
That it ate through me
The anxiety was
Not the true me.
It hurt gruesomely.

Now, at least,
I feast on the basic
Like lunch meat,
And cheese.

This morning,
I woke up an hour later.
I’ll shower later.
I want this morning to write.

I’m truly living in luxury.

Paying With Fire

I’ve been huddled around the paycheck here in the city as I might crowd the flames of a campfire in the wilderness.

In the hunting grounds, my debit card is sheathed in a light-tan leather scabbard. Game is abundant here, but ah so are the hunters. We are a solitary hunter, like the big cats of the jungle, but we do not tend to fight over personal space. We are just awkward about it.

The kill is made, the meal is paid, and I walk away to a greater day. How it feels to kneel on the chest of my enemies and howl to the moon in me. I have meat, I have meat, I have meat, I have meat.

I, man, have meat.

I return to the campfire, huddle around the thrift-store-quality porcelain plate, and I devour. Oh, how most of my life is spent devouring. Oh, how the rest of the time is spent in between.

Is this what it takes to be a thinking thing? To eat and not be eaten. To need?

I need, mostly, for I have found myself void of wanting. I crave, mostly, but still I do not want. I smoke, I drink coffee, I eat carbs. I crave all these things. But I do not even know what I want, when asked.

It’s Christmas time and I am called down from the mountain in which I have become recluse. I am expected to throw away the coals and fire of my paycheck in order to face the bitter winds of winter with my family. Oh, how I wish to be in the warmth of their embrace, but the fire will be cold once I come back.

No, I need to stay here in order to keep the fire going, for I know that I will inevitably always need to return. To the fire and to isolation.

So, here I am, banking the fire at nights, and keeping the fire lit with the tedium of labor by day. I do this for what? The needs and cravings that bring me back to here? The howling to the moon in me? The victory of meat?

Or to keep from the cold?

I’ll be alone for Christmas. I’ll be with the fire, tending to the debit card that I keep carefully sheathed away. I may howl to the moon. I may eat meat. But I will feel only the warmth from the fire that I keep.

Lucid Living

I am dreaming, perhaps. Schrödinger’s cat keeps darting around the peripheral of my vision, per se. I am tripping balls, this living and experiencing. I am psychotic and completely sane.


So, I can have the world at my finger tips. I am not claiming to be God, but I am of All so inseparably that All is within me. That All can be mentally flexed, somehow. It is a simple question of what is conscious and what is subconscious.


The breath is the apex, the very precipice of the conscious fulcrum. The balancing point, where the scales are equal and level, with consciousness on one end, subconsciousness on the other. Lucidity, in fact, is the tipping of the scale’s weights. Consciousness surpasses subconsciousness.

I believe this is done in times of déjà vu. Only, it is done unconsciously. Ironic? Or just coincidental?


Coincidences, I have begun to speculate, are another conscious conspiracy. It is the subconscious working and dripping its repercussions into the conscious field called awareness.


So, I can have the world at my finger tips. With this power called coincidences, I have found the mind’s tendons with which to flex the universe. I am the puppet master, but I am also the puppet on the string, or part of it. I can dance, but I am in complete subconscious control over the movements as well.


Freedom of Will is a higher question than “am I in control of my self?”


It is a question of “is the weather gloomy because I’m blue, or am I blue because the weather is gloomy?”

I’ll Have Damned This Poem

Tonight, I

Feel like the guitarist

Whose finger slips from

The string in the midst of his



Sweet should it be

To sing and to believe

That I’m alive,

But alas, it isn’t,



I feel too large

For my room so I lay

In the larger room of the



Playing guitar

Softly as if to keep

Some pocket of silence

In the corners of the walls



Is it a matter of

Gaining self-worth?

Is such a thing

Worth gaining?


Is it entirely mad

That I feel both selfish

And vacant,



Yet too crowded,



But so full my stomach



I can’t sing

As I am a bird

With clipped wings.


I can’t seem to

Get any satisfaction

From reading or losing myself

In this poetry.


The sky is still cold,

My roommate still lingers,

And I still have not a friend who

I can say I love.


Of course, there are


But it is me I do not love,

Myself I feel alone with,

Only me who has to


With this poetry,


For who else is to read

Of it?


I wouldn’t damn a soul

To this poetry.