Pseudocode stage

The same machinations
but you hacked yourself not to comply
Still childishly craving distance through sexualization
you rewired your adult conscience to override

But all this new code doesnt change the power of one good look or a shaking hand or a wry smile

A strong hug makes the system default


Zeros and ones baby
That’s all we flesh machines have got



Fury became me
Calmed by screams in my pillow
Filtering rage tears 

Foreign language

i can’t read about your sex
or your longing
or your cravings
i had my own
and i still have them
but mine are dark hauntings
they are decrepit phantoms

your lusts are healthy and mild
like pretty stories
like tv scripts with satisfying endings
mine are houses on fire
heat that destroys
and leaves me brittle and defenseless

when i try for what you paint
i chase sickness
i fall over suffering
because there is no end
just relentless pursuit
i could lose it all in my times of needing

i dont just want a hot moment in a story
and then easily smirk and smile about it
i want it over and over and over
and die on the floor
regretful, insatiable and addicted
to get up and fall down repeatedly, bloody, wounded and ravaged
that’s not exciting, that’s death-defying and tragically excessive

i cant read your x-rated
peruse your sexy proses
your graphic lover moments
i lived them all already
i have no words left
i used them all up

you get to enjoy your pictures
cherish the fleeting wantoness
and go back to the popcorn
and short stories
and the beautiful novels you’re creating for humanity
where sex and desire are only chapters
not the plotline

yes it’s a pity
but a taste of the flesh for some
is a sentence to torture
it’s why i hide in soft corners now
unable to blithely explore mine and others’ sexual complexity

i cant overstate
what it means to be hyper
when a lingering gaze
becomes an invitation
explosive attachment and union
depressive obsession
with only one of two people
ever knowing the story was written

i can’t read your sexy joyous
the letting it all hang out
the letting go
because i didn’t know what it meant to be free
i thought my captivity was freedom

i’m still discerning between the dream and the real feeling
i’m still figuring out that i can’t hold all the toys and keep blindly playing
i’m turning inwards to understand what still needs mending
i’m still learning about the worst things that can happen if i don’t say no

so please forgive my lack of enthusiasm
my failure to appreciate
your passionate encounters
but i’m trying to bring life back to a soul that was nearly killed by too much “passionate” encountering

your stepfather


Uncomfortable silence.
Somebody turn the radio on at least
The quiet hurts
It’s not a reflective, meditative quiet
It’s the quiet of rage and fear and ignorance and denial
Of codependence
Poisoning by secondhand smoke
The residual smell
Acrid and nauseating
Noxious and toxic
Like the waiting room of an auto body shop
But it’s the family car
Brings me back
My teen years
Rides to family dinners
Yeah huh
Put that in quotes
Because it was silent
No one talks
There is no bond
No kindness
No humor
No fun
Now it’s the smell of age
Impending Death
Putrid vapor discharge from regular medications and Marlboros
Just as bad as the black coffee cups
And cigarette-infused car upholstery
Drive for miles
Say nothing
No wonder my mother rambles
No wonder she can’t be quiet
She can’t wait to get out of the car either
Talks about traffic lights like they’re jailers
This is maddening
Talking to yourself is better
Than having to endure
The selfishly shy and socially deficient
The consciously unnecessary stoicism
The anti-person
The unspeaking
Walking dead


This is my kabubble
My small hovel in the suburbs
where I drown out the sound of the screaming from within
with some kindness I’ve been learning

I’m still needy for action
but I already fucked the men sent to guard me
oh wait no
they were working for the enemy

I’m not in combat
“harms way” is where I was
this is no man’s land now
Or so I decided about six months ago

And this is seven years
after i said i was sick and so tired
of being lied to
of being a liar

Tonight someone said he was so used to lying
he didn’t know anyone who sucked at it
until he stopped and thought about how easy it is
the comfort of the untruth
and it was sickening to him
that it felt normal

the new normal

What IS that?

It changes every week
from big screen to smaller or bigger
How often we transmit our success and failure
How we dress
How we GMO or don’t

How do we follow something that is moving at the speed of light?

I don’t know if we can catch up.

America is a bubble
Because fantasy and dreaming means reality is somewhere else
We fancy ourselves a great shining land of dream manufacturing
But really it’s all levers and pulleys, maintained by drones and the angry disorganized
and later unknowingly disenfranchised

Red pill, blue pill
doesn’t matter anymore

We are way down in this hole
We are so far down

People with perfectly manicured lives
attempting to re-interpret words that were created before there was even electricity
Confidence so high in words thousands of years older, written by scribes based on stories told by men centuries earlier
Not a woman’s voice in the crowd
But we made you
We nursed you
We clothed you and kept you

I don’t want to talk about world affairs
I’m overexposed to infotainment

Here in my bubble
Feeling like something has to be said for my sanity
but not knowing why I type another word

should I try different punctuation?
stop using capital letters in protest?
I is so much cooler when it’s i

or is it

as my son would say

I feel something in my bones that wants to tell everybody something
Say something with a meaning
It’s quiet and bleak in my kitchen
Cinnamon bread I botched earlier today(too much butter)
Still makes it smell so homey

Too late to go sit in a bar with a rocks glass half-full of whiskey
And pretend I’m a writer type with a passion for random opinions
How precious

Sitting here in my bleak, cinnamony kitchen instead


Thinking about a dream of kissing
And the usual torment that comes on waking up in an empty bed
The further ache caused by knowing
I was being kissed in my dreams by a jackass in sheeps clothing again

But it’s the bubble I’m in right now
I made it mine
I’m here until I’m ready to shut it down
part of some journey inside
It will always be part of me

I’d rather it be this part of the desert
Than the flooded toxic swamps of the life I left
Any bubble is better than choking on your own bloated inertia
I can’t go back there

This is my normal for now

Cords and tech everywhere
Receipts, files, tissues and grocery bags on the table
purses on the floor
Cinnamon bread in the pan and in the sink
Vitamins and fiber and probiotics in the cabinet
TV and the tractor beam sofa
Laundry. Always the laundry
Windowless bathroom and shower with the door open please
Once a month bleach the grout
And open the windows for the cross breeze that sends the piano music
to the floor where it sits while my son hammers villains and foes online
Calling “mom…mom” a hundred times or more
The bedroom I call my sanctuary
More like an inner sanctum for the lack of sunlight
Good for vampires
And me
And it’s all mine
Plus the noise of the neighbors and the pipes
And the fire trucks and trains and garbage and snow removal men
For now

This bubble
is where I reshape my life