An Afternoon Drive

As the car’s top peels back, her hair is immediately caught by the draft. 

"Please," she begs, hands clasped on her head, "close it. I just got my hair done."

Steadily accelerating as they merge with traffic, the engine croons; he smiles, and she simpers. 

"Come on," he insists, finding it increasingly hard to entirely pay attention to the road as opposed to her, "you feel that?" 

Catching wind of a few errant notes from the radio, he starts to bob emphatically; reaches towards the dashboard, and turns up the volume.

Fed up, she lets go of her hair and shakes her head in quiet resignation. A gesture not to be misinterpreted, for it was accompanied by a smirk and a deferent twist of the neck; an act not of malcontent but instead of gratitude. She decides to herself - “This is what I love about him.”

Miles of road; music blaring; and a milky-orange sky before them, she fixes her sunglasses atop the bridge of her nose; and releasing the tautness preserving the defiance in her lips, she admits, “Yeah, this is nice,” places her hand on his nearest thigh and throws her head back into the seat. 


He was a miserly young-man. Although barely of age, his disposition was akin to that of the old and infirm. 

The elapsing of time had been both kind and cruel to him; kind in its sharpening of his sensibilities, but cruel, for his diminished imprudence gave way to unfathomable skepticism. He grew to deem all things trifling; and oblivious to the changes going on within himself, soon declared his very existence as trivial and an exercise in futility. 

Of Pigs and Peacocks

She walked like a peacock. 

Chest up, and shoulders drawn back, she strode along with ease, each and every step free of humility.

A white shawl was draped loosely across her shoulders, the length of the fabric hanging lackadaisically from the shelf of her bust. 

I admired from afar her quiet confidence, the recklessness of her hips, and the forcible, yet purposeful, clacking of her heels. She demanded attention, that of unspoken admiration…though, there are those who cannot help themselves. 

Not far behind, accompanying the crackling of a sports-car’s tires over gravel, a shout materialized, oozing unabashed chauvinism: 

"Hey, baby!" 

The woman reached for her phone and attempted to bury her discomfort in the glare of its screen, as many often do when faced with uncomfortable situations in public. Nevertheless, the brazenness of a man is never to be underestimated, especially when said man is nursing an injured ego. 

He proceeded to tail her - from his convertible, no less - all the way down the street, ranting and raving. 


- 4

An empty house, and stomach; it’s on nights like these when your mind decides to turn on itself. It preys on every insecurity, every shred of dignity you have managed to scrape together thus far.

By some asshole pretending to be you, who you are, or rather, who you claim to be, is riddled to the bone with questions that would have been better posed as death threats. And unlike most vitriol that comes your way, you can’t sidestep, ignore, or hide from this - though you may try. 

It’s on nights like these when I wonder about people who shirk from harsh criticism - they obviously haven’t spent enough time with themselves.

- 3

There is an ideal version of myself.

A man who always acts justly, because he knows not another way. Uninhibitedly, he expresses himself — he is action incarnate. Unafraid to expand, unafraid to take risks, each second treated as his last. He is colorless and shapeless; perpetually molded by two forces: that which is beyond his influence, and his unbridled will. 

- 2

You need not see the stars to know wonder, or gaze upon the sea to know breadth.

You need not search the hearts of others for love—to know love, or their beds, to know rest.


The Allure of Words - 1

I am afraid of my words; what woe they might bring, what truth they’ll unearth. Their syllables - a trail to a place untouched, only seen in passing; barely glimpsed in privacy. 

Thus, a pen’s nib, and a page’s lines, become a torment greater than any I could ever devise. 

So I cradle my pen as I would a child, and pick at my nails as I bide my time.  The sheet before me, blank and pristine, intimidating, as most intimidating things. It is the great beyond, it is inevitability. Nevertheless, I am compelled to succumb, although I fear it. 



Fingers furled underneath the arch of her back; thumbs cradled in the ridges of her hips.

Bridge-like, her torso is suspended in the air as she balances atop the crest of her head. Her thighs are bandaged about the breadth of my abdomen.

Sanguine elbows, they dig into the wooden floor, reminiscent of support beams, they underpin the entirety of her frame. 

Mental Gymnastics: The Ideal of Permanence

Instinctively, we fight to preserve moments in time. It is an aspect of human nature that is all-too-common. This urge to capture fragments of our existence and preserve them. Maybe this impulse is an innate feature of humankind; one that has continually manifested itself since the days of antiquity. From the aciculate lines shaped by Da Vinci, to today’s high resolution photographs; possibly meager attempts to immortalize the ever-changing. A sign of our unwillingness to change.

For What It’s Worth

According to a few distinguished philosophers, I am nothing more than a continuation of memories interspersed with moments of nothingness. Very depressing, although remarkably true.

I am no more significant than a grain of sand or a particle of dust—this I accept. I play no more an important role than a leaf on a branch, or the synchronous revolutions of the sun, yet how pompous it seems to even liken my existence to that of a star, which I surely am not. 

A comfort to a fool, to give weight to something as insignificant as self. For at any time, when I find the need to dedicate moments to remembrance, all that I am, or ever was, appears to me in just that—moments. For I am only that: a moment. 

Foolish, to have life and to also think it is, or is not, worth living. To wake and find purpose, or not to find purpose. To wake and think myself larger than a star.

Comforts to a fool; to a fool I am a star, and have always been one for as far back as I remember.



"You bitch", black and blue,
thighs once pale as harvest moon.
Scum I am, to admire you.
For the beauty you are, sinful it seems,
to want to run my fingers along and between
your bodily seams.

lust after you just as I do. Yet you are here, at my leisure—
a puppet on a string; my porcelain play thing.
Fragile, breakable and thin.
Wrapped in tie-dye sheets,
sweat soaked—
that sweet pseudo mix, unique;
smells like piss.


The slut you are, my treat,
roped in linen sheets. Shameless,
or so I hope,
that your will breaks for me,
and all I’ll hear are soft whimpers of “fuck me”,
and errant pleas—as they grow silent,
one at a time,
one at a time.
And roll, yes, we roll,
legs spread wide, rise let rise that heaping tide.
Squeeze! Squeeze as I may.
My arms cannot steady your rhythmic sway.
The pillow cannot rid the air of what you say, but only distort…
like the silencer on a gun as it goes bang:

fug me arder,
and arder becomes carter,
and he becomes arthur, and soon you’ll
make me come,
to let me go.
Watch me go…
for these seeds I have sown.



She was under oath.


Then I guess that would be the first time 

somebody’s lied under oath.

Go Home Gray

The gray
Say the gray
No meeting of you and I
Of this game I grow tired
trying to make sense
Make sense of you in respect to

Two worlds apart it seems
It feels;
A great divide
gaping and wide
Between you, you, you
Not I.

A feeling so contrived
Far from benign.
It tears us to pieces
It brings me to tears
The gray
Say the gray
what brings you here now?
No place, no space
nowhere for you to stay


(via anymeria)

Let us not argue with them, but grant them that everything said about God is a fiction. According to their supposition, then, I have arrived at my present state by fate or chance or a continuous chain of events, or by some other means; yet since deception and error seem to be imperfections, the less powerful they make my original cause, the more likely it is that I am so imperfect to be deceived all the time.

New Foundations: Descartes