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Songs dedicated to hell
and your names keeps popping up
A strange feeling of being air kissed
and space-bear-hugged, damped in satisfaction
of having let you go.
It’s like craving rejection, and absently feeling disturbed. Deceiving it all.

The reason why I’m not friends with you is because I want to be good to you this time. So I’m questioning my motives under a harsh bright light before I get too close to you and then realize that our friendship was a disposable tool for my own gain or merely an illusion to cradle my restless mind.

Sometimes I wish I could
slap the happiness
off these people’s
fucking faces

Dark green, and wild,
Earth turns
as slowly as a father
fighting to keep beauty alive
while Family spins out of control
perpetually
keeping rhythm with a desperate world
and love’s broken pieces.
But the dirt screams purple
protest to
a pair of bare feet
running full-force Away
into such light shed by only the
darkest dreams.

And oh, what dreams.

Each sleeping moment spins hours of
delicately
delightful
deliverance
taking the shape of succulent pain.
Even waking doesn’t dissipate the
too-heavy thoughts which fill
suffocating emptiness
with nauseating Idea.
So daylight brings
crimson screams that threaten
strength of angels,
but none yet break
this not-quite woman’s
ironically smirking mouth.

Ironic, like a mother
throwing sharpened words with a master’s precision
in vivid opposition to her
most intrinsic desires.
But Love overpowers even the loudest
hypocrisy,
stopping Earth mid-rotation
to graffiti blue paint onto
one family’s wild hearts
(ten)
and a not-quite woman’s uncovered toes
(ten).

Can you see those cracking feet?
They chase time,
running toward the opposite direction—
losing it.
That’s what happens when a person lives
one-day-at-a-time
to avoid yesterday
to escape tomorrow.

But Earth
continues to turn,
dark green, and wild,
despite
(or maybe because of)
the violence that lingers in
the should-be innocent heart
trapped in a silhouetted form
sprinting toward midnight
freedom.

Is there any thing to write about except depression and love? The amount of things I have left to say about anarchism and the left proves that there is lots I could come up with. In the recent six months or so the initiative to criticize current politics and so on has been drying up. Right when I start feeling that I will start blending in with my background, and let my mind become as colorless and un-interesting as the rest of the world around me, then the people that at I’ve entered in communion with, at some summer evening in a protest or action camp, show up. They always show up singularly, representing and idea, like a barely visible spark. But they light me up, and at least for a brief moment, I’m a wild fire.
Even thought that means I’m ashes constantly, in terms of participation in the discourse of resistance, I think I am ok with that process as long as I can continue to come in to contact with those who ignite my thoughts with their words of understanding and patience and immense love for all others.

There’s something positively
seductive
about the smell of a very old
book

An idea suspends in heavy air,
pulled by imaginary wires
that would glint silver
if they could be touched by sunlight.
It pulsates slightly,
as a child lifts her slim fingers—
though she barely touches its surface,
it consumes cautious warmth,
and grows.

Grows.

Grows.

Into a slender thought
bleeding ‘neath her fingernails;
distilled by sheets of pale skin,
coloring her murky bloodstream.
When the image finally reaches
her trusting brain,
it pierces tasty innocence,
leaving tiny hollows where its fish lips had been.
Then,
slowly,
softly,
simply,
it feeds
until newfound fortitude morphs into fins,
subtle and scintillating—
shifting into a dream
that dives directly into the vivid purple beams
at the core
of a young mind.