Love Letter 2

Dear DM,

Today I will dispense with metaphors and pretty words. Just for now. Just because I am feeling frustrated and confused and in desperate need of something tangible. I am frustrated with myself. I am feeling stuck and I don’t know how to unstick myself. It’s hard letting go of the past. I want to become someone new. Not myself. Not, not myself. I want to grow beyond the limitations of my ego but I just can’t work out how to do it. 

I have had some time to think since this morning. I am feeling better now. When we remain true to ourselves the right people and the right opportunities appear at the right time. I keep trying to become someone for the sake of “doing something” for the sake of “being something” for the sake of “fitting neatly into misshapen spaces”. Just when I think I am finally “being” I catch myself “doing” the wrong things sometimes for the right reasons, sometimes for the wrong reasons, sometimes for no reason at all. Why must I overcomplicate everything? I don’t know what the hell I am doing if I am being honest (and having read this I don’t know what I am talking about either). It occurs to me that one can’t let go of the past from a place of resentment/anger. Those emotions are close-fisted/incarcerating. If I want to let go of the past I have to open my hands/unlock the doors/open the windows, I speak now of gratitude and forgiveness and I can’t help but feel that they are the key to unlocking all the doors within me. Maybe loneliness doesn’t come from having too little of someone or something, maybe loneliness comes from having too much/from not making time/room for oneself/from filling up one’s space and time with somethings and someones. Maybe loneliness is a call of celebration, a celebration of the freedom of self, of genuine expression. As queer and lovely as that sounds I still want to hold you. I want to give you my undivided attention, to lie awake for hours experiencing you on every level.

Once again I find my letters full of abstractions. The whole point of this letter was to admit my ignorance. I don’t know everything dear one. I know only that I love you and that underneath my knowing and my ignorance I always have within me a profound sense of you.

With everything that I am your DF


Wordle #264


If I had one thing to say to you
it would be forgive, forgive, forgive
only then can we begin to understand each other.

The red thread has been shorn in two.
Destiny is not a tapestry but a threat,
her immutable filaments serve only to veil.

My eyes-two bees pollinating-
grow heavy with what they have seen
ignorance is not always so innocent.

I have chosen occlusion,
the constellations will go on sparkling
whether or not I observe them.

One molecule at a time we fashion
our defenses, precise as a cuttlefish,
until there is nothing left to anticipate.

I have forgotten the lightness of movement.
The dirt flakes from beneath my fingernails;
the worms have grown fat while I slumber.

Don’t be so quick to kill me off,
to condemn, we are the same
whatever the difference in our affectations.

I have had some very heavy, stressful, and disturbing dreams lately. I am also sick possibly from the stress of those dreams.

Mag 296

1 Joachim Bueckelaer 1560

Joachim Buecklaer, 1560

I went to the market today,

Gathering a feast for the week’s apologies.

I am not wrong, I have always been civil,

Poised even when tempered under your misogynistic boot.

I held my breath waiting for you to come home.

I held my breath until the brume of my misplaced tears

Summoned the four walls around me like a bodice.

You were drunk and curd-faced on arrival.

I forgave you the lack of conversation.

I forgave your piss-soaked trousers and slovenly dress.

I forgave your irascible humor and ingratitude.

I even forgave myself the arsenic employed

to rid me of your pestilence.

Wordle #141


I love the way

You synchronize

With my eventualities.

My unholy integrals beckon

Your sick-sweet tincture,

Let others think what they will

I’ve enough pills to swallow.

So seldom do we

Live our lessons.

If it were enough

To struggle, my ideals

Might yet embark.

I’d rather draw an X

Than contemplate

Another map.

The tip of my tongue

Will suffice in conversation.

If I speak softly enough

Perchance you will hear

An answer not blasted by ego.

The tint of your smile

Stains my cheek

And what more can

Any man ask.

Artificial Thunder

There is nothing in the stars

That does not pass

From your exhalation into

My penitent lungs.

Unrecognized but for ink

I grow into the sheath

Of my incautious fears.

A weapon immobilized,

In a fount of slaughter.

Pain comes at the expense

Of life and in the exaltation.

These residuals, these eidolons

Cast into the borders

I haunt among them,

Manacles writhing like

Artificial thunder.

I roll myself out

My delirium, my flesh

Assuming your willing indenture.

If only I could forgive myself

As you have done.

Whatever the conditionals

My heart still gallops

Through the fire

Of our suspended rage.

Reconciliations that

May not hold but into which

We invest everything.

Forgive Me

Have I ever composed an apology

That did not gesture for sympathy?

I have always sought to avoid blame

And those violations which can not be

Rectified will likely destroy me.

What is an apology without amends?

And can one ever be sufficiently

Reformed to qualify for forgiveness?

I am selfish and generous

But the former, though essential

To survival, is impermissible.

How do I become a god?

That I should not want,

That I should be limitless,

Without exception and always ready.

How can I commit to promises

That do not permit my imperfections?

I understand the need

To confess plainly

But when I am the mistake

How do I avoid repetition?

I am, at least in my own mind,

More criminal than crime.

An accusation comes seemingly

At the expense of my life.

I am a coward.

I can think of no explanation for love

Only that I will never admire the portrait.

How can I see beyond my own self-loathing?

How much guilt can I ingest before

Living becomes itself taboo?

I want others to think well of me,

I am scared to acknowledge

My faults without clarification,

Clarifications inevitably beget justifications,

If I do not justify does it imply

That I do not care?

Do my justifications seek

Eradication of self?

I do not know.

I feel compelled to recommend myself

Because I cannot shake the notion

That I must earn love anymore

Than I can shake the notion

That I am undeserving of its reception.

I cannot bring myself to give you

A reason to leave.

I do not want you to leave

But experience has proven

That I am intolerable.

How can I apologize for your feelings

When they bear no semblance to my intentions

And come from insecurities furnished before

I was even born? I was not born a devil

Even if I fell directly into enemy hands.

You did not love me from the first

And perhaps not for a long time after.

There is no law against hate

Only what follows so often in its course.

I have wanted for love ever since

But those initial absences cannot be filled.

Though I have forgiven you,

I still find you prickly and take offense

Where none may have been intended.

How often you cite my short-comings

And some days I find it hard to initiate

Knowing that my failings have already arrived.

Wordle #59

Week 59

I fold the mortar

Into every crevice

Variables flush and immobile

Tear ducts threaded and sewn

Choking on existentials,

On salubrious dialogues

That never escape

The crux of my ribs.

My lips whisper

As a seashell

Of gathering seas

And dreams that are

More instinct than possibility,

More extremity than proximity.

Remember how we used to pass

Oranges out to strangers

From the back of an incapacitated truck?

Youth rarely accommodates taste

And you scarcely resemble

The subject of my infatuation.

I pinch my eyes closed

Phosphenes swimming

Beside your singed portraits.

A tantalizing oblivion,

A garden glimpsed

On the ceiling

And I am only happy when supine,

The weight of monarchs

Caramalizing in my unmade bed.

The fragrance of your culpability.

A fistful of splinters

In the place of my heart

And still no sign of the ground.

I want to remove your skin,

The mute invitation

Of a bedraggled dance.

My toes melt into the hemline

Were the water to take me now

It wouldn’t meet with resistance.

I plug the holes in my chest

With tufts of cotton

And inflamed tobacco leaves.

You are every addiction ever tapped

But amnesia would deprive me

Of the forgiveness that suffering seeks.


Heeding Haiku With HA: Jack Kerouac


Cast off stilettos,

A star-crossed stumble

Through an open flame


Sunlight streams

Through the cracks

Of my slackening fist


A mirror, in revulsion, cracks

To whom should I address

My questions now?


I wanted to do more and may later but I am struggling to find my words at the moment. I am inspired to write and stuck at the same time, just too much competition in my head!



Wordle #31 “Cenotaph”

Week 31

When will these invisible armies recede?

These murders, these lichen-gripped cenotaphs

My neighbors, my brothers will you dismiss me?

Feast on my currency, on the enamel that holds my heart

That candied apple, will you tear away

The sweetened plastic sheath and disregard

The grainy flesh underneath?

Do your eyes follow the slope of my breasts?

The slope of my breath as it escalates in plain sight?

Will you step on my bones,

Rip the nuance from my smile and if the mold

Cannot be made to shelter will you break me?


What a terrible crunch the soul makes.

I do not need to be a miracle rising again

A new woman for every trend and occasion.

I do not need your idols, your face, your laws

Your prejudice I know who I am

So why must you root me out and say

That I am not fine, not sane, not prosperous

When it’s your mirror that breaks.

Why must I apologize when I have lived gently

Despite the cradle of your violence

Despite your persistence, always turning,

To forgive is a miracle, to forgive is a hex.

Wordle #17 “Grudge”


I carry your grudge
As a locket
Attaching within
Linen portraits
Memories of armistice
When we lay aside
Our rivalries,
Our jealousies
Hours when we
Were more than
A weathered civility

But the gestures
Remain hollow
For you are not here
To observe
Their diligence
And I cannot acquit
Myself even in homage

A queer malady
This sentimentality
Sprouts up silver
Like numinous grains
That do not nourish
Just as ornaments
Do not truly
Define their seasons

I wish to recover
My composure
My knees which idle
As a vulture
Over dead things
But I want even more
Your mercy

This silence cannot
Be shattered
With a scream,
With fists,
Even a kiss
Could not steal
You from the grave