Wanderlust, oh sweet soul
wanting for mountains and rivers
wanting for castles and brick streets
lusting after strange beaches.

Wanderer, be patient with yourself
be peaceful in your travels
be well
be adventurous – the world awaits;
time stops for no one.

Wanderlust, oh sweet soul
love the waters that grant you passage
experience the earth as it comes
taste it, savor it, remember it always.
Wanderer, oh sweet soul
filled with a wanderlust.


Stairway of the Macabre

soul. speak.

Quick, let’s build a wall.
Make it a hundred feet high;
better yet, make it two.
Take away their shovels
and ladders and ropes
and while we’re at it,
take what’s left of their
dignity and humanity.
Maybe we can tax the
ever lovin’ shit out of them
while were at it.
Just savages, don’t you know
that’s what they are?
If you put a door,
you better bar it.
Don’t let them out.
Don’t let them in.
They might taint our
hypocrisy with truth.
Guard it with your life,
sacrifice yours so that
they can’t have a better one.
Cover your legalities with
words like boundaries,
so it’ll be easier to ignore
the screams when the cartel comes.
We took away their shovels,
but maybe they can pile the bodies
like a stairway of the macabre.
maybe if enough people die.

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July 19, 2015

Step, step away from the bus and
don’t ever look back. They aren’t
coming for you. Ever.
Even if they did, no one
would ever want someone
like you. No one wants you.
No one wants you.
No one wants you.
So you find yourself on
some God-forsaken beach with
a bottle of bloody-fucking vodka
and you wonder how the fuck
you got so messed up.
Then you drink and drink
until the haze of yesterday
wears away and then you stumble
back to your apartment
on Fifth Avenue and
pretend nothing ever happened.
Nothing ever happened.
Nothing ever happened.


crepe paper soul.

she stood under their brilliance

like a mottled earth stands under the stars.

their laughter came and visited; and then,

it left with the sound of a thousand sorrows.

she stood apart, but she could still see.

she stood apart, but she could still hear.

she stood apart, but she could still feel.


she stood under their brilliance

like a moth is forced to flame.

she wore the souls of the burdened

like a coat made of fire.

what she saw was not joy.

what she heard was not laughter.

what she felt was not not delight.


her gift was not so much a gift

as it was a curse of perception.

if there was a moment in which she

would have ripped at the fabric and

released herself; it was as though there

were ten thousand.

but she would not. she would not.