identity crisis

and there will be times where you will be scared and unexplainably cautious on your next decision. that next gesture, letter, sound, or neural firing will dictate how you will feel from this day forward.

i cannot go into detail on what time will tell. there is equal gravity in the things you do and do not do. what you don't realize is that you will never obtain that beacon you will spend your whole life trying to find. that safe, warm place that you will label as invaluable and keep close to your heart.

if there was one thing that i've learned indirectly; it's that being close-minded will bring your eventual downfall.

you will never find that you truly wanted.

we will take this to our graves.

taking control

sometimes the most difficult part of the day is extracting me from my room.

i open my eyes and cannot rely on my circadian rhythm nor the sun that leaks through the blinds to tell what time it is. i move my tongue in concentric circular motions, rubbing my hard palate and probing at the underlying scar tissue that was created a week before.

sometimes the most satisfying part of the day involves manipulating a necktie to perfection.

with a glance at the door, i locate in my periphery the components of today's attire. each segment suffocated in bags of plastic and neatly pressed to form the most pristine creases that run exactly parallel with my legs and perpendicular with my hips.

sometimes the most invigorating part of the day involves copious amounts of hydrogen peroxide.

then there's a ritualistic tedium of toothpaste, floss, mouthwash, facial wash and hydrogen peroxide. it leaves behind something so immaculate, so pure that my past actions are dissolved away. the real person that i am has been placed in an acid bath to reveal the robotics within.

sometimes the most erotic part of the day involves surgical precision.

i carefully slide the cocaine-white shirt between my thumb and forefinger, carefully feeling the intricate textile matrix as i fasten the buttons in the same fashion as a slowly moving elevator ascends hundreds of floors to reach the apex. a matte-black tie that is adorned with perfect mathematical-symmetry is partially hindered by a coat. i check the time and grab my suitcase that lies in the grey area and leave. for the record, the time of day is 6AM.

sometimes the most aggravating part of the day involves secrets.

all hallows' eve

we're all so transient, we're all so oblivious

to the sounds that spill serene

but i've been missing the point all this time

i've been losing out since we've been trading faces.

suddenly our hands are empty when we felt negated

the plasticians

i awoke to a sonic serenity that piqued my third eye. her diaphragm movement creates infinitesimal waves that radiate from her center. i can feel these ripples on my skin. i can hear the turbulence in her lungs and feel the displaced air when she exhales. with my ear placed flat against the surface, her cardiac metronome creates a pattern of regularity; which brings an indescribable organic feeling that surges through my veins.

her nervous system mirrors mine.

i still call this place home, but this is not where she belongs. i run my hand along the top of her head, following the tiny trench of scalp in which she parts her hair. i zigzag my fingers over her hair, my motor responses fluctuating from coarse and perpendicular to frictionless, smooth and parallel. i can't locate her hands, but her forearms are crossed across her chest, reminding me of an escape  artist bound in shackles and padlocks. i let out a sigh, but i can't discern if it is of relief or frustration.

she doesn't belong here, but she's settled in through the open gate.

halcyon (designer)

she works her way through the aisles framed with glass displays

pushing her way through the spirits

"the flood is coming in," she said through a slit on her face

and she's back here again, living like it was never gone.

we're starting from square one

packing bags, clothes shaped as textile geometry

when she's done, we'll be on our backs again.

right back at square one.

summer and it's full effects

pouring out from the sink, flares that burn our retinas

she isn't made of porcelain, but it reminds me of her skin

minding her own business, the wine after work regimen.

we're starting from square one

packing bags, clothes shaped as textile geometry

when she's done, we'll be on our backs again.

right back at square one.

i'm waiting for my personal square one.