I bet Albert Einstein stayed in on New Year's Eve..Walt Whitman & all those poetic drunkards too. All the literary decadents who pay homage to prudent & dry substances.Like the definition of the soul, or some perplexing scientific theory that's so complex, that even the rudiments are too advanced for the public norm. The point is, here I am, (by choice) soaking up significant matters of men past/present. What will you do for New Year's?


"you were burning like a city of electric light."

squandering seasouls

Beautiful are the songs of the sea
many a minnow has said to me;
engulf, but do not overindulge
Even the lowest of creatures know me better than me.

last leaf of the year.

A fresh coat of e v e r y t h i n g . It's not just a "new" year; leaf, page, or mores. More so, I desire to βeautify the soul, with pace and perseverance to acquire the purest νου.


Sacred Moon (Look Down Fair Moon)

Look down fair moon, and bathe this scene;
Pour softly down night's nimbus floods, on faces ghastly, swollen, purple;
On the dead, on their backs, with their arms toss'd wide,
Pour down your unstinted nimbus; sacred moon.

-Walt Whitman


guess what? i'm falling upsidedown and over you. tumbling all over the place. i'm a bit distracted. sometimes i overreact. it's funny though. because what is life if you can't laugh it off, anyways? it's not right to live life like a fable-or a fake tale. to follow (and interpret) your dreams, it seems is the way to transform from allegory and story to real and raw. i ask myself (again and again), how are you real? i often blink twice, trying unravel you with my eyes.


M . ythical place .
A . byss .
P . lethora of passions .


mittens won't do justice.

aC, kW, rL.

the real trick to keeping cozy this winter is having warmhearted friends by your side.
add in some wine & spirits and it'll be spring in no time.


despiértese mundo

La vida es la pluralidad, la muerte es la uniformidad.
-Octavio Paz


sighing everyday

Because you lied. The sun vanishes & rises; to a prairie boy's honeysweet sighs. I wanted a life beyond some ill-fated plateau.


In your hands.


Evidently, the era we are infinitely entangled in is constantly increasing in absence, and absent-mindedness. We pursue misguided ventures, attempting to "complete" a life that is in fact not our own. Walking down a pre-paved passageway is moderate in comparison to determining ones own route. For it is absent of risk, passion, and most importantly, in the depth of the soul.

To avoid absolute desolation, or the tarnishing of the inner-self, one must fully submerge in something I'd like to deem as "selfless selfishness". To supplement this term further in detail, I must first dissect the meaning of each word.

1. [To be] Selfless: beyond generous, compassionate, without intentions of advancing oneself solely for personal profit.
2. [To be] Selfish: seeking to acquire something for personal satisfaction.

A contradiction of traditional meanings? Perhaps so. But in no way can it be selfish to desire something that is neither material, nor visible (unless you count keenness for the radiance or glow from within as a possession).

If throughout my odyssey all I only desire a complete soul, and in no way do I violate the "amour propre", as described by Rousseau, am I still being selfless?


dreams? what do they mean..

I've been having overly vivid, sharp dreams recently. Mixed with the reoccurring animal encounters; seeing foxes {multiple times}, and delusions of being a small bird. Curious to know, whether this is elegance or omens, I've investigated deeper into the "meanings" of these symbolic creatures.

To dream about a fox indicates intelligence and ingeniousness. You should pay more attention to your instincts and wisdom to deal with issues. You may need to hide your feelings to protect yourself. This dream may also represents a time of being cutoff or feeling lonely. This is an ideal period to think about your life, where you've been, and where you're going.

To dream of a chirping and/or flying bird symbolizes passion, pleasure, and steadiness. You have a positive attitude towards your situation. Emotionally, burdens will be removed and you will find peace and solace.

To Consider: My writing may often be confusing or strange in dialogue. Most of the entries are interpretations of dreams I've had, or sights/ visions I've seen. Either exact to point, or slightly exaggerated for effect. I consider this post to be somewhat of an insight/ horoscopical perspective on what is going on within my life; my mind.

"Of scenes of Nature, fields and mountains,
Of skies so beauteous after a storm, and at night the moon so
unearthly bright,
Shining sweetly, shining down, where we dig the trenches and
gather the heaps.
I dream, I dream, I dream."

-Walt Whitman


I met a fox the other day.

The most idyllic of days; spent sweeping my heart away . Lost like a fox's footprints in the snow trailing off to into the woods, dense and deep.

"Pardon?", I say.
I could have sworn I heard a voice. Perhaps it was the sound of a fallen branch, or maybe a sparrow in the distance.

"Sir, please move swiftly, I must be on my way." The fox mumbles, as he trots off.

On he goes, in sing-song:
"Brambles and brooks, lily of the valley, and owlish looks; don't cross my path. I'm not the sort you read of in old folklore books. There will be no feeding from your palm, I won't remain still; & I will, I repeat I will not promise to mercifully kill."

Despair of disparity?
Certainly, no. He is not my friend, nor is he my foe. The fox is a creature of habit, like me, like us all.


apoligies have never been less sentimental.

I think I'm sorry. But that doesn't mean anything at all.
And I'm sorry for that, too.
Apologies have never been less sentimental;
and that, I will thank you for.

all the months of the year.

stuck in a snowy city where the cold wind whisks in; freezes my lashes, then paints a blush to my cheeks. soft skin beneath layers aux laine; were bitten by dog's teeth. i awake to dreams of olde villas, powdered with sweet snow, and lulled back to sleep by echoes from the mountain-tops.


double identity

if i try and think about it from your perspective; all that i want to be, all that i am vanishes; becoming a void. for two wane-waxing moons, I've dreamt up such strange ways.
first i'm a bird.
then famous for doing something impulsively absurd.
then water pours through my ceiling, and walls.
cracking open the bedroom and flooding the halls.
i wake up, only to speculate on what drug i could be on.
is it the alignment in the stars?
or the tilt of the earth that's got me spinning around
wanting the answer to this that and more


new page.

With a tornado full of possibilities;
where's next?


In these dreams,
you were being wild.
Wilder than ever before.
I always say I should let you go
And all these old birds,
will not let me leave
They say;
Don't fly away little bird,
don't fly no further than the mango tree.
A spotty-pawed Calico looks at me,
She says: "You are to come back
to the nest, you've reached your wing's
Well I guess the life of that bird and
life with you are just aren't meant for me.


A friend of mine went to Iceland.
Wouldn't you like to get lost in a snow covered field with miniature ponies?

It's like a dream. The snow is like candyfloss, the ponies like unicorns, the air is probably filled with their tiny hot breaths, and I bet it tastes like bubble gum and cherry cola.


love is home.

Beneath the bosom of the sea,
Wandering in many a coral grove


Back in the swing of thing[s].

"The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom."
-William Blake

Today is filled with the abundance of life. The tiresome; must sip at a latte. The stressed and worried, must forget the troubles over a glass of wine, and a night out with two hens. Fabrics must be washed & worn. Pockets emptied, mind astray.

Currently, I'm:

A story of a man, life in the slow lane.
drinking: vanilla soy pumpkin latte.
reading: the great gatsby.
thinking: shamefully of how to avoid studying, for juuuuust a bit longer, please?


do you dare?

Ten thousand more times I’ll see you. From now until then. Regret is not a story I tell often. Inward and out I saw something in you like a cat on a fence against the cold moonlight. There in the night, I saw you. One thing I’ll never forget is the way you looked against the shed. Into the dark you lead me. And through the evening, I fell.

Got home.

Split went my mind. Wrecked to hell. Torn up sweetcandy magazines, ripped into miniature bits. Tossed out my curling rolls. Threw on some old shoes. Tied my hair back in attempts of looking pretty. Looked like shit, left anyways. Met you at the park again.

Frost stuck to the grass like summer’s dew. I dressed in layers to keep warm. I don't know why, because to touch, you're like lava. Oh, our bodies full of thumping hearts and arteries, full of blood and muscles, they didn’t need sweaters, nor mittens and scarves.

We could have loved each other like a sailor to a calm night. A silent, smooth, tidal-type, that only rocks the boat slightly.

Read you some poem I wrote at fifteen. Telling of some boy who crushed me, blah blah, laughed at my pages of tears. It makes my rib ache with hyperhysterical laughs, because I tried so hard to be somebody, yet didn’t have a fucking clue, I still don’t have a fucking clue.

Sitting on the old bench engraved “To a love once lost in ’92”, we shared a short kiss. I left you to lay in that frozen grass, hoping to god something would come running out of the night. A wild and crazy thing.

Instead, not much was said, for you seemed rather drained of thought. Careless could be the better term. Null et dull. So many boys like you came and went. You bored me and ignored me.

Who gives a fuck about you now, hey? Love’s a dirty thing, some wildchild full of twigs and bugs and leaves and moonlight shines on and on. And whatever you called “love” now is floating away into the stars, past all the comets, ready to implode. Our love was up there in the sky once, just fucking once. Now it’s over. It’s gone straight to some sort of celestial hell.


a trip to ole ontario.

of nordic past
of prairie truths
loving tales
of oldtimes
long, oh-so far gone

600 hundred mile away and i don't know who to call.

a few ciders in.

i'd empty all my pockets, drawers, and spill out my brains
to spend one more day on the open plains

with love/ homemade.

meadowdeer; that move so fast you won't see them.

I saw 3 foxes, plus a thousand mailboxes, emptied out my mind of citylike ways. i thought,who cares about time, days can go by, months could pass. my school books can read themselves. i'd rather watch the clouds float on. i'd rather bake a pumpkin pie. say.. i met an small farmcat who followed me around. she tried to hunt a bird, but she's too young and her mother never taught her how not to be heard. woke up real early, drove down some dirt roads. woke up early again, saw the stars fill the sky, two hours went by. drank coffee black. i sat here writing about my time in the country. cause all of my mind is stuck in the country. have you ever felt you were born in the wrong place? if there was a thousand places i could choose to die, i think it'd be somewhere in the middle of a field, in the middle of nowhere, under apatch of prairie grass, with maybe an old shoe. troubles become like bubbles from the mouth of a trout. forget about the city, forget about the people in the city i live in. send me back.


no denying the obessions.

something like a flicker of light
you got rogue eyes
there is no denying my obsessions.


go wayward and beyond; be fond.

try not to go skyhigh
swift moving shadows, slink through moonless nights
follow the pebble pathway
into a wild garden.

possibilities are ending;
the clock tick tick ticks
beyond the garden lies a pond
full of golden stones
there you will find the secret i hide;
in the dark moonless night.


text books.

well they may not be this dry, or dusty.
but they still make me sneeze.
& yawn.


freight train running through the middle of my head.

Vivien Leigh and Laurence Olivier in That Hamilton Woman. (1941)

the collection. 3o-something & growing/losing count.

the idyllic sweetness of being [boring]:

  • romancing with books of sorts (5 going at a time is the only acceptable way)
  • sleeping in, rarely past 9am.
  • owl organization
  • "there goes Riel, searching for the meaning of life.."-ZA.
  • inspirational films. of love. of loss. of influential woman; tamers of the wild, of beauties & their beasts.


A long, long time. Won't you come along?

In the land of Deja Vu, where everything gets to you.
All their stories make you weep
Treasures of the past, wished not keep.
The Oceanids scream "Come with me";
entrancing, passionately romancing
Locked in by the undertow;
only way out is to give them your soul.


you can try to hurt.

empty old radiant eyes.
left alone to dwell, swell, weep, then dry.
haunted hearts fading into dust, ash, then to must.
all that's left is no one to trust.
you can try to hurt me,
but it just won't penetrate.
atlas had the weight of the world,
and there is no way to pretend
that malice such as yours, even bothers me
slight; with the weight of this continent
backs will break, so will collarbones


Charybdis of the Sea

and she fell apart; sailor versus
Charybdis of the sea
never meant to be floating along the water
ever so eloquently she would whisper things to me:
"die amongst one thousand and one men tonight, die for me!"
until the efforts of mighty hierarchies
flooded through the sinking galley
never to "float, sink, or die" she swore
paddling her oar.
"I may not be human, divine, or dead.
But as long as I'm living,
I focus to keep far apart from each, as the Sailors of Greece to Charybdis of the Sea".