For the most part, I try to keep my poetry and my professional work on Twitch separate, unless I do, in fact, read my poetry on a live stream. But today marks a huge step forward for me, and I felt the need to share it somewhere, even if I was the only one who would really see it here.

Today I launched my professional website at stereoparade.com, as well as my Patreon and a small online shop (separate from my Etsy). Holy crap, that’s a lot of links! And it was a lot of work that I’ve done in the past week to make that all culminate in today. And hey, maybe no one will ever go to those pages, but I still stuck my neck out to make it possible and I’m actually a little bit proud of that.

I want this year to be full of creative pursuits, whether that’s in content creation on Twitch, or making these two new podcasts, or working hard on my Patreon rewards, and that definitely includes working hard here to continue writing poetry for myself and the occasional person who comes to visit.

If you’ve seen this page, thank you for reading. Thanks for letting me have a little bit of pride in my work today.

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two degrees.
it is dropping
and snow slopes up the banks,
shore up to the house,
a blanket, a frozen wave.
it is ignorant to consider
your own wisdom but wise
to admit the unknown dark,
the naught of the future –
and yet i want to know, i beg
to hear the forecast from your lips,
raining, with a chance of hailing
a cab to the nearest airport.
sunny, no clouds in the sky,
and a high of whatever the fuck
it is that i feel when i
hear you talk at night
in the hushed tones, the sweet glance,
the way you look away.

i know what time it is there:
how cold is it?
can i curl beneath another blanket?
i know things i never thought
would matter about a place i never
wanted to be and there it is,
in the middle state between
a dream and a goal and i want
that reassurance, that conversion
of the ephemeral to the concrete.
i ache down to my feet,
my boots crusted with snow.
when will they slick themselves with rain?
and when they do, can they
return to snow again?

kick the dirt

16.12.2018

asphalt hums on oil leaks
streets quiet – showing streaks
vomit stains on dirty sheets
hit the wind on water flowing
where we’re going there’s no knowing
blowing air in my direction
dirty words and tooth-rot glaring
you swear and question ticket fares –
i hate you but can’t stop staring.

saddle up behind the rider
cold shoulder boulder driver
storms rattle dust up in my
mind – underneath is only rust
as metal scrapes the earthborn sky
briar patch of thorns and whistles
sing it to me through snake hisses
kiss me silent spit sour dry –
submission tastes a lot like this.

the form

3.12.2018

i have never known myself.
a stranger lying in wait within
my scrambling flesh. when
it sings, sinks in the singe of
match burns and quiet lies,
calling out – like to like,
sinew and muscle vibrato,
the skeleton hums in climaxing
stasis, the never-ever-getter
getting something in the end,
the finality of crying
in a quiet bed.

it is not enough.
it will never be right or
good or whole enough for you,
take and take and do not
give a shit or second
thought – you seam up the hole
but leave the inside bleeding.

shadow of the counter-part;
everything in this mouth tastes
like cardboard, bile, some latex
foreign object – square
hole, round peg. and in
the middle of this tandem mess…
the form, the screaming words
caught in shirtsleeves, bedspreads.

straining ears catch no pentameter.
words wrap like thistles round
my thighs, mouth soundless and
torn as a stuffed doll. trip and stop.

i have
no idea what i’m doing anymore.

lunacy

2.12.2018

the moon hangs, lazy,
softly, over the snow caps
and your breath makes mist.

cool vapor changes
into harsher words; frostbite
full of vitriol.

rip the rib cage, force
it open like an icebox-
icicles of red.

ruby-coated grief,
veiled soft by lips
that smile trenchant.

what hangs between us?
hands that never meet, gestures
devoid of substance.

courage slips through like
water in a broken cup;
drip, drop-drip-drop. stop.

you do not see me.
what am i to your cold eyes?

it drives me crazy.

crash

26.04.2018

what’s a bloodstream but a map;
roads connecting a person
to themselves, suburbs of arteries
forever circling back to the
cardiac metropolis.

there are routes that dead-end,
streets that fork and split
when you stick the knife in –
flooding engines with puddles
of standing red.

it is not so easy to maneuver here.
the brake line is cut, the wipers
stutter and smear dirt, all of
this shithole heap running on fumes
and false hope.

there is nothing for it but to crash.
bits of burning wreckage amassing
along the street signs, cacophony
of flaming garbage and metal whining.
do not enter.

there have been times…times i wished
it would work, click back into a picture
of health. spark plugs snapping at
attention when the key turns over.
the happy growl.

lately i wish it would go off
to rust in a silent wood, battery dead.
shuddering throttle as it comes to
rest between two shady trees.
a peaceful vanishing.

i don’t know. i don’t care.
it can be the cessation or the impact,
the streets caving in on themselves.
heart, chart, compass ruined;

the geography’s fucked.

untitled, 1

16.11.2017

i might be an open book. that’s a fair assessment. but not everyone reads between those lines, the handwriting petering out with an ever-dying pen. not everyone sees the notes at the bottom of the page, the cross-outs and the things that never made it to the finished copy. some people don’t even read at all.

“it’s hard.” i want to shout that sometimes at people that i feel a spark just speaking to, who ad nauseaum let chances for something amazing fly by. do you not see? “it’s hard, it’s hard, it’s hard!” – to make that genuine connection, not everyone is an exception but then, there shouldn’t be a rule. and i empathize, i understand, the want for love but the wariness of the affection – is it true? will it last? will it simply suffocate with memories of past sparks, flames that engulf, or will it withstand and make a showering firework, or will it go off in your hands? what can you do in this age when it’s easy to forget someone behind a veil? a pixel screen is the fail-safe for these things, you can break it open but no one is there. touch the static electricity. the optics are clear, and if not you can shade to simplicity so easily. we are harmless but still you fail to see the contrivances you’ve put in the middle, red tape of shades darker than i can passably cut underneath.

what do you have to lose in sharing yourself fully? i am not some monster lurking beneath your bed. i have not come with promises to fill a head with nonsense, but there’s something. does that mean nothing, now? i need a place to put my hands. the keyboard does the trick but it sticks like my voice when you won’t even talk, even try for a thing that stands a tiny chance of hurting. pain, huh, new concept, will it ruin you? straining to hear the voice of another above the work work work you have to do. i know, we’re all busy, but do you want to look back in a year and have regrets? i do not want to play a game. i prefer good conversation, and i will always know where i stand. i am still an open book, and you may have a story to tell. pick up the pen and write in me, and you may be surprised that you find it is as familiar and welcome as the one inside your head. i am the journal you never knew you could keep and you can consider yourself well read.

tiny cuts

10.11.2017

snowdrops dancing on wind
whipped like custard, floating
down ever-spiraling to
frozen earth.
don’t worry, it melts
in your palms, your hair,
the tip of your nose as you
wait for the bus.
warm hands in pockets. headphones
tangled up and ugly,
cold-tinted windows and fog breath.

pages of dense subtext loose
long breaths of satisfaction
under the microscope. a papercut
quietly draws a single drop
of smearing red.
sublimation has come.
under examination, these tiny
cuts show themselves;
a million scars to match your own.
fissures already existing
to join skin in strange patterns
unique, but unwholesomely so.

knowledge and love, and mistakes.
new slices into the husk of me
sent off to meathouses
you no longer eat at.
i see you – changing like a tide
when there’s no moon to turn it.
now a thing you swore you hate.

i am to become a body grotesque.
trying to remain subsurface
proves only the incompetence
of the procedure
and the subject;
change was imminent and immense.
it did not matter in the slightest.

in this small space i find myself
glad you are well, glad for anything
that no longer involves me
feeling, no vitriol spat
against my tearing flesh.
if any fault was yours i’ve
long ago forgot it.

a snap is probably the way to do it.
when we dead wake it is
with a mourning manipulation
and several broken capillaries
around the eyes and mouth.
it could be gutted out yet;
wounds reopened and bled anew
because i’d still apologize, forgive,
love with this sinewy corpse –
but as i am terra-formed forgettable
you were richness removed and
myself the eluvium.

snow still spins downward
coating me in blameless white,
some devil’s flames come
to freeze me over,
palms of sawdust and
hair growing snakelike,
tip of my nose forever
brushing some feathered interior.
hands embrace the ruptured
scars. headphones splayed
across my desk,
no needless window, no breath.

your words

27.10.2017

“how could you” –
cat viper forked tongue
raking over the coals.
how does your bitterness taste?

i packed a box. it was requested,
and how it came to be yours i do
not understand, nor will i ask.
it is enough to know it is not my business.

why then, is it yours to berate?
there will be no response in kind;
i hold no judge’s gavel, matted powder
wig, it is not my duty.

neither is it yours.

you would presume to know me,
to say that i am not unique,
that my experiences
are not allowed to shape me.

that now, taking a close look,
i am not approved to examine
myself in the way i see fit.
am i not granted rights to feel

distressed and bipolar,
pitiful, petty, hurting, sad,
anxious and furious
and mostly with myself.

there is righteousness, perhaps,
the protection of one so dear,
distaste on their behalf.
there is none in a fury that
does not belong to you.

i am not the first person who “could”, who “hurt”
another human being; it is in our
ever-evolving nature that we fuck up.
i will not be the last person, either.

a better do-over with knowledge of myself –
somehow that was lost in years
of trying to calm, to fit, fight, grin
and bear complacency choke-holds.

apologies are fruitless to a person
who is “100% done”
and cares not whether i draw breath.
those were your words, not mine

and despite the claims of hardship
i hear everything is fine.

words fall out of this mouth to the page
only of those that will to see and listen.
nothing of mine reaches those
who have no reason to look for it.

therefore, the only advice i can offer,
though i scarcely believe it needed;
stop glaring this way in hatred
(i have none for you, even as this is)
and look elsewhere with a happier heart.

joy can easily be exchanged
and shrouded in sorrow and pain.
you cannot see sunrise through rain clouds and fog
….i mean, how could you?

all off me

3.10.2017

all of me fits
in a nike box, dumped off
return to sender –
meanwhile my 20×12 room remains
a testament to you.
memento mori tears
the pit in my stomach builds
acid-refluxing towers, and i hope
that the New Me, the one
who you will love for all time
(in sickness and health, through
good times and bad, et cetera)
will love you back as much as i do
(in depression and serenity, through
bliss and fuckups, et cetera)
broken as i am.

73 pounds of failure
for sale at the butcher’s block
going for nothing
yet with no interested buyers.
i can see why you walked away.
i can see it all – ribcage like
jailor’s bars, shriveled breasts
and thigh-gap legs that won’t fill
clothes. palms forever open
in surrender, pleading for one…
one more talk, one more kiss, please
don’t say goodbye like this.

don’t let the end be a post-it
about four hundred bucks
and when you love her now, new fresh
sparkling relationship of promise
i hope that the stain
washes all off me.