that last poem begs some explanation, perhaps, since it's slightly vague (the intent of it, mind you), but it seems to beg further commentary.

It's about my life, in general, over the past number of years. A general theme i've been touching on lately in my poems and myspace bloggings is this notion of age: i'm 25, but what the fuck is going on? I'm getting older by the day, but I don't feel like I've done anything to really better my own growth and evolution since going vegan, really. That was awhile ago. Now what? I worry that i've been on this slow decline for years but that i'm finally starting to realize it. The irony, of course, is that I always thought the past was shit, and the future was cool, but lately the future doesn't seem to hold a lot of promise. In fact, it's downright scary, and i'm not fond of the way things may turn out if i don't alter the course of things as they stand right now. (In other words, i need to get off my ass and change things, lest i just sit here and fester in the current state of affairs, as they have been for an awful long time.)

Alas, I ramble. Enjoy your Thirsty Thursday, reader, and keep it real and such.
long haul heavy and low, steep grade


all those dark nights
with stars snowed in, always the mirror was black;
pointed pins of light
towards or away swimming and winking beneath the ink
oh how bright my rearview is! oh how sharp and clear
I can see behind me now with brights blasting strong

oh how sharp
and clear the irony! of the dark road afore me
seen with the crystal eyes forsaken
of their
weary cataract foresight, finally and true (perhaps)
of that
I secretly
hope it’s anything but; maybe just
a truck in the dark)


father time, take this! bitch


when did Saturday night become this?

funny, but I can’t precisely recall
any party-night cocoonings, nor have I
stumbled upon the skins
of any last-weekeneds;
this molting, this metamorphosis
is nothing but a grand surprise, designed to catch me

Thank God
I still have my wits about me.
(false)quicksand / nothing is solid, or is it?


whatever can be
will be
like I’ve said every day
and like no other today; twenty-five but
still the same, feeling just the same
as eighteen, eight, one
and all the foggy useless days in between;
cutting through the hours
indestructibly, sleek

until I hit the wall and it all becomes
everything I thought it wasn’t


ubi amici, ibi opes


and as there is you, there is love.
one does
have to hand it to the Romans
now and again.