Thoughts for Food

When did crude become eloquent,
Crass become unique
And vulgarity become beauty?
What is a name?
When borders blur like smudges on chalk boards,
He is her,
She is him,
We are you,
And you are not blameless,
When judged by more than that which we define ourselves as.

Whats in a name?
When defined, we defy
What lies next to our thesauruses?
It’s changed so frequently,
Typos in societies context,
Sue becomes Mary,
Mary becomes Glenda,
And Glenda becomes famous.

When the name has been used up
And tossed away,
Does it remain true to oneself.
If you are your own definition
No matter what they say you are,
Are you still defined?
Or merely rolling down the pages
Until Glenda arrives?

Then, who are you to define yourself?
Others are greater than the mere you.
When does majority not rule?

A food’s thought ends at a luncheon ajourned.
Am I still me?
And will your proclamations ever prove otherwise?

​Seattle, Seattle. Seattle. … Seattle.

Seattle is weird.

Seattle is loud.

Seattle is peaceful.

Windy and wavy

Seattle is tiny. Cramped and crowded. Tight, narrow and enormous.

Its many colors and single season.

Seattle is vastly indifferent,

Strangly tolerant,

And abudantly judgemental.

Its vast seas and lack of sand.

Layers upon layers upon layers.

As hypnotic as a serpent, it sheds its skin each year.

Does it know of the forest beyond?

The great east?

The vast evergreen that surrounds it?

Nay, I do not think it knows of the world outside its world.

Perhaps those that come and go.

Or those who choose to stay forever.

But, no. Not Seattle.

Never Seattle.

Seattle is Seattle, and it is what makes Seattle Seattle.

Why do I write about Seattle, you ask?

I do not live here, you see.
And it is weird to me.

Feel Different

He. Eheh… Um… So, while surfing my own webpages on the internet (someone has to), I came across this journal entry from Deviant Art. … Yeah, this was the year I graduated highschool… Hey, we all make bad decisions as teens, mine were just… Slightly more inner hateful than most…

“April 15, 2011,

It doesn’t cut. I tried and I tried, but it never cuts. I want to feel it, see it, taste it, but it never cuts.

I want to make it cut, stab it, destroy it, rip it to pieces. But, it never works for me. Why does it never work for me?

I couldn’t kill myself if I wanted to, I could hurt myself if I wanted to, I couldn’t become sick if I wanted to, I couldn’t even puke if I wanted to.

But, I want to, I so want to. I want to feel the pain, the sorrow. Being stuck in the normality is worse than being beaten, worse than dying, worse than rape, worse than torn families, worse than broken bones, torn clothes, homelessness, poverty.

… Because, when everyone else has something bad to talk about, you could never understand them, you’re just too normal.

Listening to: The screaming pain of you complaining
Reading: Your eulogy
Watching: You burn
Playing: With your mind
Eating: Your sorrow
Drinking: Tea

My Dearest Mina

My dearest Mina,

Your eyes were a soft blackness
     That glowed through the night.
Your hair,
     A raven’s silk mane.

Oh sweet, gentle Mina, tell me of all your accomplishments.
     Dearest friend, let me know of your caring.
Poe’s beast, with feathers like ink,
     Are a butterfly’s wing beat,
          Compared to your lily white kisses.

How you assist those in need,
     Like you’d always wished.

No patient of yours shall eye or speak,
     Of coins for the ferryman.
Instead, soar high above the cloud,
     With your imagination.

Sooth their anguish,
     Stop their pain.
Leave only my heart the one
     Bleeding in your wake.

Like the broken promises we swore,
     I give my word
          To never show
               The wounds you tore.

And to quote The Raven,
     I shall see you


Oh! Come to me,

Sweet, decadent black liquid,

That which drives my very soul to momentum

With its intoxicating drug.

Let me drink, and fill me with energy.

For without you,

My very soul shall perish.

That which makes my heart pump,

The very insides that pour from my lips with your desire,

Speak to me.

Tell me not that you shall forsake yourself to others.

Tell me not of what buzzes

That I must cherish.

Tell me for I have ears that listen,

And speak!

Blub, Blub, Blub.

Oh, it speaks!

It’s words mimic the very rhythm of my life,

The very beat of my living muscle!

Speak again, and let me hear you.

Speak! Speaked, spaked, sparked, spiddled,

And cry unto me for you are the very glimmer in my sleepless orbs.

Blub, Blub.

Oh, it speaks again!

But, what is this? Shall I not be Thy only owner and master?

Shall I not be the only one to hoard your precious juices?

You traitor!

There is another?

How dare you!

I shall never share that which beats my very heart!


You cannot deceive me!

I will not allow such conceived lies!

Who? Who!

Wherefore, you have sound to which communication flows through!

Do not hesitate, tell me!

Inform unto me a name.

Any name, so that I may solve this problem.


He? She? Please, speak again!

Blub, Blub.

Others? More!

You mean to tell me there are more!

No, I will not stand for such,


Such ignorant passing of goods!


Never again will I sip.

Never shall you pass my lips in such an intimate manner!

You are dead to me.

Dead, I say! Dead!

Thou shalt not cry.

For I shall not weep.

We are finished,

And finished are we.


Do you ever wonder about ends meet?

Like what if the beginning and the end

Go together like a round piece of meat?

Or, have you ever heard

Of the smallest herd?

Or about to, too, and two.

Like how everyone but you

Can go through,

And you’re struck, right?

Trying to think of something to write.

But, whoever knows

When to say no?

When you grow weak

Each week,

And what to wear

When you go anywhere,

As I try to find a way.

To stop writing away.

We Remember

We remember

The gun shots, swords drawn,

Explosions and smoke.

The aftermath that is left behind.

We remember

The fallen, the served,

Men in arms and those to come

The meaning behind the madness.


We remember

Our freedom to celebrate

This Memorial Day

For our soldiers.


We remember.

And we remember well.