He is human. He lives. He exists, though not comfortably, in this world as we all do. He is not wise, nor stupid. He is not famous, nor unknown. He claims many things, as you will read over time, it is for you to decide their truth and merit. He once deflowered a Queen (a mere princess at the time). He once bashed baby seals for their pelts, he once gave advice to the Dali Lama. He once wrote poetry and sang popular folk songs in cafe’s across Paris. He has done all the things you dream of doing and many you wouldn’t ever own up to. He is the shadow and the light. He is everything one man could be by virtue of his anonymity. He is dreams and nightmares, scribbled love songs and tales of rape and murder. He is the prettiest flower in your garden and the bile that creeps from your sewers. He is free. He is real, he is fake. He is the indefinable, the unthinkable and the obsession that brings you back for more. He is me, he is you, he is a little part of everyone. He is the struggle between good and evil in each of us. He is the fancy that makes us giggle and the heartache that makes us cry. He is what each of us would be if we could be free to be ourselves.

i want to like people. i want to have them show themselves as more than my best guesses about them; but they so rarely are or do that it’s easy enough to grow weary of trying.

that’s kinda sad.

fit-filled and restless sleep.
dreams of red dress betrayal
and beating that man insensible
with old, hard wood
and running, screaming lies
into the song of summer’s last night.
then waking with arms
dead as frank sinatra
while feeling marches cold
down my limbs
like death.

this was rescued from one of my old sites. I completely forgot writing it around 19 months ago.