What I Desire, You Must Also Desire

In the lattice of experience crystallizing
I see my loneliness
profundity piles onto itself
there is a blossoming
each petal grows intricate and full
monstrosity emerges and disintegrates
I am too much for myself
not enough for others to be nourished
everything touched will duly wither
do you want to listen to its endlessness?
can you feel it tugging every corner of me?
the world is not too much with us
we are too much with our worlds
every despotic stroke
this heart or another
this face or that will burn with the light of me
errant planets each we envy our Sun
it’s not you
it’s me


A Direct Monologue

There is a relentlessness to the depression my life has been plagued by. Every single day I wake up with emotions whose beginnings or causes are unknown to me, beyond my ability to perceive. In this my equally relentless thirst for understanding must draw me thin over every passing minute until I feel that I must go mad from the tension. Where once was a feeling of paranoid expectation now there lives a dogged determination to continue on to the next hour, and the next, and the next, a refugee from the unfolding of illusory immortality hounding my senses into the chase.

I cannot attempt to justify my actions from this place of haunted shoulder-glances, especially now that I can see my choices more clearly, having received the mixed blessing of awareness of options. No longer am I trapped, but released into a miasma of information and experience baiting me once more into that old pursuit of understanding, and the depression is everywhere still, seldom attempting to hide. It doesn’t need to. I carry it with me and watch it paint the landscape with colors it stole from my chest, its easel my bones, its brushes carved teeth-ivory that it wields more masterfully than I.

It matters less if I am a good person, if I like what I have become or what I am becoming.

Each day it grows and writhes with the shadows of the Sun. Each day there is a noon, and for each noon a sunset lengthens the pulse of its rhythm. I pray for the night, for sleep, for moments eligible to be forgotten in the aether, and my prayers are answered by the genie I have rubbed one too many times and now supplants the listening-post for my lunatic requests. I exhaust myself and there is no end to my companion’s silent smile. It has always been me providing the words. Depression finds the creativity it lacks in the contents of my mind it threw across the tundra. 

There is no blame to be passed around. What little there is rests firmly with me, for my outbursts and isolation. It was all a choice, and I cling to the illusory lack of choice to avoid responsibility. Even so, I only lay claim to my actions and words. I have been exposed to the scalding intensity of emotion from memory’s beginning, and it is no fault of anyone. My path has been one of devastating falls and extraordinary pinnacles, and I am grateful for it, though it rasps into the beds of my nails with its torturous length. Silence is a love I am still learning.

Every day and every night I, the nightmare of a miracle gone wrong, patrol the emptying trails, waiting for something out of place to obliterate. Again, our arrogance: to think we may judge good from bad, and therefore decree survival or destruction. What will be will come to pass despite our efforts, yet we roar with our lion-cub growl and think that this will matter. I am certain that my effort will amount to something, but cannot preordain effect with success.

Why do I love? 

Yes, it’s fucking rhetorical. I have sought the answer everywhere, in mind, heart, platitudes, obscurities, and finally relationships. I have broken oaths and rampaged through shared landscapes, an angry god in a china world, so small, so clumsy. I have ruined bridges beyond fire’s capability and still have the gall to cry across the chasm ‘I’m sorry, I still love you’

‘Come back to me, though I am the one who left’

No sane person should pay me any mind.

La Vie

A room with two lamps has more warmth

     than one with one on bedside table, easily knocked over 

     in fits of passion

I prefer to fuck in the dark 

     for this reason

when we tumble to the right 

and your elbow meets corner

we won’t know what’s broken until tomorrow

you will have left, hopefully, when I test the light

when I collect loose change and roaches and history books

when I set it all back

     too close to the bed

Emerging from the Deeper Currents

For the past two years my bandmate Arielle and I have been studying the myth of Persephone, her capture, her imprisonment in the Underworld, and her eventual release, now fated to be Queen with Pluto of the Dead. We both have a deep fondness for myth, and both practice spiritual paths that lead us to pull apart and apply the themes and characters of stories, to learn from the past tales in order to learn more about ourselves and the world through their lens. From this individual and combined effort we have made Persephone, a literary folk opera that showcases the hearts of gods and their titanic clashing. This has been what I have been doing for the past couple of months: writing, recording, and editing this album of ours. I present it to you here for your enjoyment and edification. It is free to download with an option to pay if you are able and willing. More importantly than financial gain is that this musical child of ours fulfill its purpose: to be heard. I will be back to posting fairly regularly, hopefully once every couple of weeks. Writing has been fairly scarce outside the scope of Persephone, but I have been working on a couple of pieces that are a large jump from my normal poetry, and once they are suitable for presentation I will post them here. Thank each and every one of you for your readership and support over the span of this little online haven of mine. Now there’s a soundtrack for the madness. Blessings, Austin

Below Freezing


The inside is so quiet
compared to the echoing drips of water transforming the ground
into a shell
one wishes to slip into it
everything becomes cold and solidifies
it makes sense, the hardening of liquid to stone
it clarifies the mind as an ex-lover sleeps on the couch
there was no fight, just my dramatics and
his needing to crash closer to work
closer to the machination slowly turning fluid time to
what once was
the inside is so warm
yet still the ice accumulates
one or two tenths of an inch closer to falling



Dead bee smashed to the bus window, clouds
colliding together
yellow jacket chasing notions of sweetness
on my pants leg
I feel as if I am dissolving
time slips around my tasks
chairs askew and no boundary to align to
cliff-drop faces in a shroud
degradation slipping into the meeting of ceiling
and wall
a chime reflects symphonic echoes of nostalgia
I’ve no right to ferment
no call nor response could sound the depth of me,
nor the greater depth beyond me
greatness cannot measure such lengths;
a fathom is a human measure containing the breadth of the sky;
its name betrays its use

Image compliments of gloga.bandcamp.com

Michicant – Bon Iver


the pressure building in my chest, before my eyes,
it grows too much to stand
I feel it in my temples, in every inhale,
the great progression of the stars, the plot and execution of the cosmos
I am left in awe
I am left bewildered
what is there to do?
what am I to do with all of this life around me, within me
how can the world spin on with such an ill-fitting partner as us?
where is my place in it?
my only answers are my love and my pain
their correlation, their beautiful overlapping,
this is the closest feeling I can offer to match the sounds of the vast
is this all there is?
it is so much
at times too much
right now too much,
hurtling madly on into decisions and paths unthinkable to my current surety.