The Great Muse

The search for the truth

We’re all out there looking for it
Good old truth.
But then
Something happens
Some continue the search
Some get tired and give up
Some were never looking for it to begin with
And some start out good but get tired by the wind
The search for a truth
That’s what we’re out there doing
The ones who mean to anyway
We like to say that we are truth seekers
Its sounds so … So … whats the word
Until the shit hits the fan
The truth is the shit
And before it hits the fan
It passes by these little tiny threads of belief
That’s us
Because we hang between the shit
And the fan
It’s all very heroic and elegant
And poetic
And then
The shit hits the fan
Passing us by
Hitting us
As we transform
From truth seeking vessels
To individuals
Hanging by
Getting slapped in the face
By the arm of the truth
On its way
To becoming this beautiful
Shit covered
In the the form of a
That calls itself
The muse
The great muse


There is a phenomenon called “The Fuck It Syndrome”. It’s a mental state that occurs when the brain encounters a situation that it very well knows that was going to happen but it convinced itself that it won’t. It’s the psychological state of both relief and shock that happens at the same exact time. Thus, in coping with such complicated and disorienting occurrence the brain goes “Fuck It.” to conserve energy and prevent emotional explosions.

The mind’s ability to do that is the reason sane people stay sane, and the lack of which, is why insane people go insane.

The main advantage of this condition is it affords a person the luxury of enjoying the remaining of a day, even after encountering certain people that necessitate such defenses, rather than spending the first half of the evening breaking plates in one’s kitchen and the latter half cleaning said kitchen.

Knowledge is knowing what it means to give a fuck. Wisdom is knowing when not to give any.

Happy Fucking Friday.

They Are All The Same

There is a point

Of intersection

In every female psyche

At which

Whimsy and 

Heartache meet

That’s where they all 

Are the same age

It doesn’t matter if 

She’s 80 

Or 4 

Or 22

At that soft spot

They all are the same age

And there is usually

A man, or a boy

That makes them feel a certain way

And that’s how we know

That love is never born

It never dies 

And never can be replaced

It’s just stumbled upon


And found

And that’s what they 

feel at that intersection

And they always long for it

And when they arrive

Nothing else matters

Except his gaze

And her shy smile

And his soul 

And her heart

And eternity

A Life Marvel of A Prick

I am a sophisticated jerk

A sensitive asshole

An elegant slop

An undeserving lucky bastered

A feminist pig 

An unmagnificent significant other

A loved one not loving

A cherished piece of shit

A glorious moron

A Fantastic dickhead

A beautiful idiot

And a magnificent Motherfucker


Also known as 

A man

Who loves a women

Who loves him more

And thinks he’s a sophisticated jerk

Undeserving of a loving kiss

He will get anyway


She’s an angel

Of the heavenly kind

A beautiful thing

A magical creature

The element of love

The components of sexy

And the total of her


He knows it

She knows it


It’s non sensical 

And kind of ridiculous

And in mostly absurd ways 

Very logical


And as the only acceptable conclusion

Is largely irrelevant

This exercise seems superfluous

Much like her attempt in trying to make an honest man out of him

And him trying to make a sensible woman out of her


He is everything he can be

And she’s everything he can hope for 


And this, whatever this is, was a rather funny study in the manners which we can’t control 

And the happenings we can’t prevent 


All I have to say

Is the fact that 

She is a dream

And he

A man asleep


And much like dreams

You can interpret them all you want

They always seem like a plane landing


But coming to a safe stop

To the relief of everyone aboard

The Collapse Of World Economics And The Love Reserve

Not to get

Too deep into the


Of the metaphysics

Of the human experience

And the science 

Of wall street

Of the psyche

Of it all

And not to get

Tangled in 

Conceptual tangents


Opportunity cost

And the guidelines

For common sense

Regarding matters 

Of the heart

And the consequences

Of overbidding


I’m trying to understand

Can the biggest loss

In one’s life

Be of something

One has never

Even had?

A Picture Of An Afternoon

Laying on a couch

Where she is sitting

Immersed in her novel

With fingers navigating

The valleys of his hair 

With his head in her lab

Reading a book of poetry

Then finding a poem he likes

He reads it aloud to her

Her fingers stop

He continues reading

She looks up

While listening

She looks back at him

He finishes reading the poem

She says, “wow!”

And smiles

Then sinks her head back in her novel

He goes on reading in his head

And the sun continues shining

Through the curtains

Along with the breeze

And the street noise

And the air

Sitting In Traffic


The best cure for


Is listening to the loud 

Hums of all the engines

And feeling the 

Big city heat

Rising from the asphalt

While sitting in traffic

Trying to get

To no where

In specific

* * *

The real sad 

Thing is that

This poem

Would be a masterpiece

If there actually was a cure 

For heartache