Today, I went on my twitter page and saw drama from my High School, which is odd since I am in college. It made me think about the people I follow, and why, even though many of them are in college as well, would care enough to promote those things onto my timeline. All these things made me think about the different perspectives memories have for us all. I will take more time to think about what memories mean to me today.



I hate the place where two roads converge. It’s nauseating to me, because it seems to the both of us as if we are always right.

One person travels down one road at 60 miles per hour, leading in, and the other person travels down another road. THE other road. This “other person” is wrong. This “other person” drives and as you approach each other you realize that you have both reached a primal stage in your lives, and something stirs within you. You both realize that you are competing for the same resource: the place where two roads converge. And one of you is going to get there first.


“I’m right!” you say, and you lead in with a heavy pedal. As the road gently begins to curve, you see that precious resource and visualize your desire. Oh, to occupy that space at the most convenient time!

“I’m right!”, you say. “My road was the original road. The road the other car is coming off of is just a random street, mine is the right of way!”

And yet…

“Mine is the space!”, declares the engine of the “other” car. The road gently curves and the car downshifts to accelerate.


The two roads converge, and I am nauseated.

Neither person was right.

Both, are dead.

Starving Artist

One time, I wrote a poem about pizza.

The pizza was good, but the poem was not.

The pizza was cold, but still pizza




But the poem was dripping.

Turning dark under my fingers.

The poem, [which was like cardboard]

grew in my fingers and melded to a syrup consistency.

My fingers touched each other, and I pulled

Apart they spread

slow motion

The poem grew warm and started to slip from my hand.

I licked my fingers

And pulled the pizza out of the microwave.

[i am ashamed of myself]

i am scared to share my thoughts

my thoughts are s c a t t e r e d

They do not exist in transit.

Most seem to have thoughts in chains

Long, unbroken streams of consciousness

Every link logical and fluid

A liquid beauty that ties down, captures, restrains.

my thoughts feel like ELECTRONS

pop! into my frontal lobe

[i am a starting thought]

pop! into my temporal memories

[i am a second thought]

pop! out of my mouth

[i am the unrelated response]

There is no chain.

They appear at will, with no in between steps.



A raven is like a writing desk!



I am scared to say what I think!

[you make me feel ashamed of myself]


She says she understands everything,

So I look into her eyes and begin tunneling,

Burrowing down,

Pushing through the void, working my hands through the textures of her vision.

As she watches the people around her, their actions fill her eyes—

They fondle me, and I am violated;

They strip away the layers of skin on my palms,

Peeling away at my fingertips.


Skin has blistered and curdled, but my transformation is not complete.

She shows me Truth.

It is hateful red,

And it sears me.

I am burrowed through, hollowed out,

And my ka[1], where it lay, was cast out—

She replaced it with Truth.

Raw and new I began again

Until, like Orpheus, I made exit from these visions.

Turned to the crowds, she saw and opened myself to share Truth

But it was cast out

And left I was,

Hollowed, carved, and burnt smooth

With her void inside of me.

[1] Ka is the Egyptian word for the “Vital Spark” that gives life to a being. It is what makes someone dead or alive.