that as far as I've come
     there is so much farther
     left to go
          that as close as I've come
     I can get closer still
     breathe in

          the thoughts to wash
     over me, rapid-fire
     seeing them for what
          they are, meaningless
     in and of themselves
     breathe out

          the purpose behind
     the deluge of thoughts
     monkey mind on steroids
          here and then gone
     like a summer squall
     breathe in

          with the torrent of
     internal criticism
     my thoughts are not me
          they are of me
     but do not define me
     breathe out

     breathe in

          breathe out




upon a time I could
not taste life for 
all of the extraneous
shit I added to it
because I, for lack of
a better word for it,
truly believed that the
more you poured into
it, the more you'd get
out of it, not for a single
second comprehending
that I was actively diluting
the very thing that I was
supposed to be experiencing,


for simplicity's sake
is a lost art, a forgotten
trove of buried
treasure, golden coins
glittering in the sun, the
constant need to
decorate, to fill, to
liven up the joint
with extemporaneous
and ultimately 
meaningless white noise, a
cacophony of sights and
sounds and feelings,
and wondering why the
experience isn't


my soul cried, and
for once in my life
I listened, and took the
time to take a breath and
divest myself of the
unwanted, unneeded,
unnecessary, and began to
revel in the sublime, to
shun the additives which
were nothing more than a
cancer to my soul
which is why, when the
barista asks me how
I want my coffee, I reply



"follow your passion" is such
          utter bullshit
     as if you were born
          what it is you are
passionate about

but it is much more subtle than
          canned platitudes,
     words strewn across
the pages
          of that bestselling
self-help book

you are not brought into this
          world knowing,
     as if you are destined
to create
          the next Great American

no, it is
     so much
          more subtle
               than that

passion is not an innate love
          or desire to do
     or to be or to have
it will not
          arrive on the wings
of angels

passion is that thing which
          burns in your gut
     cultivated over many
months and years
          of trying and of

of fighting, and beating, the
          odds against success,
     of fighting the good 
fight until you awaken
          one morning to
find it

and when you clear your 
          mind of all the clutter
     and distractions and
metal flotsam and
          jetsam and can
see clearly

you will find there
          that one distraction
     that will not leave
and in that moment
          you will know you've
found it.

source code.

oh! to peel back the layers
of who we think we are to see
     who we actually are
no putting our best face forward
          no filters, no flattering angels
     peel back the layers
          to reveal the inner workings
          of who we are
          who we actually are
          beyond the bells and whistles
               revealing the source code 
               behind who we are.

comment out the recursive loops
suspend the cascading style sheets of
     the lies we tell ourselves
a simple query to find what's true
          no filters, no captured variables
     write me a conditional statement
          so that I may answer
          so that I may question
          who you actually are
          inside the curly braces
               revealing your source code
               and so much more.

let me peel off the layers of your structure
first your jacket, then your skirt
     stopping for no one, nothing
a simple gesture, maybe two or three
          no filters, nothing between us
     the soft whirr of your internal fan
          as you overheat at my touch
          as your internal stack overflows
          as your data flows into me
          and mine into you
               our source code intertwined,
               an endless loop of ecstasy.

good travels.

"...a good traveler has no fixed plans
     and is not intent on arriving..." -Lao Tzu
setting aside my goals, my
     objectives and outcomes
I bask in the freedom of
     knowing my direction but not
          my destination

for isn't the journey itself where
     true fulfillment lies?
the joy of discovery without
     the chains of intentionality
          weighing on me

setting off in the general direction
     of happiness, of love
no preconceived notions of
     what it looks like or what
          I will find there

hope springs eternal, and informs
     my every action
but what if it were not so?
     why hope for one thing when
          I can hope for everything?

all who wander are, indeed, not lost
     and I am one of the
lucky few who now enjoy
     the journey without regard
          to where the road may lead

stopping to smell the roses is
     no longer a struggle
when that is the whole point of
     throwing a dart at the map
          of my mind and of my  heart

no longer concerned with arriving
     no longer worried about
what will happen when I get there
     subsumed in the good travels
          of this world-weary traveler.

out of the blue.

out of the blue
     without any sort of warning
     completely unexpected but
          welcome nonetheless
     like a sudden burst of rain on
          a hot summer day

you weren't there
     and then you were,
          an angel
     or, perhaps, just a dream
          a figment
     of my over-active and busy

but if you are a dream
     why are you still occupying
          my every thought?
     why are you all I can think
     why is your face in everything
          I see?

and if you are an angel, how can
     it be that you even exist
          in this world?
     for there are no angels, no
     are you as immaterial as
          are they?

no, you are something else
     something beautiful
          something wonderful
               something amazing
                    something pure     
                         something else

out of the blue
     with no warning, no chance
          to wonder
     you took my fragile heart in
          your hands
     you smiled your bright, shining

and where there once was
     nothing but emptiness and
     nothing but blacks and grays,
          now a burst of color
     where there was nothing, now
          there is you.


I look to the horizon
    so confident am I that
   my goal lies there, along with
  the satisfaction that
 surely must come with
a job well done

but as I move towards that
    beacon of hope and completion,
   it moves with me, never
  allowing me the opportunity
 to reach what I consider
to be my destination

and so, head down, I double
    my efforts and hope for
   the best, fully knowing that
  I am destined to fail, for
 the goalposts have been
moved, if they were ever there

but what other choice do I have
    but to trudge ever onward
   towards that which I will
  never reach, towards that
 which will always be 
transitory and elusive?

so, rationale in hand and
    strengthened resolve in my
   heart I take another step,
  and then another, so confident
 am I in my journey 
towards the horizon.

sit and stare.

I will sometimes sit and stare
at something that's not really there
and pull, fully formed, out of thin air
a morning wish, an evening prayer

I will sometimes sit and gaze
at relationships I have set ablaze
or, if you'll allow me to rephrase
I wallow in my dark malaise

I will sometimes sit and wonder
at all the opportunities I've squandered
at all the love I've torn asunder
staring off into the wild blue yonder

I will sometimes sit and question
the hidden geometric progression
of transgression and my indiscretion
the difficulty of true expression

I will sometimes sit and scheme
desires stacked on a balance beam
while all my hope  just loses steam
and becomes subservient to the dream

I will sometimes sit and stare
at apparitions not really there
and all this psychological warfare
was that the point of the whole affair?

change everything.

changing nothing
is the cowards way,
content to wallow
in the familiarity of
what has come before
and what is yet to come
  but what if
    and hear me out
      what if
        that were not
          the case?

          changing nothing
        costs nothing
      and is worth nothing
    for we are defined by
  our actions, and the
opportunity to grow,
to experience, to live
is priceless
is invaluable
it costs nothing
it is worth everything

haunted by desire
          and yearning
          for more, more,
               the ghost of
          desperation and
     need for validation
in the face of silence,

aspiring for that which
is worthwhile and true
and the painful realization
that the only one who
can slake this thirst is


if I could make one change
it would be to change everything
and it would start with 
changing nothing

followed by making the hard choice
to stop
to be satisfied with the now
to be content with the here

the ultimate sophistication
it has been said
is nothing more than simplicity
is nothing less than clarity

the mind roars to fulfill
the petty desires of the
heart and mind and the
cacophony is deafening

but to be still and mindful
to breathe in and listen
to breathe out and hear
to embrace the stillness

to rise above the overbearing
desire to have and to hold
to possess and to grasp
to cling to the poison

even when letting go
is so much easier than
clenching my fist around
the shifting, sifting sands

and when the hourglass
is empty and I am spent
I would rather have lived than
to have just thought about living

rent free.

the problem with insomnia
aside from the obvious
lack of sleep
sluggish, lethargic 
sleep-filled eyes

is that my brain finds
every little thing to
obsess over 
every little mistake
misstep, miscalculation

and how I wish I could
focus on something
other than the
errors I've made whilst
snatching defeat from the
jaws of victory

and oh, how happy I'd be!
if only I could take back
what I said or did
and replace those
with the correct

and oh, how content I'd be!
if only I could make you
see that everything
tends towards
chaos and disorder
except for us

and oh, how rich I'd be!
if only I could capture
a portion of the money
I am losing by letting
you live in my head
rent free.

…in the immortal words of Miles.

we move at different speeds
     you and I
I'm full speed ahead and damn
     the torpedos
you're wait-and-see, bide your
     time, reluctant
you want to be sure this time
I don't see the point - when you
     know, you know

so which is it?  I can't help but
am I too ready, are you not
     ready enough?
is there some middle ground
     we're missing?
is it wrong to throw caution
     to the wind?
is it right to give it the time
     you require?

what you see is what you get
     I said
and if feels like that's not good
are you waiting for something
are you waiting for the other
     shoe to drop?
are you cautious by nature
     or is it just me?

so we take it at your pace
you say you need time to
     be sure
but what is it you want to 
     be sure of?
what confirmation are you
a sign from god isn't in the

sometimes you just have to 
(in the immortal words of
what the fuck, make your
time waits for no man, no
you miss 100% of the shots
     you don't take

am I impatient or just over
a little of both, I suppose
     as usual
because it feels like a slight,
     as if to say
you're good, but not quite
     good enough
and what if I can actually
     do better?

I can't answer those questions
     for you
(actually I can, but that's another
all I can tell you is what I've said
     all along
everything changes, everything
     stays the same
and I'm the same man now as I
     will be then.