Reality – 2016

Reality is relative. What I call blue, you call purple.

What is up to me,






to you.

There is no way to know which is really true. These words you are reading now aren’t even really what you see – nothing is.

You can’t even trust your own eyes to tell the truth – or can you?

What do you see?

What are you reading right this moment?

Is it a poem?

A story?

Are these words on a page?

Are they my thoughts?

Are they your thoughts?

Whose thoughts am I transcribing on this page – if it’s a page at all?

How does one compose a piece on reality when one does not know reality from fantasy?

It’s easier now than it was before.

Easier to guess at reality – or what I think is reality.

Sometimes – I still get lost. Lost in my own mind. A small piece of me is aware, I know that it isn’t real. I know, but I can not resist the tidal pull of what I know is not.

I feel the ebb and flow of air through my lungs even as I know beyond a doubt that I am not alive and all air has ceased to turn my blood deepest red.


I know.

But I believe it more than anything.



Slow Suicide – A Poem

He takes a slow drag –

an unfiltered cigarette.

There is no one around

the night is cold as he walks alone.

The dark city streets

menacing enough to keep the toughest men inside their homes

Another drag

slow and long

he doesn’t look before crossing the street.

He walks on,

lighting another cigarette

on the end of the first.

Standing out against the dark

a cherry red glow

Like the dying glow of a midnight campfire.

He should go home

he knows it.

He takes another drag

smoke fills his lungs

he ignores the surgeon general as he lights one more on the end of this one.

He lingers on the street

but he does not enter the bar.

If he drinks with people

it won’t be the same.

At home

he opens a bottle


where no one can see.

He does not use a glass.

He takes another drag,

not caring that he is falling asleep.

Another drag.

Another gulp.

His eyes start to close.

He doesn’t put out the cigarette.