Being Vulnerable

Many people know me on the Long Island and NYC poetry and spoken word circuit as a calm, confident, and outgoing performer. I've been described as bubbly, charismatic, and extroverted; I love meeting new people and jumping right into fresh, novel situations. I try to maintain an air of positivity and humbleness... and to smile. Most people would consider me a happy person, which I most certainly am, and a bit of a joker.

This is by no means a farce. In all sincerity, I am a very happy person. I look around me and find that I am surrounded by so many beautiful people, by so many beautiful things. I feel loved and show love to as many people as I can, stranger or friend. I feel so blessed in my day to day life, and it creates such a wonderful space to be creative in. I strive to put forth ideas of good, right, openness, and beneficence - to exemplify the best of humanity.

What most people - friends, acquaintances, family, lovers - probably don't know is that I struggle.

Each and every day.

Although I may give off an air of stoic positivity, unshakable confidence, and childlike joy, I often feel incredibly alone. I feel utterly broken.

Again, the positivity and happiness people perceive in me is not at all synthetic. It is not a mask or a suit I put on when I'm out in the open, when I'm behind a mic. What you see is what you get. I am an open and honest person, and that is one of the reasons why I am writing this.

There is a risk you run when you choose to love people selflessly. (The original title of this blog was "Agápē Bodhisattva." The Greek word for "unconditional love," Agápē is something I take quite seriously.) It can be exhaustive and nonreciprocal. It can be taken advantage of and be misinterpreted. Riskier still, in intimate relationships, it can create friction, misunderstanding, and lead to obsessive behavior. I obsess. I have to resist the urge to stalk. These are some of the things I struggle with.

I do a lot of work in the field of mental illness, particularly in suicide prevention and depression. This may be partly motivated by this looming sense of incompleteness that follows me around, like a shadow of my shadow. There have been times in my life where I have reflected on the thought of ending my life, sometimes for days on end. Just meditating on it. Stewing in it.

Sometimes the anxiety is too much to bear.

Honestly, poetry readings, open mics, and performances help me to manage my endlessly reeling mind, stopping it from thinking of the past and fretting over the future. Being surrounded by people who enjoy what this fucked up brain of mine cooks up amidst fighting with a heart that is growing infinity bigger than it could ever hope to become has probably kept me alive. I feel broken. I feel lonesome. But I don't let that conquer me.

I'm here to tell you that no matter what you feel inside, no matter how broken, useless, hopeless, ugly, lonesome, listless, longing, brokenhearted, damaged, and otherwise undeserving you feel, things do get better. Although the moments of goodness and beauty seem few and far between, live for those moments, look for them, because they will help you to realize that there is so much more than hurt. We're all a little bit selfish - that's ok. We all feel worthless - you're not.

It's not about what we deserve, it's about what we're worth to ourselves.

I'm broken. I'm lonesome. But I'm alive. And being alive is the only excuse you need to say that things get better. Being alive makes you more blessed than you could comprehend. Happiness is possible. There is a moment out there waiting for you, to help you realize what really matters.

Don't let your darkness take your light. Do let it make you see it. They are one.    

Fight For Your Passion: Omasum

Don't second guess yourself. 

If you feel it, if you taste it, if you can't escape it, embrace it. 

Everyone has a passion. Some of us are consumers, indulging in things or experiences. Some of us are producers, people who have a drive to create things. Some of us are both, but nearly all of us has a passion. All of us has something we are passionate about. 

Is there something you can't live without? Is there something that motivates you against your will? There are good addictions and there are bad addictions. Bad addictions destroy you. Good addictions sustain you. They can be hobbies, they can be interests, they are things that make you happy and help you reconnect with yourself. Often, it is when we are enraptured in our passions that we feel most alive.

In the hustle and bustle of contemporary reality, it is sometimes hard to find the energy and the time to feed those passions. We feel the drive, we feel the desires, but we convince ourselves there are more worth-while things to be done. That is you denying yourself. That is your heart telling you what you need. It's a hunger - feed it!

This life is a gift. That means it has been given to you and you own it, so you do whatever you wish with it. Would you rather pursue your passions and fail or never pursue them and never unlock your full potential? Don't be afraid to stop EVERYTHING and GO!!! 

Book signing for DBAM at Stony Brook University

Omasum

The iridescent taffeta that covers my stain glass bones

Builds a wickiup of plasma that smolders and corrodes

And this algid patina that covers my radiant face

Keeps from the world the smile that it scolds.

In the black and white albedo of a lunatic sphere

That bleeds a curious complexion, both brutal and queer,

Its prism projects molten opal upon the cardboard race,

Who communicate with buttoned lips and listen with biased ears.

While they fold in their lackadaisical limbs,

Taking off their hats, splitting their lips upon the brims,

I cast my crystal cobwebs across their noses in disgrace,

Listening as gravity crinkles my thorny heart like tin.

I can hear its asperous teeth dig into it like pi

As that morose masquerading marionette in the sky

Continues to encircle me, soldering my carcass in place,

As the golems peregrinate around the apocryphal sty.  

Listening to the masticating music as it unfolds,

Transcending the bitter warmth and sweltering cold

Until a dynamic paralysis trickles into the case

Of alligator skin that covets this once human mold.

And what I knew of longing seems to gangrene into fear.

That gentle glow has turned to tarp, through which I’m forced to peer

Upon a smithereen of what was once my cosmic base, 

Which I snatch up starvingly like a begrudged souvenir     

Until that nimbus vulture that emblazons my chagrin,

Hovering like a noxious conversation that’s been drawn too thin,

Bursts like an aneurism, cascading naked shards of space

That land upon my gasoline tongue, quite saccharine. 

And I taste the aureola, combusted before my elytroid eyes;

And I collapse onto a padded pedestal, whose pain is amplified; 

And as my heart gallops off, its bent-in bruises throttle its pace,

Until it too is smeared across the flippant canvas and dies. 

There I fall like argyle rain

In the foyer of consequential refrain,

Collecting like autumn leaves

In puddles of psychedelic disdain.

I cachinnate at all the almighty delusions I sought to free,

Yet I still pursue the jaundiced cud that trundles out of me.

Shout Out

I met a guy through the grapevine who has his own poetry blog and is trying to get people excited about his writing, especially his new book. His name is Plot 121 and his work spans a large swathe of themes. Check out his blog and support your local artists. Much love.

UPDATE: Dreams As A Mirror Of The Self: dream

Dreams are interesting things. For millennia, mankind has attempted to interpret his dreams, to divulge their esoteric and other-worldly meaning. No doubt, our mindset, our waking thoughts, our worries, and the circumstances surrounding our lives have an influence over the unconscious manifestations in our dreams. You can learn a lot about yourself if you listen to the content. 

I always gage the quality of my sleep based on how many dreams I can remember in the morning. Some people can't remember their dreams, although I'm sure they still exert an influence on them while they're awake. Even our nightmares, particularly recurring fears and themes, are a means of getting more in touch with ourselves. Perhaps they represent an opportunity to face something that hinders you in your waking hours and challenges you to overcome your conscious fears.    

I know many expressive people who's dreams have made thier way into their poetry, painting, and music. Always reflect on your dreams in the morning to learn something from them and use them to enrich your life. They are, after all, yours.      

dream

behind these rancid eyes

hides a bag of hopes and a box of lies,

i push aside 

to find you still asleep

your eyelashes were fluttering,

a symphony of peace they spun,

just like the night before

until i woke up to find the sun

my mind was still a haze

as i erased the past few days

and found myself alone with thoughts

of someone i had never known

with her image in my head

i laid there in bed

and knew her love had still in me yet grown

yearning for that gift,

i fell silent once again,

awaiting if or when

into sleep i would drift 

as i did, she was there

and hadn’t moved a finger or a toe,

and as i crept closer,

i felt the lust in me grow

feeling her breath upon my lips,

in my head i begged, ‘a kiss’

‘a kiss for i and no one else’

‘a kiss for me’

‘for myself’

i knelt beside her breast  

and now the heart inside my chest,

the heart i held for years alone

and shared with no one else

had fallen silent hence no more,

erased the pain i had abhorred,

and beat faster,

ever faster,

far faster than before

my pulse felt shattered with delight

having found a love of which i’m sure

this loneliness in me i see will vex me no more

for now i lay my lips to hers 

and know this is no dream

her taste is sweet, her affection pure

and in that moment, i believed

but as i opened up my eyes,

the sunlight compelling me to weep,

i see 

i had never known true love 

for i had lived it in a dream 

UPDATE

My first book of poetry, Death By Active Movement, has officially released. You can order your copy by going to the link above.

#DBAM 

The Nature of Memory: I Remember

Memory is a funny, fickle thing. When we want to forget things, we can't, and when we want to remember things... we can't. Sometimes, a smell, a piece of music, even a place we haven't seen in so long can coax a plethora of old, dusty memories to assert themselves. Little time machines. Memories of trauma can lead to the development of Dissociative Identity Disorder (DID) and in Alzheimer's patients,    newer memories disappear first, while older, mundane memories resurface.

In fact, from a scientific point of view, there is still so much we don't understand about the nature of memory. What is not debated is how important memories are to us and how influential they can be on us. They define a person and constitute their individuality. The idea of manipulating our memories or having them stolen away from us feels... heinous.

Perhaps the strangest and most precious gift of memory is when you rediscover something you haven't thought about in so long. A time, a place, a feeling, a sense, a being. Sometimes they're sad, sometimes their joyous, but each contributes to the person you are now. Let's do a writing exorcise: Write down as many things as you can starting with "I remember..." in 5 minutes. It's good to revisit old memories, to appreciate them, to cherish them, and to understand a little bit more about yourself.

I Remember 

I remember the fear I felt for my father.

I remember playing in the fountain in the front yard of my grandmother’s neighbor’s house when I was three. I remember playing with the pots and pans in my grandmother’s kitchen cabinets when I was three.

I remember the sound of the frog as it hit the water of Crescent Lake after he threw it from the shore. I remember its guts in its mouth.

I remember the scars on her thighs.

I remember the dream I had the night before last. I remember the car accident, being thrown through the windshield, landing on the hood of the other car, and the partial paralysis. I remember the grief when I realized I wouldn’t be able to perform poetry again. I remember the relief when I woke up.

I remember the necklace I threw to the floor in the hallway in high school, the Christ head with the engraving on the back that my godmother gave me when I was born. I never saw it again.

I remember the guilt when I let the wind take your tin full of meringues on Halloween.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for you to love me again.

I remember praying in Roman cathedrals for the strength to let you go.

I remember what my cat smelled like.

I remember burning my tongue on chicken fingers in the New Hampshire fog.

I remember when I learned the word, “Fuck.”

I remember just a moment ago.

I remember sobbing hysterically on the bathroom floor of the boy’s room in tenth grade. I remember the sound of confusion in the other boy’s voice when he found me there and told me he was sorry for whatever it was I was crying about.

I remember the smell of marijuana on her clothes.

I remember when I lost my virginity. It was O.K.

I remember when I used to spit on my teachers, curse them out, and punch holes in the walls.

I remember white rooms.

I remember the shower in the hospital, the glue from my hair coagulating on my shoulders. It was a long shower.