Madness is not chaotic. Not disordered in any way. It is not the corruption and rust of a once spotless machine. Dirt and... More > entropic decay are the norm, insanity is the sterile scream of newly minted coins as they encounter each other, the harsh glare of florescent lighting at three-thirty in the morning (meeting yourself in the bathroom mirror, seeing harsh judgment of your insomnia reflected in every illuminated pore). It is cotton processed and latex created.
Madness is a spotless piece of white wall, viewed closely enough to make it seem an acre. It holds no texture save smooth, and bears no identifying topography of any kind. A disinfectant and clinically empty surface, allowing no possibility of future growth whatsoever-from fungus, disease, hope or change. < Less

The first of a series of lifelong nightmares.

Poems culled from fifteen years of half-started and all but forgotten journals . Life, death, loss, and subways.

Poems culled from fifteen years of half-started journals. Spanning seven countries and countless losses, loves, and subways.