Notes Towards a Better Understanding of My Diaries


Emerging from my echo
chamber of insults breaking
protocol like bread, feast on
this introspection—asking
your Selves as you witness me
asking this (finally): just
how does my ego fit me,
well or so haphazardly?


A stone lion whose roaring bold-
ness makes enemies of many,
a riot of loneliness might
bury you in my bed as a
grave, might take light from the daze you
savour when we meet, however
briefly here on the sheets of my
next work’s pages, or in the fan-

          tasies we share in our heads, sev-

ered by distance bridged by only
playing at innocent, an ac-
complished degenerate making
you an accomplice ignoring
sanguinary yelps testing the
sonorous depths of seraphic
throats, angels who, in the scapegoat-
ing scope of their aching sighs de-

ny Christ second life as a char-
acter in a book, brook no sec-
ond look at the subject, and de-
scend the heights of their vaults to meet
eye-to-eye the infamy of
we who lie open-minded in
the fold of each other’s arms, pro-
fane performers tired of rehears-

          ing silence panting for more, my

words fill mouths with coals whose burn turns
virgins to whores, putting sin in-
to practice all by reading what
might otherwise be ignored, but
why this hollering as a cov-
er since no matter what we say
history never stops, why this
bother of performing at all?


          Blowing off critics who call me
          out on being anyone but

someone relatable, Sisy-
phean in the intimacy
of a stranger’s hands being turned
over or scrolled, rolled along be-
fore I can turn them on, I turn
on them who crawl through memories
every one of these pieces
is meant to dissolve, polemics

against a hidden part of me
written without apology
to prevent from being reas-
sembled broken things I would rath-
er not permit passage beyond
these walls I refuse to disman-
tle at all, evasive as age-
less youth anxious as a heist to

          pull it off, this mask I call art
          but will never call ours, this scar.