Nom De Plume

They say you can judge a person’s personality by their handwriting.

Does that mean you can communicate
only what you want
in order to prove
your existence is worthy –

I can make myself write in any sort of fashion,
I can make myself alive with any sort of style.

Narrate your time,
make thrive your sculpted seconds.

By lengua
I linger
into a story –

A story
that proves
I’m alive.


This is the monologue
This is the analogue
This is the dialogue
This is the metronome.

This is the moment
where moments meet moments,
and to survive
means also to die.

A deity diets
and we all follow ’round
and a round and around
till we all become one.

What a wonder, this world,
where we all wallow ’round,
when the wise wallow deeper…

Why wonder what’s left,
what’s best, this creeper;
this world, this wander.


Without lust, I find myself mostly without purpose–
lust for knowledge
lust for exploration
lust for touch
lust for food
lust for drink
though often, a lackluster view of life.

Why do I torture myself with these securities,
these insecurities?
Is it a lacking, a lusting, a limping?

Fervently I contemplate
the ways to negate,
though lust returns fertilely.

Like the mucro of a leaf,
I believe
I am the point, the shape, the telos
of all telos—the end of the end.

This lust for certainty
is a retention of my ability
to become free,
believing my mucro to be

Fallacy! I proclaim,
with my breath
lacking nothing but lust—

a purpose, a trust,
where limping is not the necessity
for a deceptive lust;
where the mucro
is not within touch.


You sometimes like things that are obscene and sexual and megaphone their voice into your skull;
the cacophony covers and lets rest your thoughts.
You like this control sometimes.

You choose your shoes like you choose your purpose in life;
the distance touched by them is greater than or equal to your height.
Eventually they are equal though.

You feel motivated by creating a Dream House for your thoughts to try on clothes and feel pretty;
a few (sometimes all) of these thoughts drive away in a Dream Corvette
that combusts when it reaches speeds higher than 205 miles per hour.


She waits through times
dusty with habits and expectations,
for a premeditated hope of flight.
An escape from time’s jagged tic-toc chain.

Body drifts across sand and becomes dunes;
Tongue fondles ambrosias and kisses;
Eyes create photographs kinetic;
Lungs pulse in glass air;
Ears flutter with waves, wind, wild.

Heavy minds sit comfortably on the senses
but unceasingly thoughts prick often;
for immediate pleasures
are only pincushions for a pricky psyche.

Searching, scraping, scouring through dictionaries of words
for the perfect combination to medicate
the attack of mind on mind.

But can peace be heard from any string of words,
or should she strive to keep senses alive
for fear of an early demise?