Ourselves as liars.


there are two sides to every story,

sometimes three, four,

most times there are twelve.

It depends,

on who we are, who we’ve been

and who we’re trying to be,

like auditioning for a role.

And it’s easy to say,

that you never tell a lie,

or that I’m always wrong.

If I were to believe that,

if you, are so able to believe that

then, clearly

somebodies a liar.

Not so fiction.




is meant



in your life



that doesn’t mean

you can’t tell



it doesn’t mean



a part of yours,

so be a dear

and change a name or two,

just don’t


the end —

they’ll know if you do.

Conversations with myself.

I try to hang loose

but always end up

twisted, like a

damp dish towel.

Stained and tattered.

Are we really back here again?

Rinse and repeat.

Haven’t you learned anything yet?

Rinse and repeat.

I bet you like it this way, don’t you?

It’s quieter here…shh!

With voices in your head?  You’re too easy.

It’s alright if you sweat, just

don’t let them see you turn.

Are we really back here again?

Metaphorically speaking,

we never actually left.

Places just become new places.

People get replaced by other people.

Lies become fiction.

Truth becomes fantasy.

Like a damp dish towel,

twisting facts


they hang loose.

Smiles of Uncertainty

The world is filled with people.

People filling space.

The only thing separating the people,

is hierarchy.

Other than that, there isn’t really that much else.

Just a world full of people.

People filling space.

All of them, vexed with smiles of uncertainty, trying not to fuck up.