Who put this crown upon our heads?


in failing to receive the recognition, the french-kissing of models and the chortles of bearded pipe-smoking ship captains we believe we rightly deserve, we’ve turned our hunt for verification to elsewhere, from the virtual world of poorly-paid casting couch porn stars and neckbearded glass-pipe smoking insomniacs. Note that we said verification. Our crowns are self made, we wear them so that our heads may sag and our necks break, we wear them to remind ourselves that being part of a generation of wanna-be’s and posers is nothing to be proud of, indeed is something to attempt to escape from as fast as possible. We wear them so that our bodies break long before our flimsy ego’s built upon years of being told “you can be whatever you want” do.

Every artistic compilation project must have some goal, some nirvana to reach towards. Ours is simple, submit, for your approval or loathing, our creations, so that you may judge/enjoy. Anyone can wear the crown of a Peachy King, anyone can submit to our oligarchic asses their magnum opus or works of lesser opus, All we ask is that you read, you write, you play, you create and you be some version of our cult’s ideal member.



(this is from 2012 or 2013, approximately)

It’s the coolest shit ever,
Not the tv show,
Or the piano,
Or even the science,
It’s like it’s been there,
So many times,
Sitting behind the sidelines,
And just laughing.
You take a break,
While your friends laugh,
And reminisce,
About the previous moments.
What’s up?
But seriously, what’s wrong?
And he just laughs and laughs,
And you know,
That this type,
Isn’t the speak,
Five lines above,
It’s like reality’s playing a cruel joke,
A cruel,
And if you were younger,
It might help.
Burn up, and just die,
Watch yourself,
You wonder,
How many superstars figured it out,
And didn’t tell anyone,
And how many superstars,
Never figured it out,
And never,
Told no one how,
They felt,
Their entire lives.
It’s all right there,
And that’s what’s frustrating.

You want to scream out epically,
And remind the world that your part,
Is completed.
And it’s all over for now.
And that over,
Is everything.
But unfortunately,
And as truly,
As you’ve ever known,
It will never be over.
The chase,
Is the chase,
As long as it’s,
The chase.
A chase,
That can only chase,
As long as we chase,
In a maze,
In the maze,
Lost to the point of,
That’s life.
And your heart screams in,
Sorrowful fury,
Then wait,
ALL of that is,
The line that means,
The line.
It’s hard to explain in words.
In words.
I mean, really.
There’s a point when you realize that your friends,

Were just,
Your friends,
For the present moment.
For music,
Reminds us.
That’s the other pure truth.
Music will always be there.
In your head,
In your world.
It never leaves.
What does that tell,
Once again,
We find ourselves painting,
For years,
And years,
Like greek legend,
We lose ourselves.
And once again,
With tears,
Or music,
Or that,
Oh no,
My friends.
My cry,
That this poem,
Was written in transition to,
The bliss,
We all know,


You can do it!

You can do it,

I believe in you!



Whether it’s been a:







You can do it!

Although the spark itself is empty;

The parks hail with heavens…


Don’t reside;

Do what you have to do.



You might be surprised how much a little good

Can do.


Cry at lakes,

Hands in your face,

There’s no way to say…

What you can feel so deeply…





Get off my chest (Bullshit Please Don’t Read)

Since I’ve turned 25 there has been a girl of the month. A tinder girl I visited in a Eastern Washington town in August, a girl I knew from college who sends me random nudes in September, a girl from my hometown I spent a whole evening with in October, a chubby gal who left during November, a fuck buddy reconnect in December, a Co-Ed in January. Part of coping with losing a 3 year Relationship (I wanted it over, she wanted it over, but it was still a big change) probably. Some of them have been friends with benefits. That was fun usually. Not always. Sometimes meaningless sex is just that. Some I’ve been really excited about. Those have been more interesting, since I’ve consistently found a way to make it not happen. Not self sabotage style, but via actual revealing of myself. Once through drinking, once after a month and a half of texting and even a actual date. The last one was the girl of January. It’s a fresh wound. I’m still hurt, and confused, and conflicted by the fact of that pain since it was good before.

This model is what I missed in college, during the span of that three year relationship. It’s undeniably harder to live this way now. Post early twenties. Post long term relationship. All the other elements of my life scream complete in some capacity, I’ve found adulthood. It’s boring and better all at once, but my relationship status fails to have grown up with the rest of me. I don’t really know what to do about that. Like, how do you find someone compatible, with the right amount of common and different? How do you even make friends at this age? How do you turn your crippling anxieties and depressions into anything that someone else is willing to help you deal with? Where do you find the fucking girl that also grew up with Jurassic Park and the Matthew Broderick Godzilla movie and she’s also the same amount of hot as you? What if the answer is you don’t?

To the girls of the month, thank you for everything. To the girl who is everything, where are you? To the notion of true love, why did you go corporate? To myelf, you need to be happy with yourself more than anything. Also to myself, I fucking love myself, so redact that last sentence. Also to myself, you’re selfish. And once more, to myself, don’t give up.

Waiting Helps

In Buddhism, there is this notion of “Samsara”.  This is the world of desire – the universe of suffering that arises when we want things to be one way, when they are presently another way.  Samsara is a painful feeling.  For example, you might wake up on a perfectly fine morning.  The sun is shining, etc.  You put on some good music and cook breakfast.  Then, a little thought supposes itself…some predicament.  It’s the exact same thing as a cloud passing by overhead, but instead this is passing through your psychological life.

You might say, “My anxiety is telling me to do my taxes right now.  Surely, this is rational?  I have to do my taxes, or there will be consequences.”  True.  But it’s all about one’s relationship with that thought.  You must do your taxes, but your taxes also must do you.  Where’s the rush?

The best way to deal with Samsara is remain aware of it.  There is part of the mind that wants to see things change, and that’s a wonderful yearning.  But in order for things to change, you have to wait.  Waiting is boring.  It feels like the opposite of healing.  Samsaric logic believes that waiting will make the moon crash into the Earth…but interestingly, it only takes about a minute for things to refresh, and then you’re left wondering why waiting ever felt difficult.

You’re Perfect



You’re beautiful

Even when you fail…


You’re beautiful

Even if you mess it all up.


Even if a little voice says to do it right

And you do it wrong,

You’re still good.


The sun can impale me

And I’ll still say it…

We can move away from each other and I can lose sight of you

For a long time…


I don’t know what this world wants from me,

It wants something between sanity and madness.


But let’s stop for a second and say to one another

Very simply, “I love you quite a lot!”


I care about you,

I care about you…


I want the best for you.

You are definitely worth it.

You are stunning and amazing

You’re perfect and hospitable.

You’re powerful and strong and gorgeous…

Has anyone ever told you that you’re simply gorgeous?

It flows off of you so effortlessly.


Even when you paint and your shadow-side shows through

And you want to tear the dreaded thing in half…

Just relax…

You’re still doing it right!


Isn’t that surprising?

You’re perfect;

You could still be better but you’re perfect.



When everything else is dried up

At least we’re connected forever…

At least the darkness comes for me,

And at least you greet me in the weather.


When everything else is dead,

You seem to be bright.

Hands 1-3


In search of brutal hands

that can bash in skulls and eyes and tongue,

hands that turn the person to primordial

and leave visceral poetry across

the crime scenes, hands that pour

goat milk and raw honey from Grecian vases

and waterboard this temple until

it cries out cosmic truth,

hands made of serpent flesh

that pull hearts and lungs from cages

and examines them in the fresh mountain sun

looking for potential jewels,

hands that do the work of Revalations,

that drum and trumpet the beat of four riders

pulling apart this husk

in those cardinal directions

leaving a mandala of all one was

for scavengers to fight over,

hands that won’t let go till our

fervorous pleas of OH-PLEASE-KILL-ME

aren’t speaking from a place of fear

but from the roots,

in search of those hands

that show us all that remains

good in a man.



If I rub my hands together, with enough force

I can turn the dust into sparks,

a handful of lightning thoughts and thunder beliefs,

and if I do it long enough,

there will be plenty for you and for me.


And if we rub our hands together, with enough force,

we can turn all fear into a seedling,

a tree with roots tangled in and out our

skin, blossoms bursting through our chests

and fruit shall fall from our eyes

as we age.


I rub my hands across the petals of your lips,

I can turn them into ash, with enough force,

and then I can hold more of you

in my hands.


If I rub my hands together

I can turn your dust into sparks

all lightning struck tree,

planted in the palm of me.



Those who can read

Know her as a star map, already fading


those who can touch

Know her sympathy can, in fact, vanish


Those who can hold

End up knowing she doesn’t really want them


Those who are offered, though,

Know she is handing them a second chance.