From Ponderings

Life as System: the Macro represented in the Micro

On the corner of Panola and Burdette there lies a quaint cafe by the name of Riccobono’s. Charging 8 bucks for a meager “two, two, three,” they run a steep risk and what’s more interesting, I’ve yet to ever see a black person working in the front of house. Upon entering I was met by the cold eyes of a murderous grip of elderly waitresses. As they peered into me over their wireframe spectacles, I greeted them with a hearty, somewhat biding “Hel-looo” and let it ring out across the dining hall. I strolled up to the register, proceeded to…

Names to Nicknames (Respectively Ordered)

First, I was Cole then I became Cher, Her little sack ‘a puhtaytuhs.   First I was Cole, then I became Cola, my Father’s Bubba.   First I was Cole then I became Coley Oley Oley, Mama’s infinitely expanding Roley Poley Oley.   First I was Cole, then I became Mole, Mecca’s best mate, (Halo at Brandon’s).   First I was Cole, then I became Chaos,  Darcie’s Umbral Knight; her tween scion… of her battle, for her husband, that Aidan be her memory. (I grieve)   First I was Cole, then I became Lil Moco,  (Bats in the Cave), blurred line between…

Reflections at Two

Reflections at 2 usually consist of reflections on “you” the subject of the self – the unlaced shoe –   I smack my little soldier of death hard on the rim-lip of the ash tray and lock it’s smoke into limerick   stealing the key away as if to say “Goodnight Gorilla” a subtle trick, child’s play   and I hope this dread ceases to curl up into my face, its wispy kisses stinking,   the cat whiskers fresh in my mind, the old memory uncorked to breathe   and though it was just this morning, I can’t shake this…

Not Yet

Here We Are Here We Are Again   Swinging Ourselves through The Seasons My Friend   So Here We Are Here We Are Again   Counting Our Blessings Alone in the Stillness That Lies Beneath   Lonely Now Lonely Then Lonely Even as We Think of Each Other   So Let’s Not Stress the Rest Just Allow it to Blossom These Lovely Fruits Grown from Our Chests:   A Love Matured A Love Untarnished and Pure A Love Flourished   A Love Born from Mutual Respect A Love Not Recognized   Not Just Yet…   Not Just Yet.

Mentirse, “La Mejor Manera Venirse”

La mente es un pozo y la fundación, un cuerpo.   Y la cima?   Qué existe en la cima? O quién? de donde somos y donde nos vamos… ?   Preguntas preguntado en busca de la mejor manera venirse, besos perfectos, algunos raro, otros falso.    


writer’s laminate

“If writing’s what you love to do, then do it and don’t ever stop doing it. Because the only thing we’ll ever have is what we love.” – Cole K. Yet I find myself lost, wondering about my own merit. Gauging my success with a flawed metric.   Success should be derived from accomplishments, feats of independence not from the opinions of others. Even still, our humanity requires comparisons to be made– from one soul to the next we encompass each other as if eclipses of some divine Being.   the pen moves itself across the page and the writers…

signed in clay fingerprints

cloaking themselves in the fabric of time, my thoughts weave patterns until I’m left an empty stomach and a sunken set of eyes.   Even so, I can clearly see the two of us as we work towards an existence unknown; towards expanded imaginations and deepened perceptions.   like bookends we might never need average the score, our means forever apparent and crudely bound–   their strong spines proudly tattooed, their titles written across their flesh.


Some of the content below will hold appeal, while a lot of it may not. Although I’m sharing this essay with you, I do want to remind you that this was written to help me understand how I can best live my own life.  Bear with me as I delve into an exploration of time, space, consciousness, and intelligent design. If the physical matter given to you (your body) is yours to keep until you die, and if your consciousness is a constant that doesn’t really change over time, how do you become both your past and future selves simultaneously? How…

Due Inversia

I. Agape, my brother. This notion we do not yet observe:   Soured, our eyes throw daggers and spit needles. We cannot decide which is worse.   “Ten years,” We say, “ten years of friendship,” “Things will never change.”   II. We walk with willows. Lashes of giants acquiesce while ancestors weave signs.   Rescue costs $3.33 My dog sits like a human And business is business.   “Life’s a bitch and then you die,” Echoes the lo-fi track. It fades to silence.   III. My heart beats. It rocks the mattress.