The Forgotten Ways of Love and Sex (poem)

It seemed to me ,
Dawned upon me
That is was as if
An entire generation
Had forgotten
How to fuck.

The smell of it
The taste of it
The sweat of it
How to make the body prance
And the legs shiver
Into glorious

It seemed to me
That an entire generation
Was lulled into
the boredom
Of porn
And fake fetishism

That any of it
Had to do
With the physical
At all.

We have lowered
To cheap tricks
Meant for adrenaline junkies
Nothing more
And nothing less
(And no one else)

A jolt to the body
But a stab to the soul.
The sadness of it
Made me wander
For months

How did we forget.
That the power
That the fire
That the path
To love
And sex
Rested in her eyes.

Every shiver
Of the body
Every curve
Every time
The lips came to
Her breast
And thighs
Her hips
And lips

Was meant as a message
To the gods
That we are well
And alive
Here on earth

Bodies crave
And then bodies cave
As we breathe ourselves
Into each other’s skins
‘Till nothing exists
But her and I
Laying there
In the purest
Of silence
And nothingness

There is nothing


On Climbing

Gravity doesn’t give a fuck about who you think you are.

That’s the real beauty of climbing.

I hadn’t expected to find the same kind of emotional satisfaction from climbing as I get from writing or painting. It really took over lately and it’s not a career plan in any way which is also part of its appeal. It simply is only a fight against yourself and there is absolutely no purpose behind it.

It is the way I used to write and then the way I used to paint and maybe that’s why I enjoy it so much. There’s no contract attached to it. I don’t need to answer to a potential client or (non-existent) public.

It’s taken me away from the focus of novels for over a year now and I am powerless against it.

I am especially fond of the bloc. I like the falling part of it. I like how you can’t cheat it and rest on the rope. I like how you have to complete all of it in a single set and it’s impossible to do it otherwise. It’s downhill if you slip and I hit the wall, twist, turn, do everything I can to keep at it but again : gravity doesn’t give a fuck who you think you are.

It pushes me to my most visceral self at times. It really works on the nerves, and I mean physiological nerves. My body is lean as could be, my muscles are stiff. My muscular capacity can hold my weight just fine. The muscles could take it but it’s driven by sheer will power to hold at this point till the pain is too much for you to even move. It hits you in the nerves when it’s too much. I do it to exhaustion and then crash on a pad and life is a bliss for a couple minutes.

There are muscles on my body I didn’t know existed and I can’t lie, I like it.

I like the very moment when I take on a very small crimp. I like the very instant when I shake my hand, place the phalanges of my fingers exactly where they need to go. A millimeter more and I would slip and fall. I like the moment when I tense up and get ready to put all of my weight on exactly two square inches on my own skin and pull.

I like to look at the path, the way, and see the space underneath it. I like to get a feel for the angles. I like how I have to listen to my body, the weight of it, the placement of it. I like how I can only force it so far and have to listen to what the path requires instead of trying to power my way through it. And then I like to break that rule down and prove to myself there was a second way to get to the top, a third way to get to the top, that a moment of arrogance and strength can be enough to overcome the problem and see it through.

I like to nail a 4 or a 5 only to see someone else in there fly through a 6 or a 7. It humbles you to see what the human body can do. If you look at it with passion, you start to see the person’s foot placement, hand position, the way they shifted their body, that little heel hook that keeps everything in place for two seconds in a transition.

I often use climbing as a metaphor for my entire life now.

Snowboarding had a similar feel when I was younger. I wonder if it would still have it. The freedom of not having a purpose in life for a minute except than to live for yourself and yourself alone, see if you still got it in you to make it through.

In the end, I guess it comes down to three lines I keep writing over and over again.





Pick a line,

Stick to it

Don’t fuck up.

The Veracity of the Heart (Poem)

The Veracity of the Heart (Poem)

I climb

The way

I write

The way

I paint

The way

I love

And fuck

And care

For the world

As it shows

Me who I am

But also

Who I can be

And why I should care

(Because I do)

I have been

Blessed and cursed

At times

By this fire in my heart

That won’t let me rest

Until I’ve lived fully

Taken risks

Owed my mistakes

And made amends

Only to try again


This time

Just enough

To make a


In myself

And in the world.

But it happens


When the winds

Become harsh

And the snow starts

To fill the ground

Around me,

I fool myself

(Just like anybody else)

That I could live

Any differently

Than to live


Every single moment

Every emotion

Every waking moment

Of Every day

I hide at times,

As it is necessary

To lick my scars,

Pick at my scabs

And grumble

For a while

But the bruises heal

(Some, it’s true,

more easily

Than others)

And I always

Come back

For more

There never was

Any other way

Not for me,

At least


To carry on

So that now

The scars

Of times past

That mar

My heart

And my skin

And my soul

Will show,

I hope

Not only

That I dared to lived

But most of all

That I dared to live


Don’t be a Writer (Poem)

Don’t be a Writer


Don’t do it.

Don’t put yourself through this

You deserve better than this

Hear me now

Or you’ll find yourself

Up at five in the morning

Digging into yourself

Into your guts

In impossible ways

While the world

Is still asleep


Don’t be a writer

Don’t do this to yourself

Bukowski told you

Roth had warned you

Everyone warned you

Experience doesn’t add up

No two books are the same

It never gets easier

So save yourself the hurt


Be something else

Be an accountant

Be a gardener

Be a carpenter

Be something else

Anything else

Except a writer


And if you found yourself

laughing at this

Smiling at this,

Shaking your head lightly

Then you weren’t meant for it.

It’s fine

It’s good.

Get out now

Leave the room

This wasn’t meant for you


But if my words sparked an anger in you

A fire in you

A daring need to prove me wrong

That unnerving urge

To get on the page

To scream at me

Laugh at me

Lurch towards me

In defiance

Of all the gods

And men

Or simple me

Standing here

With such apparent vitriol


Then congratulations


You are it

You’ve done it

You are there for it

You will live

And die by it

You will lose your mind

And find your soul

One way or another

Until you know

The full meaning

Of the warning


“Don’t do it.”



When the years have come


And passed by

You and I

May know a moment

Of peace together

Over coffee

In a city somewhere

Lost in time

As the world

Has gone somewhere else



We will stand there


In the universe