all you destroy

i remember

one summer evening, sitting

on the hill after we watched the sun set,

the clouds lit from below

as the light slowly left the sky and, god

it was beautiful.

i rested my head in your lap, and I said,

zack,

do you believe that man is inherently good or evil?

and you

stroked my hair, with that

wistful little smile of yours

and as i looked up into your eyes

i was afraid.

i could feel it,

everything,

the earth the sky the sun the great tall trees and the heavy rolling waves and

life, my god, life! everything all interconnected

and me and you just

two tiny specks of cosmic dust

two grains in the hourglass

(two lost souls swimming in a fishbowl,

oh, l’absurdité de l’existence)

and all of it

(a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

signifying) nothing—

(when the sun is eclipsed by the moon)

nothing

nothing

nothing.

and there must be something,

i thought,

something you can see in it,

some end that you seek or meaning that you make,

somewhere to lay the blame, somewhere to draw the line,

some way to know whether to hate yourself or to hate the others,

something that remains when

at the end of the day you close your eyes and

disappear.

and you smiled at me,

because you were confused,

because you wanted so badly to help

but there was nothing to be done

and you knew that,

god! you knew all of it, all along

that everything I ache over is

nothing.

so you smiled,

hurt, afraid,

but knowing it would all be okay

once the sun set

and we fell asleep.

and

maybe

i just haven’t

woken up yet.

zack

this is why

i need you.

Jabby asked me recently how I came upon naming myself irreverence.

For one, it’s just a pretty word.

It’s also an attitude I’m rather fond of.

And I recently observed that irreverent is a very good word for describing myself.

You see,

I treat my objects roughly.

I stomp down staircases,

I hold stacks of dishes in one hand while putting away something else,

I tug out what I want from the bottom of the pile without moving what’s on top,

I get paint on my clothes,

I don’t pay attention to how much it would cost to repair or replace things.

I love morbid humor.

I’d rather offend someone with what I really think

than say something I don’t mean.

I don’t consider anything “too serious to joke about” and

I believe everything is open for both criticism and praise

(even God, even Hitler

and don’t pull the “you wouldn’t say that if you were Jewish!” because

he would’ve killed me too,

as well as my ex’s ancestors,

thanks).

I dislike government and organized religion

as well as hierarchy and orthodoxy and convention themselves.

I firmly believe that

everything must be questioned,

nothing deserves to be idolized unless it’s been put to a test,

there is beauty in the worst destruction,

and humor in the greatest of tragedies.

you know,

It’s funny how

a username can tell you something as simple as

the name someone’s friends call them, or

their favorite snack food, or sometimes

their deepest philosophical beliefs.

Today, I’ve suddenly been overtaken with reveries of

exquisite Victorian mansions,

vast libraries with tome after tome of ancient wisdom,

deep red wine and rich dark chocolate,

hand-carved mahogany tables,

polished silver candlesticks reflecting a dim flame,

calligraphy pens and india ink on creamy parchment,

bare feet on hardwood floors and Persian rugs,

callous hands on silk sleeves,

whalebone corsets on porcelain skin,

haughty smiles glimpsed in priceless mirrors.

{

Hedonistic luxury,

decadence and decay.

}

Perhaps I’ll write today.

+ play laser tag in cosplay. thinking Mello or Cyan.

+ drunken Duck Duck Goose.

thank you, awesome people at the laser tag place.

this is the part where

you say,

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled”

and I say,

“it’s okay, you were right”

and we walk away in silence

and maybe talk about the weather

burying it until next month

when we do it all

over again.

it’s still

nothing

like you.

nothing will ever be.

You never would have caught my eye in a club. You wouldn’t have seduced me with your charm. Even your wit isn’t so remarkable as to make me swoon. You’re too humble, too wholesome, too wise, too gentle.

You won me over slowly and quietly, a dull rot, and now you’ve eaten your way into my heart, and my brain, and god, you’re all I think about.

The kid from the nightclub is gorgeous. Violet hairdye, thick makeup, perfect skin. Low-slung black skinnyjeans and nice hipbones and a lack of decency. Self-absorbed and glamorous and beautifully artificial. He probably stands in front of the mirror for two hours everyday. Young, foolish, breakable.  I like that. He’s already selfdestructing, but there’s no Miltonesque tragedy in it, just a condescending shake of the head. He brings out the sadistic voyeur in me and makes me want to help him burn that much faster.

Then there’s the guy I met on the goddamn internet, of all places. Cocky, forward, shameless. Arrogant, self-reliant, sure of himself, but not pretentious; a clever charm and a certain carelessness about how his actions are read. He seems like the sort who always wins in the end, even if it’s in the way you least expected. Were he a bit less friendly he’d be Lawful Evil, taking anything he wants with careful manipulation and no remorse. He’s one of the few that make me crave to be owned, one of the few I would fall to my knees for. And I haven’t even seen his face. The fact that he can enrapture me with words alone makes him all the more desirable.

And you, Zack, what do you have? No flawless skin and Hollywood glamour, no wicked charm and princely pride. An honest smile and relaxed sort of sarcasm. More humble than anything else. And why, why in the great wide world, are you of all people so addicting?

it’s a dull ache.

and it’s irritating.

and i want it to go away.

but thinking about it just makes it worse.

and christ, isaac goddamn levy it sounds like your name.

ISAAC

from the hebrew which meant,

he laughs

you know, isaac levy

there’s a phone number scrawled along my thumb in turquoise sharpie that hasn’t washed off yet

it’s some emo kid, or whichever he calls himself.

kissed me then said he was straight then gave me his number. whatever, i’d hit it.

he doesn’t look like you

at all.