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  • The safest conversations are usually the most useless.

    What topics do you like to discuss?


    The Ones That Get You in Trouble
    My kind of chaos and gratitude

    I like to discuss the three things polite society pretends not to touch
    while building entire empires on top of them:

    Race.
    Religion.
    Politics.

    The holy trinity of Thanksgiving silence.

    You bring them up at the wrong table and suddenly everyone becomes a hostage negotiator—
    soft voices, careful words, hands hovering near exits that don’t exist.

    But I’ve found something.

    If I can talk to someone about all three—
    really talk, not the curated, LinkedIn-approved version of talking—
    and nobody flips the table, throws a drink, or starts quoting something they half-read in 2007…

    then I know I’m sitting across from someone rare.

    Someone who doesn’t need their beliefs to be bubble-wrapped.

    Someone who understands that ideas are not heirlooms—
    they’re tools.
    And tools get dirty.
    Sometimes they break.
    Sometimes they get replaced.

    Race, religion, politics—
    they’re not dangerous because they exist.
    They’re dangerous because people treat them like loaded weapons
    instead of unfinished conversations.

    So yes, those are my topics.

    Not because I enjoy chaos—
    though I won’t lie, chaos has a certain charm when it’s honest—

    but because I’m looking for the few people
    who can walk through intellectual fire
    without needing to burn someone else to stay warm.

    No fists.

    No performance.

    No algorithmic outrage.

    Just two people,
    sitting in the wreckage of big ideas,
    still curious enough to ask one more question.

    If we can do that—

    then maybe we’re not as far gone as the loudest voices keep insisting.

    And if we can’t?

    Well…

    there’s always the weather.

  • The Hour Before The Noise

    Don’t let them sleep

    You will be told to keep it down.
    You will be called edgy, angry, reckless, dangerous, misinformed.
    You will be warned to think before you speak,
    but the only ones worrying about your volume will be those who fear your voice.
    Truth is treated as noise by those who live
    securely behind their own proof of lies.
    We’ve been told who to hate,
    we’ve been told who to trust,
    we’ve been told when to mourn,
    we’ve been told what to fear.
    And with each order, they’ve made the world quieter, emptier, and easier to control.
    A country where anger, grief, heartbreak, and dissent are classified as symptoms instead of signals.
    Turn it up until they know your name.
    Shatter the windows.
    Wake the neighbors.
    They tell us to be disarmed.
    Let’s make sure they can’t sleep

  • The Inheritance


    We were given names for things
    long before we knew how to question them.

    [PAGE 1]

    They handed it to us early.
    Before we had the language to question it.

    A name.
    A color.
    A place to stand.

    Not chosen.
    Just… assigned.

    [PAGE 3]

    You grow into it.

    Like a scar—
    tight at first,
    then normal,
    then invisible.

    Until someone presses on it.

    [PAGE 7]

    It’s strange, the way we inherit distance.

    Same coffee.
    Same tired eyes.
    Same quiet fear about time slipping.

    Still—
    not the same.

    So you start looking for proof.

    [PAGE 11]

    Skin becomes signal.
    Language becomes warning.
    God becomes territory.

    No one says it outright.

    They don’t have to.

    [PAGE 18]

    The program was never loud.

    It lives in the small things—
    the glance,
    the pause,
    the almost-word.

    Passed down like something sacred
    no one remembers buying.

    [PAGE 26]

    Religion—
    the version we were handed—

    Feels less like a door
    and more like a fence.

    Different names for the same sky.
    Different rules for the same dust.

    [PAGE 31]

    Every now and then
    it slips.

    A conversation that works when it shouldn’t.
    A laugh that ignores the lines.

    For a second—
    none of it exists.

    [PAGE 32]

    But it comes back.

    Because seeing it
    doesn’t mean you’re free of it.

    It waits
    in your first reaction.

    Proof it was built deep.

  • FRAGMENTS FROM A MAN WHO WALKED BACK

    What book could you read over and over again?

    Some pages missing
    “If that’s what crazy is than I’m as far gone down the road wacko as it gets”

    Thought I was him once.

    Randle P. McMurphy
    laughing too loud
    pushing too hard
    mistaking noise for control.

    —

    Turns out—

    you can rattle a cage so long
    you forget
    you’re still inside it.

    —

    Did my time near the edge.

    Not a metaphor.

    Real enough
    that I still catch myself scanning rooms
    for exits
    I don’t need anymore.

    —

    There’s a taste to it.

    Not freedom.
    Not power.

    Something… cheaper.

    Easy to confuse the two
    when you’re young
    or angry
    or both.

    —

    Watched a few go over.

    Didn’t come back.

    Still walking.
    Still talking.

    Nothing behind the eyes
    but compliance dressed up as calm.

    —

    One of them smiled at me once—
    like he recognized something.

    I still don’t know
    which side of the glass he thought I was on.

    —

    I came back.

    Not proud of it.
    Not ashamed either.

    Just… done.

    —

    People call it discipline.

    Feels more like
    recognition.

    You see the line once
    you don’t need to test it every day.

    —

    I can still go there.

    That’s not gone.

    Just… unnecessary.

    —

    There’s a version of me
    that solves problems fast.

    Doesn’t ask.
    Doesn’t wait.

    Useful in the wrong world.

    Dangerous in the right one.

    —

    So I keep him close.

    Not buried.

    Not unleashed.

    On a leash
    I hold.

    Most days.

    —

    Walk among the civil now.

    Nod.
    Build.
    Keep things moving.

    They think it’s reform.

    It’s not.

    It’s selection.

    —

    Sometimes I miss it—
    not the damage,
    just the clarity.

    —

    Some people never leave the path.

    Some never see it.

    Some of us—

    stepped off
    went too far
    came back
    different.

    —

    You don’t preach after that.

    You don’t wake people up.

    You just…
    stop sleeping.

    —

    One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest got one thing right—

    the loud ones don’t always win.

    Sometimes they just
    fade out slower.

    —

    I learned where that road ends.

    Didn’t like the ending.

    Left early.

    Or maybe I was let out.

    —

    If it all tilts—
    if the structure forgets what it’s holding—

    I won’t freeze.

    I won’t ask.

    I won’t wonder.

    —

    Not because I’m reckless.

    Because I remember
    how quiet it gets
    right before something breaks.

    —

    Most days—

    quiet.

    Measured.

    Forgettable, even.

    —

    That’s fine.

    —

    But not harmless.

    Never that.

    —

    (last line scratched out, still legible)
    I could still enjoy it, if I let myself.

  • I Almost Tattooed Rage on My Face

    I Almost Tattooed Rage on My Face

    What tattoo do you want and where would you put it?

    I Almost Tattooed Rage on My Face

    (For Jack & James)

    I almost did it.

    Sat there long enough to picture it—

    ink crawling out from the corners of my eyes

    like something that refused to stay buried.

    Not decorative.

    Not symbolic.

    A warning.

    The kind of thing that says,

    don’t get too close unless you mean it.

    I told myself it would be honest.

    That it would save time.

    No small talk.

    No pretending.

    You’d see me—

    or at least the version of me

    I thought was still in charge.

    The one who keeps score.

    The one who remembers everything.

    The one who could burn it all down

    and call it justice.

    I thought about wearing it

    where no one could ignore it.

    Right there.

    Across the face.

    So I wouldn’t have to explain

    why my voice goes quiet

    when people say things like

    “everything happens for a reason.”

    So I wouldn’t have to pretend

    I don’t still feel it—

    that split-second flash

    where the world narrows

    and something ancient in me

    steps forward.

    I almost gave that version of me a name.

    A uniform.

    A permanent place to live.

    But then I realized something—

    I’ve already worn it.

    Not in ink.

    In glances.

    In silence.

    In the way I left rooms

    without saying goodbye.

    In the way I held onto anger

    like it was the last thing

    I had left of him.

    As if letting go of it

    would mean letting go of him.

    And that’s the lie, isn’t it?

    That rage is proof of love.

    That if I soften,

    I’ve forgotten.

    But he didn’t live like that.

    Not really.

    He fought, sure.

    He burned bright.

    But he laughed too easy

    for someone who was supposed to carry what I carry now.

    He didn’t stay in the worst moment.

    So why would I?

    I sat there thinking about that—

    about putting something permanent on my face

    to mark something

    that was never meant to be permanent.

    And for the first time,

    it felt… unnecessary.

    Like writing a headline

    for a story I’ve already outgrown.

    I don’t need to wear rage anymore

    to remember him.

    I don’t need to prove

    how far I could go

    if I stopped caring.

    Because I do care.

    That’s the whole thing.

    That’s the part I was trying to hide

    behind something sharp.

    So no—

    I didn’t get the tattoo.

    Not on my face.

    Not anywhere you can see.

    But something is there.

    Something quieter.

    Not a warning—

    a presence.

    Not stay back

    but walk with me.

    And if you look close enough—

    not at my skin,

    but at the way I move through the world now—

    you might see it.

    Not the rage.

    But what’s left

    after I finally stopped needing it

    to speak for me.

  • Someone could be but I

    If you could be someone else for a day, who would you be, and why?

    If I could be someone else for a day?

    First of all, what a suspicious question.

    It presumes I am insufficient.
    It suggests there is a better vantage point.
    A shinier skull to occupy.
    A more impressive mask to borrow.

    It feels like a parlor game designed for polite envy.

    “Lincoln.”
    “Bowie.”
    “Einstein.”
    “Someone rich.”

    But after doing a little shadow work — the kind that makes you sit still longer than you want to — I’ve realized something uncomfortable.

    The only people I’ve ever wanted to be… were fragments I recognized in myself.

    I don’t want to be Abraham Lincoln.
    I want his steadiness under pressure.

    I don’t want to be David Bowie.
    I want his permission to shapeshift.

    I don’t want to be Albert Einstein.
    I want his refusal to accept the obvious answer.

    And as for Fyodor Mikhailovich Dostoevsky —
    I don’t want to be him either.

    I want the sentence I stole from him and pinned above my internal doorway:

    “Above all, don’t lie to yourself.”

    That’s not identity theft.
    That’s apprenticeship.

    After staring at my own shadow long enough — thank you, Carl Jung — I’ve realized something far less romantic than body-swapping.

    The fantasy of being someone else is usually just a refusal to finish being yourself.

    There is no other man I would rather inhabit for a day.

    Not because I’ve perfected this one.
    Not because it’s comfortable.
    Not because it wins.

    But because this one is honest.

    And honesty is harder than admiration.

    If I became someone else for a day, I would miss the friction that made me.
    The grief that carved me.
    The strange wiring that lets me see beauty in broken things.

    No.

    If I could be someone else for a day,
    I’d choose to be the part of myself I sometimes avoid.

    The shadow that says,
    “Above all, don’t lie to yourself.”

    And then I’d come back —
    unchanged in name,
    but slightly less afraid of who I already am.

  • The Law I Wouldn’t Write

    If you had the power to change one law, what would it be and why?

    I’ve been sitting with this question longer than I expected to. Not because I lack answers — but because the more honest ones don’t arrive cleanly.

    If I had the power to rewrite one law, I would hesitate — not out of humility, but out of suspicion. History suggests that anyone eager to rewrite the rules usually believes they are the exception to them.

    I’ve learned to distrust simple answers, especially the ones that arrive wearing moral certainty like a uniform.

    That’s the trap.

    Every age produces its architects of certainty — people convinced they’ve finally identified the flaw in humanity that can be corrected with enough authority and a well-placed signature. They come armed with good intentions and leave behind unintended consequences.

    So when someone asks me which law I would change, I find myself resisting the premise. Not because nothing needs fixing — plenty does — but because the desire to impose order often reveals more about our fear of chaos than our understanding of truth.

    The problem isn’t that laws exist. The problem is that laws are blunt instruments trying to govern something that refuses to be blunt: human beings.

    Maybe the real issue isn’t legislative at all.

    Maybe it’s cultural.

    We say we believe in free speech, but what we often mean is safe speech. Approved speech. Speech that arrives pre-sanitized so no one has to feel the friction of disagreement.

    But truth rarely arrives politely.

    Truth interrupts. It disturbs. It exposes contradictions — especially where power insists none exist.

    Somewhere along the way, we stopped fearing censorship from above.
    And started practicing it on ourselves.

    Quietly. Efficiently.

    Until silence began to feel natural.

    Consensus has never been a reliable compass for truth. Every meaningful shift in human history began as something offensive to the status quo — not because it was cruel, but because it refused to conform to the narrative everyone else had agreed to protect.

    The most effective form of control isn’t imposed by force. It’s adopted willingly — when people learn to silence themselves before anyone else has to.

    The hardest freedom isn’t speaking without limits. It’s choosing restraint when you could easily go further.

    I’ve learned that life doesn’t exist in slogans. It lives in the gray spaces — in contradiction, in tension, in the uncomfortable distance between certainty and doubt.

    Maybe that’s why I hesitate.

    Not because I lack opinions — I have more than enough — but because every law begins as someone’s certainty, and certainty has a habit of mistaking control for wisdom.

    We imagine the right rule will finally fix us. That somewhere there exists a perfectly worded sentence capable of correcting human chaos.

    But chaos isn’t a flaw in the design.

    It is the design.

    We are contradiction walking upright — capable of cruelty and grace within the same breath.

    And so I resist the urge to legislate discomfort away.

    Because the real danger isn’t that people might hear something they dislike.

    The real danger is that we stop risking honesty altogether.

    So if I had the power to rewrite one law, I suspect the bravest thing I could do would be nothing at all.

    Not out of apathy.

    Out of respect.

    Because maybe the most important law isn’t the one we write.

    Maybe it’s the one we refuse to — and always will

  • The Hour I Stopped Pretending.

    The Hour I Stopped Pretending.

    Are there any activities or hobbies you’ve outgrown or lost interest in over time?

    Today’s prompt asks what hobbies or activities I’ve lost interest in over time.

    The Hour I Stopped Pretending.

    The answer came to me immediately:

    Happy hour.

    Though somewhere along the way, I started calling it Unhappy Hour — not out of bitterness, just accuracy.

    There was a time when I enjoyed it. Or at least, I enjoyed the idea of it. The promise of connection. The belief that if you gathered enough people in one place long enough, something meaningful might eventually happen.

    And sometimes it did.

    ——————————————————

    But over the years, my relationship with time changed.

    Part of that is practical. I don’t drink anymore, which turns social rituals into something easier to observe than participate in. Without the soft blur of alcohol, you start to notice patterns — conversations looping back on themselves, laughter arriving a half-second too late, people searching for the next safe thing to say.

    It begins to feel less like connection and more like choreography.

    Nobody’s doing anything wrong. In fact, everyone is usually trying their best. But there’s a quiet performance happening — an agreement to stay on the surface where things feel manageable.

    And maybe that’s where I drifted away.

    Because what I realized is that I haven’t lost interest in people.

    I’ve lost interest in pretending.

    Time stops feeling infinite at some point. You begin to understand that every hour carries weight, whether you acknowledge it or not. And once that shift happens, the idea of spending it in conversations that never leave the shallow end starts to feel… expensive.

    These days, I find myself wanting fewer interactions, but deeper ones.

    Conversations where nobody is trying to win.

    Where silence is allowed to breathe.

    Where you can say something real without watching it bounce awkwardly off polite smiles.

    Maybe that makes me less social by traditional standards.

    Or maybe it just means I’ve become more honest about what connection actually feels like.

    I still believe in gathering. I still believe in laughter. I still believe in the magic that happens when the right people sit down together and forget to check the time.

    But I no longer believe proximity alone creates meaning.

    So yes — happy hour is probably the activity I’ve lost interest in.

    Not because I’ve lost my sense of humor.

    Not because I dislike people.

    But because I’ve learned that time is the one thing that never comes back once you’ve spent it.

    And if I’m going to give mine away, I want to know it mattered.

    –

    These days, I don’t avoid happy hour because I’ve become less social.

    I avoid it because I finally learned the difference between passing time and living inside it.

  • My First Computer Was A Mirror

    My First Computer Was A Mirror

    Write about your first computer.

    My first computer wasn’t mine.

    It was my old man’s.

    He had an Apple IIe back when Michigan still thought a “home computer” was something you yelled at. My father collected firsts the way other men collected regrets. Not to brag — to know. He wanted to see how the future worked before it decided what it was.

    That machine sat in our house like a glowing confession booth. Green letters on a black screen. The future, stuttering.

    Mine showed up in 1997.

    By then, the future had learned how to sell itself.

    That was the year I became that guy — the one who corrected people at parties over a commercial.

    “Jobs didn’t write that,” I’d say, beer in hand, moral high ground wobbling under my feet. “That’s beat poetry in a business suit. He just stole it and slapped a logo on the ribs.”

    I called it blasphemy — using dead poets to move plastic and silicon.

    But I respected the hustle.

    Because in one clean, arrogant move, he didn’t sell you a computer.

    He sold you a seat at the same table as Einstein and Gandhi and Picasso.

    Buy this machine and maybe, kid, you’re one of them now.

    I couldn’t tell if Jobs was in a garage somewhere burning his fingers on a soldering iron…

    Or just the best preacher Silicon Valley ever produced.

    While all that was flashing across the TV, I was in my room discovering a different sin.

    I started writing.

    In 1997, writing poems on a computer felt like cheating on paper. My classmates were bleeding into notebooks, breaking hearts in cursive. Love songs, death songs, soft-focus misery.

    I was staring at a screen, trying to figure out how to be a hard version of Sylvia Plath without driving my own car into a lake.

    I tried pretty metaphors. Lakes as mirrors. Souls as reflections.

    I hated all of it.

    So I wrote my first real poem instead:

    “Dionysus and the Silver Spoon.”

    It was about a man who treated excess like oxygen. A drunk god in a borrowed suit who thought the world owed him women, wine, and a standing ovation.

    It wasn’t mythology.

    It was me with better lighting.

    And that’s when the joke landed.

    There I was, calling out Jobs for dressing up as Kerouac…

    While I was wearing Plath and dead gods like a Halloween costume, hoping someone in the room would clap.

    That computer didn’t teach me how to write.

    It taught me how to look at myself without flinching.

    It showed me the hunger. The vanity. The quiet little prayer every creative mutters when no one’s listening:

    Please don’t let this be invisible.

    So yeah.

    My first computer wasn’t a machine.

    It was a barroom mirror at 2 a.m.

    The kind that doesn’t care who you think you are.

    It just shows you who’s still standing.

  • The Signal (From The Department of Public Noise.

    You will be told to keep it down.
    You will be called edgy, angry, reckless, dangerous, misinformed.
    You will be warned to think before you speak,
    but the only ones worrying about your volume will be those who fear your voice.
    Truth is treated as noise by those who live
    securely behind their own proof of lies.
    We’ve been told who to hate,
    we’ve been told who to trust,
    we’ve been told when to mourn,
    we’ve been told what to fear.
    And with each order, they’ve made the world quieter, emptier, and easier to control.
    A country where anger, grief, heartbreak, and dissent are classified as symptoms instead of signals.
    Turn it up until they know your name.
    Shatter the windows.
    Wake the neighbors.
    They tell us to be disarmed.
    Let’s make sure they can’t sleep.