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New York City

i am leaving the sunshine state in a few short weeks. my time here has been long and fruitful. my companions and the memories we’ve made have been made important and beneficial to my growth, development, and well being.

but i am leaving these fuckers behind without so much as a tear in the eye or a wave goodbye. fuck ‘em. i’ve got visions of newness. i want to unfold into fullness. what if i was on SNL? what if i was in a play that radically challenged society’s way of doing things. what if i walked the streets at 3am after a drunken bar crawl and found chinese take out and brought it back to an apartment with a man i loved. we’d feed each other with chopsticks and drink red wine until we fell asleep on each top of other in not so cute twin bed?

what if i rode the subway and fell in love with a boy with hazel eyes? what if i’m moving for the sake of love itself? to find him. to find his essence. to find myself in his own identity. to smile with pearls and kiss with velvet; beckoning with passion.

maybe it’s not so bad to move with the hope of a man on horizon. maybe it’s sort of wild and daring; an action of bravery and bold determination. the chase is yet to come.

i wonder if i am capable of survival. lord knows i’ve been almost talked out of it. the hands of Los Angeles drag me down to the gutters in hopes of getting me to stay. but i have no one really strapping me down on the beach and forcing me to stay in the sands of opportunity. this all feels like a passing phase that’s folding in on itself with natural grace. the end is near and my tarot deck told me. i have to live for my heart because my heart lives for me.

i can almost taste the chinese and see his beautiful body in front of me, his mind and soul connecting intimately to my own essence and identity. this could be dangerous, but i wouldn’t have it any other way.


i’m having a moment in the sky.

on thursdays the world is a rainstorm
with lightening and streaks of terror;

anguish is monotony

but today the wind is kissing my cheek
and the sun runs her fingers through my hair telling me
i am great.

i own more than i know
and take heed to correction
but i will always bleed when i feel empty.

the world is changing to a new tune
i will follow it through broken hearts and
unsettled friendships

mother calls and
i always answer her.

Fred Phelps

i couldn’t wait for his ass to finally kick the bucket;
all that hate wrapped up in one body soul and mind.
god he hurt me. he tore through my head and heart
and a population of my people for decades.
he had a mouth big enough to hold all of hell inside and it did.
he misunderstood and i will not excuse it 
but it’s baffling how much he managed to get wrong.
what love is
he took that and turned it into tattered rags 
and blood stains.
it’s rare to find a single person with the power to harbor so much ill will that it echoes lasting damage across a planet. 
he was a terrorist. 
gone now. 
his hating corpse rots in dirt and clay.
there is more silence now then there ever was before
and i’m not happy or sad about it,
but i do mourn the loss of what could’ve been; what if any of us gave love away like he gave hate speech. 
i wish to love like a fanatic
and sacrifice like a zealot;
but sadly this requires integrity and exceptional strength
and my arms are like spaghetti noodles.
i’d like to say that i want to intimately know many 
and freely hand out my heart knowing still i might not get it back.
but despite these good intentioned ideals,
reality holds my head hostage:
to hand out hope means to be drained of it too.

despite what is,

i wanna be able to walk around the world with a Fred Phelps sized mouth stuffed full of fertilizer so that every time i spit out speech, patches of flowers grow wild with fat colored petals that dazzle us all. the world around me will smell more and more like jasmine until i myself am a corpse in its ground.

Santa Barbara

the beach was a lonely spot. before i could go i had to buy a pack of cigarettes which is totally hilarious because i told myself i’d take a fucking break. i was at one point quitting but i didn’t quit. on my birthday, after a month of health conscious freedom, i went back to my filthy disgusting black habit. ever since my birthday i’ve been sucked back into the hell constant need and fire. i don’t like smoking anymore. it’s been five years since i took my first drag. which is why it is part of my identity. smoking, as nail clawing as it may sound to say, is who i am.

i drank in a bar alone tonight. with a bunch of rich men. my dad sat alone in the hotel room watching television while i downed a jack and coke. i sat alone on with many on my phone, dilly dallying till the inevitable moment i’d soon face of being alone with my thoughts on the beach.

i ended up stumbling over to the sand and water a little nauseous from my drink. i put my feet in and the waves soaked my jeans. i lit up and stared at twilight. it tasted bland and the fire torches blazed around me making for a sophisticated atmosphere. it didn’t even give me the high i looked for or the thoughts that i assumed would come to surface. it gave me nothing at all. just chemicals and poisons i’ll one day regret (god willing no!).

secrets are secrets and i’ll never tell them (though they’ll always know) i may have a problem with substances. i drink to feel. i smoke because i have to.

i don’t want to end up like my grandmother but i may in the end of it all. and would it be so bad. she was a fierce woman from what i remember of her. and she suffered a heart attack. died before she hit the floor.

that’s how i wanna go.

Confession #317

I changed my avatar.

This is my third picture and third stage in queer life.

I’m no longer David Fisher.

I am Emmett Honeycutt (Queer as Folk).

I no longer fear. I’ve shed most of my neurosis.

I walk with others now, guiding them to glitter.

i am strong when I am alone and I am embracing sack and all the moments (good and bad) that come with it.

A hopeless romantic (though I would never admit it loud and proud like Emmett).

I’ve lost the will to stay complacent.

I am unfinished and want to become more.


This is a journey I am on and it is beautiful to see my three year anniversary of coming out (March 6, 2011) slip right under my nose unnoticeably.


it’s been two years, ‘macklemore,’ where you been?
he brought weed and cigarettes and a mouth hotter than heaven.
i lived in the moments of spread legs and “oh gods”
his auburn scruff and crooked tooth were endearing in the scent of it all.

we weren’t nothing more than old friends rekindling life with sexually charged passions. no tongue, just pursed lips on shafts and i got tired so i used my hands.

it felt nice even though i choked
on foreskin in throat,
it was more than i expected because he didn’t show all at once
ironic how he left at 4:20
but he can’t seem to get enough


you can let go of me whenever you like…
my fingers are too fat for silly rings anyway…

i am tired of being underwhelmed and over-enthused.
sleeping in my bed will be a one of a kind pleasure; 
you’ll have to beg to indulge.
i am always raising stakes
and i’m letting go of my own wicked desperation
to be fulfilled by

y o u.

my worth is a platinum and 
diamond encrusted
gold crown with ruby points
so sharp they’ll stab out whole corneas.

i see everything so clearly now.
have i found the third eye?
i could fucking thrill you.

you wouldn’t believe the sheer power i hold in my hands.
when i pick up crystals i can feel their harmonies and vibrations and 
give them things they didn’t possess before.
i am an all mighty amethyst boulder with titanium lining i got from my faggot forefathers. 

my soul is shelved in a container made of water and cartilage
but it transfers energies faster 
and more frequently
than the new york stock exchange.

i am many more, layered heavily, and i am feeling full.

Confession #316

There is so much in this world I know nothing about. I don’t know anything about anything when I really stop to think about it. I am not a good person. I can never be a good person and I’m having a baby panic attack in this starbucks just thinking about it. I am sipping on fucking Aloe Vera water and writing a screenplay, meanwhile there are people struggling to survive on these streets. Strugglilng with their hardships and emotions and past and present pains. And while all this is going on I’m still trying to construct a plan to get me to NYC so I can be a fucking actor. There is no god but I can look up to a pack of cards for my answers? As if cards are a more logical way of reasoning than an invisible being? Have I morphed into a typical cliché LA spiritualist? What’s next? Organic granola? 

I can’t keep up with my emotions and theories and thoguhts. I can’t keep up with the world let alone a book. I’ve stopped school and therefore must’ve stopped thinking along the way. Stopped being smart anyway. It’s like after you workout for six months, you start eating eggo waffles and Cheetos and before you know it you’ve gained weight. Well, I haven’t gained weight I’ve just lost brain cells. Who am I going to be in six months? An alcoholic? A stoner? An emotional cripple? A narcissist? Oh I feel like each of those already. Where did the days go when I could run outside in sunshine and feel complete after a dip in the neighborhood swimming pool? Why do I cling to substances and the New Age section in Barnes and Noble for moral support? I’m a fucking scholar for Christ sakes!

Jesus, what even is there for me in this life? I don’t believe in anything but running away. Art is a pass time. It means little more. Self-loathing is my screenplay, my forte, and everyone is tired of it. Even me.

The more I dwell the more I slip into pathetic inertia. I hate who I am becoming. I hate so many little details of me that the big picture is hardly visible and all I see are specks of my own stupidity that keep others in their states of suffering.

Inertia and latent sexual experience. This is what it means to be me.

Confession #315

I don’t know you well at all, but this brief acquainting is telling me tall tales of who we could be someday. Sure, we all know I’m a psychotic freak when it comes to lover potentials, but when I’m with you I don’t over think it. I just run with it - with you - and you run with me too. You greeted me out in the rain with a mug of whiskey and a smart phone and, just like that, we ran off to Silverlake in our taxi chariot. Drunken, foolish, and desperate to flirt, we spent a wad of cash on alcohol and McDonalds,

And smoked pack of cigarettes under street lamp light; stealing kisses and caresses outside of a bar. You kissed my purple hands which I found endearing and the sincerity of the moment made me feel like a prince. My scars almost faded from view as the only thing in that moment was you and your hands and your eyes. 

Your lips feel like soft pillows and they fit perfectly with mine. I love your brown hair and the scratchiness it has when you rest your head on my shoulder. I love that I can make you laugh, and that you order whiskey doubles on ice at the bar but don’t judge me for choosing something queeny like margaritas or long islands.

You instagrammed my bleached blonde hair in the dark, when I had my back turned, it was the cutest thing to wake up to. You are someone who appreciates the details of me even in drunken infatuation. I love that we can watch HBO and you feel safe enough to fall asleep on me even after 10pm; the typical booty call hours. You don’t expect anything from me either which is nice because it’s rare to find a man without night tunnel vision. But you’ve seen me in broad daylight and even brought your dog along with you.

This is all so crazy to me. I feel like I’m floating atop a serene summer lake. I have always ridden solo and I was just beginning to get comfortable in my own skin (just like they said I would) but then you had to squash my world with gentle kisses and a firm grip on my ass. You are wrecking my world in every delicate way. This has to be more than a mid-month fling.

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