THE CLOSET MYSTIC

January 14th, 2026

and when you hold my hand,

my heart speeds up,

but time slows down.

your head tilts, laid on my chest,

& the turning of the earth: it hiccups,

if only for a moment.

and your laugh—

oh, your laugh,

I can only die happy

if that sound

were my last.

this love: it is not quiet.

it burns in my gut,

it needs to be sung—

to shout, to scream, to holler,

“Look, world— it is her. She

is the one—

the one

who is a full Moon

on the darkest night—

or, no— she is the Sun,

and I the pallid Moon,

and if I shine,

it is but her

borrowed light.”
January 2nd, 2026

And I think poetry is our remedy,

for bottomless is the modern appetite

which wants everything, all at once.

a poem demands:

chew,

taste,

swallow,

savor— slowly.

there it is:

that fullness, so elusive.

a novel

in each word;

you jump in,

expecting a puddle,

but fall in,

swimming in hidden depths.
January 2nd, 2026

Break your life into verse.

To run on this path,

or to stop; savor,

inhale—

step,

stop—

gravel crunch, silence,

eyes closed, heart open,

holding the Sun’s hands.

step again, stop.

there is a hidden movement.

a leap in every pause.

such speed in stillness.

such stagnancy in those who cannot stop moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving moving—

lips move,

but frozen on the same word.

find the symphony.

make a hymn of the cacophony.

rescue each layer from its doom:

to be swallowed by the whole.

do not let life be noise:

let it be music,

and please:

stop, and listen.
January 2nd, 2026

Can you hear me here? Is there anyone there? Am I mute or are the ears of the world deaf?

Have you awoken yet to the nature of nature? Have you realized what it means to be impoverished? Have you seen the desolate nature of riches? Have you seen the wealth of the poor?

Have you seen the gold stored in the hearts of the wise? Have you seen the coal hoarded by tycoons?

Have you heard the message only audible in silence? Have you heard the music that the ears cannot sense? Have you listened to the oracle who whispers to your heart?

There is a sweetness unknown to the tongue. There is a warmth that only hugs the openness of your heart.

Have you met the cancer of aliveness, the panacea of your passing? Have you relinquished the illusion? Have you blinked, blinked, blinked awake? Does the light burn? Have you closed your eyes again, tried to forget the light?

Won’t you let your eyes adjust? Won’t you forget the darkness from which you were born? Won’t you stop groping the walls of this labyrinth with your hands, hoping to find the way? Won’t you instead open your eyes and see the gilded thread?

Have you seen the wisdom in the water? Have you let the ice of your being melt into the river? Have you let the river take you, have you become the river that does the taking? Have you surrendered the fear of surrender, have you experienced the ecstasy of free-fall, that highest terror and most secret desire of every heart?

Have you placed your feet in the water, let the moon pull the ocean to and fro in greeting? Have you seen the message inherent in every particle? Have you let die the illusion of deadness, have you surrendered the hubris? Have you seen that you are not the center of aliveness, but an extension of it, that aliveness begins with the inanimate that is not and never was inanimate?

Have you come to know that you are only as alive as you see the universe? How alive is it? How alive are you?

Do you not understand the statement in these questions? Do you know the question inherent in every statement, the ignorance of confidence? State nothing. Question everything. It is impossible to wonder without growing. The moment you are confident of your world is the moment its walls are built, you caged in.

Burst those walls down with questions. How destructive it is to be curious— what freedom.
the former, broken into verse

December 24th, 2025

can you feel the flame dying?

the celestial hearth we orbit dims.

premonitions of heat death:

you inch farther

and farther

away.

our gravity: not enough.

this dance, it comes to an end—

you are drawn in by another,

by a pull

far greater.

goodbye old friend, goodbye.

i pray this star

is warm enough for me alone—

but my oceans

already turn to ice.

my glacial heart

slows its beating.

heat death, heat death, heat death:

again, the premonition.

prescient vision:

it sees not the future, but the now

too clearly.

my love is its own cipher:

the very thing which bitters our parting,

makes shouts of whispers,

cymbals of subtlety.

and what is heartbreak but this:

for the heart

to still hold someone near

who is not near

to be held?

the heart understands not

the language of miles—

to it, you are still close.

it reaches out, sure of your embrace—

it recoils at the thin air.

my love:

where are you?
December 24th, 2025

can you feel the flame dying? this star of ours, the celestial hearth we orbit, she dims.

premonitions of heat death — you inch farther and farther away. our gravity is not enough. this dance comes to an end— you are drawn in by another, a gravity far greater than mine.

goodbye old friend, goodbye.

i pray this star is warm enough for me alone, but my oceans already turn to ice. my glacial heart slows its beating— heat death, heat death, heat death— again, the premonition.

prescient vision, it sees not the future, but the now too clearly. my love is its own cipher: the very thing which bitters our parting makes shouts of whispers, cymbals of subtlety. they broke my heart long before you spoke the words.

and what is heartbreak but this: to hold someone near to your heart still who has long departed? the heart speaks not in terms of physical distance— to it, you are still close. it reaches out, expecting your embrace— it recoils at the thin air. it reaches again, cannot fathom your absence.

where are you, my love?
December 21st, 2025

anything not fed eats itself:

body, mind, heart.
December 3rd, 2025

There is no such thing as poetry!

Just speak! No — bellow!

Do not contort yourself. Those screams in your gut were meant to echo through mountain ranges. Do not place them in a closet shoebox.

Do not “try” to make it sound pretty, do not “try” to make it poetry— else, what was meant to be the liberation of your soul will become its jail cell.

Every poem: a love letter, a confession. A love letter to yourself, to the natural world, to another. Write it for the ears of to whom the letter is dedicated— not for the eyes of who might later stumble upon it, who might judge whether this love was love.

No, there is no such thing as poetry. Do not look at a paper and say, “I am going to write a poem.” Look at your heart and ask what it has to say. Do not judge its answer. Give it the pen. Do not stand in the way. The river will flow. You will later look and say: that is a poem. Almost by accident, it happened.

More important than the what of your writing is the why, the why is where the “poem” exists. “Why” is the lifeblood of human existence; the lifeblood of human existence is poetry’s ink.
December 3rd, 2025
You have two responsibilities:
1. Be who you are.
2. Never impede on another person’s right to be who they are.
December 3rd, 2025

I’ve come to worship

at your body’s temple.

I am on my knees

confessing the sin of my desire.

Your curves are scripture—

I touch the divine—

I’m in ecstasy.

Light, white, blinding.

No—

this is false.

I know not anyone

worth bowing to.

I cannot

make you my idol.

I will not.

I’ve had quite enough

of love

that puts me on my knees.

We meet face to face,

or we do not meet at all.

I give—

but I also receive.

No more love

that is a one-way street.

Done am I

placing the divine in another,

as if they, and they alone,

hold

all that is holy,

like I am damned,

and my salvation

is bought

through martyrdom,

dying

for an unfeeling God.

If you are holy, then I am too.

If I am damned, you are too.

Scales of my love: balance.

the former, broken into verse