Dear Chaos,
I know you well and for so long now,
that perhaps it would be safe to say
that you and I
have been on a first name basis
even before I understood what that means,
to be on a first name basis.
Perhaps you and I are more alike,
even when I looked to grow more distant,
or as I tried to distance myself,
the more I read or the more I looked back;
the more I see you
as a counterpart or
an addiction.
I swear,
this is literally “that” crazy to me.
You . . .
You are like,
like some brand of narcotic
or some deviated strain
that explodes in my system,
or bursts as an inalienable source
of unfortunate euphoria,
which has undoubtedly kept me coming back
and begging you for more,
each and every day.
Or, like the old saying goes,
especially when it comes to you:
One is too many and a thousand
is never enough which, of course,
is why
I can never get enough of you—at least
not without withdrawals
I send this out to the universe
and without censorship
or as I throw caution to the wind,
I send this out both honestly
and perhaps symbolically,
or more so perhaps I write this metaphorically
and as I do,
I write these words and send them to you,
in both an imaginary and in a literal sense,
because, of course,
what else do I have,
except my heart?
Or what else do I really have,
except my imagination?
And sure,
I like to imagine.
I like to imagine the different concepts of peace.
I like to imagine the treaties between people,
both old and young,
and for those of my enemies
who look to seek harm
or to hurt me,
even if this means
that they would hurt themselves,
or for those who look to find revenge,
or even in the case of unwinnable wars
which have gone on since the dawn of time;
my answer is yes,
I do imagine what would have happened
if I answered a phone call,
instead of letting it go to voicemail,
or I imagine what my life would be like
if I went right instead of left,
over on 3rd Avenue.
I imagine what would have happened
if I allowed myself to be who I am,
as in humble, or modestly,
or who would I have become
if I decided to live without the worries
of vulnerability.
I imagine what life would be like without
irrational fears, or perhaps I should say,
the unnecessary ones.
Yet, as unnecessary as the fears may be,
we still listen to them all too closely;
as if their words are law.
Dear Chaos,
I admit there is something about you.
There’s something drawing
which is why I said what I said
when I offered my thoughts to you
the other day—remember?
I mentioned the way I lost myself
the same way that moths lose to a flame.
But no,
I have to say this here and now.
There’s something about you.
There’s something wild or daring
about the symptoms of chaotic bliss, and yes,
there is something about the drive,
and there is something wild or electric static
which comes from the charges of insanity,
and yes, there is something sexy about you
or the naughty forbidden things
which cause us to dare the edge of life,
or leads us to be brave enough to call
for the abandonment of the safety net,
and all there is (besides you, or us)
is the crazy rush of moving fast,
at like, say,
dangerous speeds or
like the speed of a blistering missile
as it whistles through the air
just before detonation.
And off we go
faster then the speed of light,
and certainly faster than the speed of sound,
which perhaps
this might be why we never heard the warnings.
We were already too far gone
by the time the words left the mouths
of those who tried to warn us,
even when it was us
who tried to warn ourselves;
but of course, we didn’t listen.
I can’t put my finger on it.
What is it about you.
Is it that you are crazy?
Am I crazy?
Are you the reason my heart beats so fast?
Is it you?
Are you the reason why I rarely sleep at night,
up, and awake, alone,
and thinking about the details,
which one would call some of my thoughts insane
but to me—it’s like ah, my sweet insanity,
my bouts of wild fascination, and you,
my most precious and special friend,
alive and well
and living in the dead-center of my head,
as if it were the New York City of old;
before we aged
before life changed
or better yet,
before the pandemic . . .
Is it that your beauty escapes me?
Is that why I lose my head or lose my cool?
Is this why I am out of my head, half the time
and the other half, I spend my time
thinking about the naked revelation
of what takes place when two people collide
And become one.
Meanwhile, all I want to do is reach out and grab you
or hold you
so tightly that nothing can (or will ever)
slip through my fingers.
Not now,
nor ever again.
This one is your book now.
Then again, all my books are yours.
You inspired them.
You pushed me to write them.
You helped me name them.
Everything I am or was or have been
or going forward; everything that I will ever be,
has always had something to do with you.
Yes, you.
My sweet Chaos.
God, you are so beautiful.
So rest easy . . .
I couldn’t leave you if I tried,
which we both know, I have.
But either way,
crazy or not.
Here I come.
It’s time now
You
Me
the dangers ahead—
and fuck it.
Let everyone else abandon their hope,
because if given the chance,
I swear to you,
and I’ll say this to you in my native tongue,
“I ain’t abandoning nothin!”
just my fears
or just my insecurities.
I can abandon them at any time
because now that I think of it,
they don’t need me anymore
But you need me . . .
Don’t you?
The Written Addiction 