The Impossibility of the Other Side

I exist

a vector

impossible opposites

left and right

height and depth

darkness and brightness

unitary and shattered

shadow and body


An entire universe

on a speck of dust

lingering on a ray of sunshine,

gently falls

and finds its rest among the many

(the conformed

tangled aggregate)

finally settling into oblivescence

out of mind

and just yesterday,

was briefly remarkable.

Inexorably swayed

as he murmured a breath

of oblivion-

I am now



on the other side

of space and time.

-Jesse Hayd

Looking Glass Self


Space has no meaning outside the boxes of the narrow and totalitarian;

it is tempting to see in

contrast to who I am and who I am now-

the mirror used to be so necessary

my reflection itself something countercultural,

something to be controlled and distrusted.

I am still

lost in cosmic all encompassing paranoia of some warning sign

or red flag I missed beneath the meaning the semantic game

of what you said and what you really meant has become

this obsession to unearth

the underlying dimensions

around me above me and through me-

of what I know MUST exist and yet, cannot quite grasp.

Reason follows so far behind the apprehension

sometimes its almost unrecognizable.

The right word is itself; elusive.

Usually impossible. By degrees.

Usually, I never find it at all.

Lost in thought, full of intention-

A million things I want to say, but I am speechless.

It is only a habit that I am usually alone.

This kind of ill-logic is biology and survival-

It is not “flawed”.

We all brace for the moment of impact regardless of who’s driving the car

I think

sometimes we misunderstand each other, Love.


The value of a promise

to the semantically obsessively insecure and in love.

Antecedents fall like echoes and shadows I am trying to decode

all this non-sense now


-Jesse Haydn


I haven’t written to myself in god knows
how long so naturally it used to come;
that word now permanently stuck, hopelessly
affixed to the tip of my tongue-
a stranger to myself, my own thoughts, the words that won’t arrive.

I cannot understand.

Why? And to where? And when did I leave?
I used to feel everything
I’d write myself again if only to come
to convince me that I
used to be alive.

My mother told me once that you are
what you write and what you read, but I haven’t yet found a book or a poem sufficiently large or deep or empty enough
to elicit, record, confess
all that I must purge.

Countless pages still untouched.
I still can’t find the words.


I feel it

apart from the tissue in the skin

the skin, tomorrow everywhere

is my heart.



come to me.

Not me. I do not know

how anyone chases after chasing all things:


all things, the labels

the label between

the effect of the body transacted there

I know she practices.


So please, it is not easy.

I am unable to speak

fluently in small conversation.

It does not transfer.


I prefer hatred between nothing and

 nothing is said

of the importance of the life after the death

of the why, the why, the why


and the birds, the trees or what you wonder

it is in fact; in mind.

In return, a promise I will make:

“I am opening a book


and it was hidden.”

Whatever it is, I already said-

so then tell me the secret

as surely as you are.



-Jesse Haydn


Despite everything, my love:

kisses, probability, post diagnoses,

pyrotechnics and silence;

I am nowhere closer

to a Terza Rima then when I began.


I do not think in meter.


I turn and turn and turn the pages.

The words never come.

Do you have an answer

for the cards of life?


I do

and I don’t.


I love you like the old wood floor

I lay on to write-

comfortable, worn

in all the right places

by the footfall of familiar generations.


You are my warm buttery home.


I have succumbed to your profound fire.

I fear that you have mis-taken me for another:

someone who will extinguish the flames

and return the corners to their darknesses.


Master your dreams, love.

You, yourself said that you know all

I am capable of

therefore, you must know all

I am not.


You are divine, resplendent

mathematical beauty

and I

am wilting-




A paper hat.

A mind-pop.

A viceroy, flitting in early Fall.


-Jesse Haydn

For Christopher,

When the silence is fulfilled,

I feel the greatest weight-

Why can I not in stillness be?

What is it that I fear inside

Of myself, unaccompanied?

I feel alone in this collective.

I know not what it is I long for

Therefore, what is the remedy?

Until the time arrives that you return

my Love, I am nothing

but incomplete.

You are the purest poetry

I have ever known.

Not a thing falls into harmony

Until you are home

With me.


-Jesse Haydn

As Above

“As above, so below, as within,

so without, as the universe, so the soul…”


Below these trees I stand and tilt up

my head and follow along a branch that branches

and branches again and again,

or else gaze upwards at the mother lunula moon-

the patterns of the raindrops, in the stars;

and offer up to the macrocosm

what holds me down.

I do know beauty when I see it.

It’s mathematical.

With both feet on the ground below me

I close two of my eyes,

as I reach out to The All

and float away from here:

from out of myself.

I am much too high up now to fall.

Jesse Haydn



“ABRACADABRA. By abracadabra we signify an infinite number of things.‘Tis the answer to What? and How? and Why? And Whence? and Whither?—a word whereby The Truth (with the comfort it brings) Is open to all who grope in night, Crying for Wisdom’s holy light. Whether the word is a verb or a noun Is knowledge beyond my reach.”

The time for waking up has come;

every second of the day is the first

time I have opened my eyes and

arise from a deep sleep.

There is always a vibration that exists

in the stillness. The plants know it well.

The ancient and known is new;

it is spagyric and transmogrified.

We are, collectively, individual worlds

inside our own selves.

I am one and We are One-

one Nexus, one Soul, one Universe

existing now, together

inside of our own separate forms.

It is the precipice.

The moment is arriving for

what we know not; We know

the time is calescent-

the time is now and the time is coming.

The calling is urgent

and it is eternal.

The triangle rings music in my ears.

The time for waking up has come.

Jesse Haydn

It is 1:43 in the Afternoon

on a perfectly sanguine Friday in early July and I am watering the plants a little late today.

I don’t know why. I’ve been awake since 4.

I feel completely disconnected

I realize when I glance at the cable box to check the time because I am hungry all the sudden,

that I feel far, far too lonely for one person

to be while unprotected from the comfort of company.

It’s not that I want to die.

It just feels like one of a myriad of logical endings

to the evening until you get home.

Most people will never understand what it is to feel everything-

so much.


The silence is killing me.

The silence is killing me.

The silence is killing me.


The pitter-patter of rain begins to resuscitate me; from the shelter of the front porch

I wait for you.

A pendulum, I swing and swing and

look upwards and under

the trees.


I am reminded that every thing 

is enough.

It’s the reason you and I

are alive.


-Jesse Haydn