When did you last cry? And why?


I last cried when I fell off riding my bicycle

last week and I was already afraid of being outside that day. I crossed the divide

in elevation too swiftly, too certainly, too carelessly where

the alley intersected with the street and then becomes the alley again. My basket became unhinged

from the front of my bike and fell off and over on its side and as the contents rolled away I noticed I broke my cup that you bought me to match and as I cleaned my current existence up

in the alley last week, I was already afraid, I was 30 years old, it was a beautiful day,

and I cried.


-Jesse Haydn

A Moment, On Hold


It still amazes me, when I hit the wall;

when the web of karma catches or keeps me

from tripping for something I caused or said or

did or didn’t or will or won’t do


like it’s coming (((back))) to me.

You. Us.


On the phone, on hold

with cardholder services;

I am but one

finger of an Entire Universe

and I know the moment

is breathtaking.


I think I feel 

anxiety in those moments because i have no religion; i feel separate

As the Universe Experiencing Itself

i lack an outlet of sufficient explanation

and i am scared of Myself; I Think.


Aging truly, my question is this: Is this increased?-

Or made less-

in time? The answer gets further and further

away the more i think about it, i think.


The further away It gets-

the more It gets to me.


-Jesse Haydn






I love you because you know the secrets

of the Universe too.  You just don’t like to talk about it-

the web of the Universe. Maybe

you already understand it.


They are all like spinning coins too.

Revolving around each other.


Wavelengths of stars hit my arms I feel

as big as the sky in my mind.

In my heart, I love the Earth. The Earth loves me.

I love myself.


We are all holograms.


You can’t read me yet? Yes, you can.

Don’t worry.

I will never deceive you.


I am the breath of the ocean.

I am the breath of fire.

You’ll know when I am on a mission

and when I’m not.


I receive of the Earth.

It’s alright. There’s always the web.


It’s not aliens;

he was able to go straight to math in his head-

in his altered state.

His brain was a child’s brain.



It’s always the web,

the Human Consciousness.


We are the neurons of a Universe

experiencing itself.

We are a brain still growing-

waking up.


-Jesse Haydn



I feel

something just collide with the web inside of my head,

rippling throughout my brain; an association sticks.

I do not manufacture my own thoughts,

they come to me

not through me;

no one knows exactly how I tick.

Every thing, every object, has a label, every label

a memory I have captured and embalmed.

I have known Sacred Experiences; so, please

don’t squawk to me about the weather.

It is not effortless.

I am not fluent in small talk; I have to interpret.

I’d prefer we disarm one another-

to know your thoughts on the afterlife, the significance

of cause and effect, your favorite song and why, or converse

about the birds and the trees or whatever

is really on your mind.

I promise, in turn, to do the same-

to show you my insides.

I am an open book;

subjective, passive,


Whatever it is, I already feel it-

so tell me a secret.

I swear I will keep it.


-Jesse Haydn


I am sorry I cannot write about you as often as I think of you-

which is constantly.

When it’s quiet enough to think deeply

I wipe my tears and do the dishes.

When I write you down with ink on paper-

it’s just you and me in here, kid;

but you are not.

I gave us up; and for what? A good tragedy? Some material?

Self infliction? A high? Some drugs?

I don’t even care about that shit anymore-

just You. And the dishes getting done.

-Jesse Haydn

Any Day About An Hour After Noon

I hate watering the house plants, the mundanity of it

the spray bottle, the jug, the untwisting of the top

the most beautiful of course- the dying one with all the roots exposed must be thoroughly sprayed first

all the dirt- fully dampened before I carefully pour; she did warn me

they don’t like to be moved. I should’ve listened to her

and there’s feeding Steve and I spilled the thing of tiny bouncing pellets again all over the floor

one day I’ll learn; I should be writing instead or anything of consequence. But,

what kind of human monster would I be

if I didn’t water the houseplants?

-Jesse Haydn


I now find my gaze often lands on the little things about being alive, again

Fresh drops of May rain on Wysteria, the scent of white lilac, fractals of ferns

The newness in the green of the leaves of the purple, of the pink and tangerine Hyacinth

The fallen petal on the coffee table.

The whole of the arrangement

gathered from the soggy yard with easy, intentional, lackadaisical love.

This afternoon, on second thought-

I fell again,

with a smile.

Jesse Haydn

I Think Of You Most

I think of you most on humid, halcyon, sunny days;

It is painful when the weather does not respond to my mood.

Such days are filled with too much sorrow to be concerned

that the plum and lemon and tangerry tulip bulbs have bloomed.


Wildflowers, too remind me of our summer mornings that I miss so-

the soft fleece of lambs ear I run between my fingers, cloud-fluffy lilac thistles,

clusters of Queen Anne’s Lace;

bouquets of pure white cotton snow.


The gravel underneath my careless innocent bare feet,

the itch of overgrown grass on my ankles and between my toes-

the cool tickle of the creek to rinse them off

or the smell of well-water from the hose.


I should have held your hand tighter not to let one detail slip.


I didn’t know.


-Jesse Haydn


Would you die from disappointment

if I did not? Go with you, into the night.

All I could do, I have done. I cannot sleep

at night. I am weary

incomplete and completely undone.

I prefer the wandering through

numberless days of nothing and apathy

and anesthetics and insentience and numb

asleep on my feet, avoiding the truth

of the sun: the nightmare of waking

to dreams incomplete-

love poems undone.


Though I lack faith in much,

I have come to believe

this endless nonsense I have written

in sickness, in despair, in disease


may finally be ending, and doubtful,

ended well. I long for absolutely nothing more

than the nothing I will feel.


Would you die of disappointment? I’ll go with you-

at night. I can’t do. I cannot sleep. Night-

I am tired of this fever. Incomplete

and disorientation for the countless vague

nothings and anesthetics

and of course, avoiding morning.

The dream is not complete;

love poems aside.


Could I die of disappointment?

Go on with you, Night.

I can do. I have done. I cannot

sleep. I am tired, in pieces, part-

time and full-back. I prefer

countless days, wandering, likely

nowhere and apathy, tuimus,

self-unaware and aloft



Night-terror, awaken me

from inorganic dreams-

songs of love, I have returned



Although, there’s not a great deal of faith

I think, I really believed I wrote many metaphors,

my poetry

(sweet and dark and endlessly)

will get worse and worse

in desperation.

Everything ended and

not at all. I am afraid

I could have filled the smallest parts

of “me” all in vain

sensations, like darkness

when my skull has drained

this idea of speed-

Dismissed. Alone.

Let me be.


-Jesse Haydn