Thursday, December 31, 2015

pony noir | part eight : float away

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4 : part 5 : part 6 : part 7]

It turned sour like a popping kumquat; the thought came too late. I played the safe bet, and unsurprisingly, I lost. Every steaming breath was one closer., one closer.

I should've charged the door ten minutes before, but I held out. Now I was warm, warm and tired. Hypothermia had me.

I suddenly remembered work yielded heat, but it was too late. My legs were rubber, and I was about drift away. My muscles weren't mine any more. Took a tumble with the frigid air and lost it all.

That same damn thought was trying to force its way through, but I wasn't really there anymore.

"Work equals heat."
"All work produces heat.'
"All work..."

I was too loopy to feel the deck beneath me when I drifted away.

Cut to black, everypony.

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

I received your note

A bankrupt  center
implodes from hateful dead weight.
Post crash, I can grow.

Tuesday, December 29, 2015

[fart noises]

Today I am feeling creatively drained.
Don't worry some token effort is on its way.
Or maybe it isn't.

Monday, December 28, 2015


Fallen leaves formed their mottled picture,
worn away underfoot, dissolved by bacterial imperatives.

Purpose completed they were shed, cast away for some short fall.
Some still lay, crisp edged, against their very roots,
propped by accident against their old entanglements.

They too will fade, it is a dead dream they cannot remember,
turning light into sugar. They too  will dissolve into smaller constituents.

New green things will come ere spring,
forgotten orange leaves, broken down,
reborn as grass or some slime-mold mass.

| |

'til the hungry yellow star goes red,
trees believe there will be more leaves to shed.

Friday, December 25, 2015

a walk in some park in portland

water fell and flowed in a thin sheet like glass
like a wet razor, carefully controlled

pigeons remain unimpressed

a man threw biscuits to birds

well-to-do red blouses coming out of red doors
they said goodbye with gold in their ears

a pile of coats slept on a bench

(in secret the biscuits spell death
but only in rare circumstance,
the antidote was delivered in time)

Thursday, December 24, 2015


"The man who alleges that he is not yet ready for philosophy or that the time for it has passed him by, is like the man who says that he is either too young or too old for happiness."
- Epicurus, "Letter to Menoeceus", O'Connor Translation 
I don't normally write like this, free(ish) flowing, train-of-thought, personal narrative things. Partly because I'm guarded. Partly because it quickly becomes an uninteresting subject to almost all but the author. However, I think this is a good exercise.

I've, rather, we've (my little family and I) cut our roots and floated out West. After some rambling we washed up in Portland. We're living in a van, but it's ok. There are plenty of rivers.

We fled conservative christian intolerance and steady, deadening economic depression to find a place we belong. (Oklahoma can suck a whole bag of dicks.) Secondary colors as hair colors, bisexuality, and many, many other things were plainly dangerous, powerfully incompatable. We were also leaving behind a dearth of mental healthcare access.

Though I may be clever, sometimes charming, sometimes erudite in casual conversation, I am probably exploding inside as you sell me gasoline or wait behind me at the pharmacy. I have Social Anxiety Disorder and Depression.

I've come to the conclusion that I've always had these issues. Even in the midst of my loud, high-school bravado, I was always wracked with fear, outside my few safe places. Alcohol was always a safe space. I self-medicated heavily from 13 to 30.

I feel like I'm currently encased in a chrysalis. My hair is pink and purple. My leggings are skin tight. I sashay a bit as I walk, in faux-patent-leather pink-soled rain boots. I smile at strangers and feel more myself than I have in ages. (Medication is a part of this, but only a piece of my puzzle. Fuck... I hope I manage to step down from xanax soon, but van living is a bit high on the stressful side.)

When I was in college, a friend gave me some clothes. I didn't ask for them, but she gave them to me, I wore them, these women's things, but almost only in secret. (Just twice otherwise: once a party turned into a make over the guys party, the other was plainly sexual with somebody I trusted.) I hid them away, just as I hid so much of myself away.

Guarded, wasting away, dying inside, piece by piece, day by day, dead end work-week by dead end day.

I gave up so much of myself in exchange for comforts I did not need (and couldn't properly afford, anyway). You can be a starving writer almost anywhere. I'm going to do it here, in the rain; I can bloom into fabulousness.

I can mix my love of My Little Pony and the Misfits. I can become and discover exactly who I want to be. I will learn how to live in the world as it is rather than as I wish it to be.

I will discover how to be a human being.

Wednesday, December 23, 2015

Airing of Grievances.

Fesitivus, For the
Rest of Us, is upon us.
Air those grievances.

Things I don't like about Portland:

  • Full service gas stations, that's a human interaction I could do without. Plus it just straight up takes longer.
  • We can now control the weather. When we go to switch the van from hobo-sleep to hobo-go (which involves moving things in the elements), rain will begin (or more likely just get heavier). When we're finished, it stops (lessens, really).
  • There are so many stores for dogs.
  • Trying to park anywhere near Portland.
  • There are roundabouts for some fucking reason.
  • Streets are not allowed to be straight for more than a single block. It's like trying to navigate in some non-Euclidean world where right angles don't exist.
  • Other things, probably, but I can't be assed to remember.
Last year's Festivus Celebration. 

Tuesday, December 22, 2015

Release Schedule...

Western Lights is already out and on secret Festivus sale. Get it while it's weird!

Ok. I still plan on releasing that big volume of stuff from the blog, but NOW it will not contain any of the Western Lights stories. I don't plan on double releasing anything.

Next, I have novellas planned for the Drowned World, Red Light Heavy, the colored worlds, and that setting where there are unmotivated zombies everywhere, stuck in aping empty cycles imitating the empty cycles of their previous lives.

These will either show up singly or paired in print books or some combination thereof.

So I expect the next release to be the big volume of short stories and poems from the blog, which also contains some new stuff, btw.

But if the muse grabs me, I won't argue.

memories from an unhappy new year

unbidden broken things slide surreptitiously towards the surface
loose thoughts slip knots and bubble upward,
old wounds cry fresh blood

I remember the tense ring of necessity I wrapped around my chest to drive us home,
I remember the long, empty quiet afterwards, as the room darkened around us

I remember my decision not to stab him, I remember regretting it.

I remember tearful phone calls, and drunk texts, and that quiet hug from a stranger,
(he smelled like patchouli, I think)

I broke beyond reason the night before the funeral,
I drank and drank and fell into one folly after another,
I made a hole in the wall above the place my son would much later sleep.

That red-faced fuck wouldn't honor her final wishes,

I mixed the soundtrack for her viewing.
How could she possibly be honored without songs with the word fuck in them?
I made someone who sucked cry at her viewing, too, I think she would've laughed,
but of course all her blood was cold and switched for formaldehyde.

I remember our long awkward ride to her grave, with a stranger in a blue Cadillac,
I used to pick her up at almost every meeting.
I picked her up one last time in a coffin.

She could throw a jab harder than most right crosses.
(I've been decked with a lot of right crosses.)
She drank whiskey like water.
She made me a drink once, that tasted like a chemical burn.
She had wicked eyes and a wide smile.

She died for kindness.
She lived for laughter.

Monday, December 21, 2015

fuck fuck fuck

A shuddering dream of what was followed along in wake of his present. That billowing algal bloom of old mistakes and horrors misremembered pulled him far from moment. The crushing indifference of the universe settled into the soles of his feet, a familiar pair of shoes. Each step pressed against the backwards pull.

Hope and the future remained outside his tepid grasp.

Friday, December 18, 2015

all kinds of tired

“There’s all kind’s a tired a fella’s gonna get in a lifetime, kid. 

“Seeing the blush of dawn next to some pretty young blushing guy or gal, watching that blush go all the way down, that’s a fine kind of tired, kid.

“Sometimes it just hurts, it’s heavy, and ain’t no grin to be got. Slodging through something ya hate, sometimes for years. That kind of tired ain’t no good, but it’s pretty damned common.

“Sometimes ya might hurt, in a bright kind of pain. The kind where ya pushed past and done something good. Catch yer breath, smile, and crash. Rough mornings but you’ll still probably grin, kid.

“Sometimes it long overdue, outstretched. Sometimes it’s quick, hits ya like a right cross from behind. 

“The fire in yer belly runs out, the coffee quits, or the thrill drops dead.

“But the kind yer gonna live with tomorrow, kid, that ain’t no kinda good. It’ll be like all of the tired of yer whole damn life, dropping in all at once. Painful, quick, sharp, drawn-out, dry, feverish, angry.

“Thing is you won’t get no sleep, kid. Don’t matter, that thing ya did a few minutes ago, well, won’t be undone for a spell yet. 

“Try to remember ain’t no tired lasts forever. Make sure you only turn that cycle once, kid. You hop on the carousel, you'll die of tired.”

Thursday, December 17, 2015

rain rain

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, scatter, drip and drop, it simply would not stop. Samantha sighed quietly, fogging the tight space around her. It continued, unconcerned with her crushing boredom.

It took its sweet time, dripping, falling, sometimes plinking. She was dry, but cramped. Samantha was reasonably warm, but trapped.

She could just barely see a small child splashing on the other side of a bleary window. A tiny thing, she jumped and stomped and crashed. Enamored of puddles and soaking wet, the little girl would soon be whisked away to somewhere warm. The wet held no danger to her.

Oh she might be yelled at, roughly toweled, but hypothermia was nowhere near the little girl’s future – at least judging by her tiny designer jacket.

Samantha curled up and pulled her hood over her eyes. She twisted like a fetus in back of the van. She tried, in vain, to sleep through another day of rain.

Wednesday, December 16, 2015

this is just a tribute

Earlier today, a poem sprang into my mind. This near-perfect construction of rhyming, metered words coalesced. The pattern and themes and diction established themselves; it could have been expanded into something of depth, song, and meaning.

I almost pulled the car over to write it down. I should have pulled the car over to write it down.

And now the baby sings distractions into my ear.

I mean, I'm homeless, we're sans home, living in a van, We had no itinerary, the pawn shop was open all day. It was only the ghosts of chains, subconscious imperatives to go, achieve rapidity.

I am free, but not from memory.

(obviously I hold not copyright on the spudboy's image and masterworks

Tuesday, December 15, 2015

terror snail of the prismatic swamp

It eats with a terrible tinkling, shrapnel sounds of breaking glass. Watch as it glides, spiraling silver and taupe atop an opalescent trail. It is beautiful and dangerous, like so many things in this place. Best to be watched from a distance.

Step carefully above its trail; this scintillating snail turns to glass, all living things it does pass.

Monday, December 14, 2015

close your eyes, step left

Between tree branches reaching towards each other
Underneath overhanging, fractal archways
As the forest seeks to smother the path,
In shadow neither amber nor jet,
In half steps, blinking moments, winking memories,
Half-heard sounds hidden in back of a yawn,
Betwixt each ever-beating moment ||
There stands the doorway to dreams.

Friday, December 11, 2015


ennui falls just like
,uh, a sigh or something else
what the fuck ever

Thursday, December 10, 2015

prose poem 23 | onrush perpetual

The Pacific is bombastic, but more pleasant than that sounds. She writhes not angry, though she thrashes into ecru-taupe foam – against slate brown. She persists, simply inevitable. She doesn’t roar, but rather thrives as an onrush perpetual.

Waves wring wind into furor.

Salt and grains of sand flung tirelessly against stone. Each sculpts, unsuspecting. Small furrows in aggregate build beauty from chaotic folds.



There was something wrong with that shit-smelling man-thing, beyond the obvious. Under the heavy, nobody smelled great.  Maybe the ocean was trying to sneak in as humidity. Some of ‘em though, some of ‘em went wild in whole new way. 

Roy should’ve past that one by, he knew. It had the kid marked and cornered. Roy was not the kid.
Roy was nearly as surprised as the man-thing, when his grandfather’s chiv got buried in its chest. The thing scratched, bit, and kicked like a bastard before going down.

The kid was smarter than Roy; he wasn’t even around to mumble thanks by the time the deed was done.

Within hours every abrasion, laceration, and bite throbbed in fever. A fever was a hell of thing, in the hot house below. 

By the time Roy made it to his hidden access panel, pus oozed everywhere at the slightest pressure. Ragged breaths shook him to sleep.

He dreamed. Something about a woman in a long white coat, needles, and an onrush of cool air, was all he remembered.

He awoke sutured, fever-free, and surprisingly hydrated.

A strange and pleasant lightness resided in his stomach. He smiled, alone in the dark.

He had no word for the sensation filling his lungs.

Tuesday, December 8, 2015

accomplishments on the road

  • Someone had carved a swastika onto a washroom stall, I circled it and crossed it out. Like the ghostbusters logo, but fuck you nazi instead.
  • I have improvised many excellent meals. The aforementioned calamari, couscous with chicken sausage, turkey carrot ginger chili (yay Thanksgiving).
  • I built a fire (which I haven't done in a while) using only natural materials. Sad to say, it took two flicks of the bic to get going... rusty. Fucking burnt-ass hotdogs followed. If there's not a good char, there is no point in cooking with wood-fire.
  • Walked down an unlit murdery pedestrian underpass, without being murdered.
  • Jumped around on desert rocks, while technically trespassing, in winds severe enough to trip me.
  • Sex.
  • Got the van from hobo-sleep mode to hobo-drive mode single-handedly in winds severe enough to rip my rainpants to shreds.
  • Drank deeply of the sea's beauty.
  • Was reminded why I hate weed, but still managed layout my book. (It just slows me down, which feeds into depression, then amps my anxiousness up to 11.)
  • Watched Olan play in the ocean and finally get to enjoy a cupcake. Egg allergies are a bitch.
  • Stayed up way too late reading T. S. Elliot after a weird interaction with an aggressive beggar. The Wasteland does not aid in cases of anxiety and sleep deprived paranoia.
  • I've worn girl pants for like a third of the trip, and have learned to live w/o pants pockets. I totally lost my pocketknife from either my vest or my purse, though. So I've been carrying around a big ass sheath knife as needed.
  • I've also worn that raggedy ass nipple-riffic misfits shirt for like 1/4 of the trip.
  • Accrued significant amounts of credit card debt.
  • Published a book.
  • Drawn strange looks because I tend to say howdy. A long time ago, I said it often with a heavy dose of irony. The irony died. Same thing happened with obvi and amazeballs more recently.
  • Been living in a van, down by the river!

Monday, December 7, 2015


The light of day died with a sigh, and the earth opened up with a crystalline scream.

His eyes shuddered with a stuttering flutter. Air shifted within his chambers for the first time in centuries. His clothes had rotted away; his flesh shriveled to dusty nothingness.

He must have died.

He might have shrugged if there was any interest left within his brittle bones.

The time had come. The portents had fallen. It was his moment.

The gate within beckoned to be release. Hellfire and horror and misery and disease clamored against his indifference. Power and long promised vengeance burned all around him.

He did not care.

Centuries of meditation had taught him futility if nothing else.

Let them have their tiny world for another cosmic iota, he thought. They are likely to destroy it themselves, anyway. 

Instead he slept, dreaming of void and forgetful time.

Sunday, December 6, 2015

buy my book

My novella Western Lights is totally for sale now.

Some pieces of it appeared on this very blog, in a rougher format.

If you liked the weird west stuff I've done so far, you'll probably really enjoy this.
It all started because I was thinking about the reality of coming back into civilization from long stays in the wild. The visceral bits of pain and filth that only come to mind at the sight of ordered streets,

Then it just kept expanding into something more and more and more. All this is no small part because of interactions with you, my wonderful readership.

Thank you all for reading. Now, please, gimme some money.

But seriously thank you so much for reading and talking nerd-words with me.

Saturday, December 5, 2015


We must be almost quiet or they will know. They can never be certain, big noisy things. It is very important: they must never know.

Hearing only echoes, seeing nothing but brief reflections, they wonder. They doubt. They question.

The milk was there, he knew, only minutes ago. Then, there it sat, spoiled in the cabinet,

An extra shadow flirted across the bathroom mirror before she blinked. In the obscuring steam, she shrugged, yet her heart quickened.

We are the whispered scream in silent rooms. We are the hot breath imagined on your neck. We are the doubt that breaks your peaceful dreaming.


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this (this is one of my only sources of income now).


Thursday, December 3, 2015

reader's response criticism of “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”"

This was going to be better (maybe). I took fucking notes and everything… but then the baby needed to sleep so the computer light is all I’ve got.

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” has always been powerful to me. It thrums with honest revulsion, the staggering weight of emptiness, and strangled flights of fancy, barely held back by “high collar” and “simple pin”.

It excited me in high school when first it was taught at me. It set me on fire in college.

I had a good professor. An expert in scansion, she held the deep passion such knowledge unlocks. A long hard look at the thing split it open, “like a patient etherized upon the table”, and the bloody wonders beneath laid bare.

She was especially smitten by the lines, “I should have been a pair of ragged claws/Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.” They enchanted me then; they burden me now.

That wish was such a mystery. Why? Why be less than a lobster, to only be the mindless claws, the simple tools of the simple beast? I know now why.

He already was a simple tool; he knew this well. Claws could never be burdened with such insight.

Of course then, Prufrock’s isolation and quiet desperation appealed to a version of myself who was just getting into Brand New, The Weakerthans, and Modest Mouse. Now, it resonates with all my many quiet explosions and stuttering mistakes.

I may not have “measured out my life in coffee spoons”, but that means little. I measured it instead in drams and pints and hangovers and 40 hour work weeks. I still threw so much away in “formulated phrase”.

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall

I’ve spent a lifetime desperately grasping that pin, pulling it out by half measures, but never letting go. Afraid of success and new faces, afraid of failure and familiar disappointed faces, I languored in an unhappy middle. All the while I was dreaming of mermaids singing, but of course they never sang to me.

I shall not wait to grow old to wear “my trousers rolled”.

Mr. Prufrock (almost) finds imaginative solace in his small “cautious” and “politic” part. I settle no longer for such.

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Tuesday, December 1, 2015

light can speak such beautiful lies

Rough brown hills,
by sun and distance

Soft velvet, like some family pet,
buff-colored dog, folded fur,
curling in sleep, warming its back
in heavy daylight.

Monday, November 30, 2015

fuck that noise

L. A. dense packed like 
a panic attack, at least
river headlights shine.

Saturday, November 28, 2015

helpful tips for roadside misanthropy

If you are traveling with an anxiety disorder, but are also poor, you will frequent rest areas. Here are some helpful tips to keep other travelers at a distance.

> Have weird hair.

> Begin immediately cooking calamari on a propane stove. Olive oil with tarragon and coriander, allow that to heat up some more, add garlic, add dead squid, add salt, sauté for seven minutes or so, eat it with your fingers. Look passersby directly in the eye while slurping tentacles.

> Wash several days’ worth of dishes on your propane stove.

> Do your laundry in a bucket.

> Curse loudly at inanimate objects which fail to meet your expectations.

> Carry a large skinning knife around (sheathed) in your pocket, because you lost your pocketknife in the bedding when you thought you were going to have to stab that weirdly aggressive dude in that other rest stop in New Mexico.

Friday, November 27, 2015

rock in my chest, void in my gut

broken, twisting wind up clock
ticking, twisting into knots

numb pain, succumb
done, done, done

panic, quiet, slow, deliberate
incidental, that horrid, horrid shade of yellow

car carrying away, away

the walls would be the color of my shame, my shame

the time I ran,
twice damned,
twice damned

broken clock, tick-tock stop
winding spring without release
will it cease?

could I cry,
should I break into torrents?

how could I?
the well is dry

central nervous depressant
serotonin failing
GABA flooding or falling away,
I forget

forget remembering
tension only
hopeless lesions
unlearned lessons

they are outside
I hear their cars and voices

I hate them and my swollen choices

sudden thunderous voices,
boisterous, gregarious, disgust disgust

I could shift it all to rage, I know the trick

wear justice like a sophist mask
attack, attack, attack

I don't need to be that, that
which was but barely there,
a booming voice fade through night air

a sudden exit, smiling in the dark.

give thanks for distance

Tension and thanks, stakes
against good reason, bleeding
ill-will from merry.

Thursday, November 26, 2015

thirsty words

Gulch was always a thirsty word. Course, given enough time out here, they all become thirsty.

Gulch, though, it seems so wet, but they’re all so fuckin’ dry. ‘Til that long missing rain crashes down. The damned things’ll smash ya to wet bits then.

I can almost remember when it rains, and wakes me up. When me ’n the toads crawl outta the sand, and start to bloom like flowers on thorns.

When my mouth ain’t so damned dry, when the fire inside lulls down to a smolder, I can almost remember what I done, what I was before. I’ll shake wet sand from my beard and squint at the subdued sun.

When there’s water still in the air, I don’t thirst so much, so much. Never been sated, I reckon. Done did somethin’ hateful to my kin, I s’pose. Can’t remember what.

Don’t expect I’ll ever by wet enough to know, living enough to understand.

Wednesday, November 25, 2015


faint smile wrapped within denuded torrents of honest exhaustion, there can be no more than this, forced issues falling against false starts, panicked to numb to happy, it rose up like falling rain, like morning dew coalescing, how did it come to this? a long series of bad ideas? movement, movement, movement: the wings and lead of non-itinerary, the binding chains of freedom?

numb and bleary but near contentment? it is enough. it has to be.

soft smile, remembering the cow as she decided whether or not to ruin our day

Tuesday, November 24, 2015

pony noir | part seven : thermodynamics

When I was a li’l philly, Science was my favorite subject. It all made sense, made me feel better. If you could do the math, if you could think it through, you could control it. It was yours. Who the hell needed magic? I had Celestia-be-damned science!

Almost became a research mare, actually. Until, I fell in with a… never you mind. That’s another story for another time, pony.

Anyway, what I was getting at:

The wind was teaching me a real hard damned lesson in thermodynamics. Heat exchange, ya know? See, everything wants to reach equilibrium. The fire and a cold kettle are trying to balance each other out, and in between it nets ya some tea.

Well I’m guessing the choppy waves was just a hair above freezing, the wind just as rough. There science was, trying reach an equilibrium between my warm body and the hard, cold open sea. All the while, the wind bit like a drunk bastard mule.

I was on a private yacht, freezing my flank. This told me a few things. The pony behind this scheme wasn’t very smart, and I shoulda dressed better.

I had the whoever-it-was dead to rights. The boat sure as manure wasn’t stolen so the owner of record for the E. S. Plentiful…

Assuming anypony believed the story of a two-bit detective from Foal Meadows with too many priors. All I had to do was survive the cold, the goons, whatever bad hoodoo was out there without getting arrested or stomped to death, and I was golden.

Sad to say, pretty sure I’ve been in tighter spots, but I musta been too drunk to remember.

trying to find usable public wifi

Fuck-ity, shit-fuck,
Goddamnit, shit cock-swoggling
fuck, fuck. Fuck. Fuck! FUCK!

Friday, November 20, 2015

small things found outside beaten paths

from desert to snow,
too quickly, yet long moments
were savored, roadside

desert words

Haphazard strands of cycles long complete
the warm living sea, now supports dead desert stones
precipitated iron now staining tiny hands,
fine orange particles part before curious fingers
wind shapes this the most, abrades against the stone
hard angles
Water, when there, sculpts soft corners
like careful hands,
bringing merry rivulets to the soon-cracked sand

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

pony noir | part six: headaches and bad ideas

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4 : part 5]

I needed to act quick, but quiet. With a soft and less than feminine snort, I lit up the tiny horn hidden under my wavy mane.

Horn’s so small, most nobody knows I’m a unicorn. Don’t go flapping your fucking gums about it, okay?

Only ever learned one spell, and with that tiny horn, it hurt lift a feather duster. So catching all four shoes as I trotted off the damn roof, stung like biting flies inside my skull. It hurt, but my Quiet Hooves spell worked.

I landed an inch above the ground without a sound. It was a bit like jumping onto an old hay mattress; nothing broke but my knees joined right in with the pain in my head. I galloped behind three beefy bastards hauling off my unconscious partner and my whimpering mark towards the docks. I hoped like hell they didn’t have a row-boat in mind.

If their boat wasn’t big enough to hide in my options got real short: let it go and walk away (wasn’t a real option), fight (I’d probably lose and might be left behind, maybe worse), or try to get myself captured (not ideal).

Two stallions had Hardy tossed across their back. Stallion’s got that special vulnerability, especially from behind. Quiet Hooves meant I’d get a free shot at both of ‘em. Then I either kick down the third fella (unlikely), or let him rough me up and turn into a hostage. Of course, he might just leave me bleeding to death in this muddy back lane.

I really, really hoped their boss-pony had sprung for a decent sized boat. At the very least, I could probably produce a few geldings before I went down.

Oh Celestia! I shoulda asked for a bigger retainer.

Tuesday, November 17, 2015

prose poem 22 | mental illness and/or a wretched world

Violence begats violence, like inky black waves upon an aching sea.

Pain, like gravity, pulls within. Accretions of terror ever-form black satellites; too many moons, stir the hateful sea.

Surging rise such myriad swells. Crashing against, new wet pain is upward flung.

A new moon birthed, to tug the horrid sea.

Legend claims Serenity, island bright, can be reached.

Many waves await.

There is still the quiet of the deep, but drowning lends little release.

Shadowed sands, impervious below, expectantly teem with ancient bones.

Monday, November 16, 2015

the road

Broken bounds, bounding.
Break, luxuriate within
pain-purchased freedom.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

love, albatross and anchor

Tension twists, hateful
chokes against these binding ties,
no pressure might break.

Restless fighting yet,
on terms set by the rope. Cut
instead, and be free.


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


Wednesday, November 11, 2015


The blinking cursor does draw
what the open notebook calls.

I have never hated the blank page.

The well within would seem endless.

Fall forward into the trance.
It may take an hypnotic wait.

Then will come the image or line,
exploding forth with fire of mind.

I wait in quiet space,
it will come, it will come.
Beauty and pain to distillate.

Tuesday, November 10, 2015

a reaction to the oatmeal

[Click here and read this comic first, please.]

We are all hurtling through a void that isn't even gracious enough to be infinite. A void that can't even hate us. Gyreing waves of probability smash against us; eventually, no matter our efforts, we will succumb. We will cease.

Until then, we, each one, control only ourselves. Even in aggregate our actions amount to little on the cosmic scale.

Still the actions belong to us. These precious finite visions of a vast but finite universe belong to us.

We are alive, for now so chew bitter pills and smile. Form nature violent towards your needs.
Live relentlessly, unapologetically.

Live beautifully.

Monday, November 9, 2015

pony noir | part five: no easy shakes

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

So there I was, hid on the roof of some clapboard tenement, watching my partner and my missing pony get drug off into the night. They finally came for the kid; surprisingly things were shaping up nearly to plan.

Hold up, I jumped ahead again.

So anyways, I rolled into Manehatten and found the kid right off… seriously, as easy as that. He was the junkie buying up old books. Which was weird, a damned weird thing to be doing. Quirk his mom forgot to mention maybe?

I spoke to a few book dealers. Seems the kid was buying up the dream journals of some long dead unicorn named Neverhoof. The ol’ fella’s spell books were long gone, holed away in some Canterlot library. The journals were curios, traded by obscure historians.

The kid somehow kept bringing in the bits though he looked and smelled like a forgotten back alley. He had to be in deep with somepony wealthy, somepony dangerous, somepony going through a lot of trouble and redrock to not be seen buying these books.

It smelled like bad hoodoo, and I began to regret not charging a bigger retainer.

Trouble was, nopony can pull somepony else out of a situation like that. It never shakes that simple.

It could be that easy; that’s the annoying part. A short walk and a train ticket coulda got that kid home. I coulda collected my bits and suggested the reunited family move a ways South or West.

Not nothing’s ever gonna be that easy, though. Kid felt trapped so he was trapped. That’s that.

‘Course, a few days after I started tailing him, that situation got fairly literal.

Friday, November 6, 2015


Joyous beaming, small lungs screaming
aloud such shrill yet euphonious sound.
Cerulean skies and winds bestir and bestride
the world navel twirling round and around.

Thursday, November 5, 2015

rambling, lines, echoes, and arcs

slow spins, subtle shifts, the gyre
turning, twisting entropic rends
always spins, unforgiving clock
winding deep beneath, drawn down
and in the earth you drown, drown, drown
long, unthinking forces press against
in waves, in tides, all spiral bound
echoing, encircling all around

fight the tides, free the sweep
pulling strings in cage of meat
astound, abound, mark straight the line

oh it will shatter, circle the square in unforgiving time,
but for that half half half of a half cosmic breath,
the earth may bare a man’s mark still yet

this speck of dust,  in void foment,
be adorned, be adorned, with human filaments

anthropic flashes, more likely, will make scarce a sound
spinning, spinning, bound we are bound

still yet we have sight, may we mark well our hours
draw lines, make rows, and smile at sunflowers
caught in their arc, ever turning their face
we may bask in the sun, or drink in the shade

though in less than a blink all men wink away

each breath, is one step, towards Heat Death
even the cosmos will die

but smile for you have seen
or laugh for you have heard
or sweet sigh for honeysuckle
fragrant on spring nights

the gyre will turn, but women and men
may press into it before we end

like rippling stones, dropped in raging waters
the stream is changed, never the same
but still it flows to the sea

though small, human actions, 
both beauty and horror, will echo unto that end.


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


up, downstairs

The house seemed alive both up and down.

Downstairs, the children laughed. They did not know why they were made to stay. However, away from adult drinks and most adult things they were rent.

Stairs, covered in soft carpet, still creaked beneath small feet. Stifled grins and scarce held tittle, little by little they crept up the stairs. A plan had been had, though quite mad, quite mad, snuck children up the stairs.

There were conversations there, upstairs, both shallow and grim with easy uneasy grins. Worries were birthed as off-color jokes; dead hopes were paraded as political outrages. Tired cocktail tropes roughed into place by laconic hands.

Though the children could hear, and pick up sad patterns to replay, they did not care. The children thought themselves clever there, hidden in stairs.

Out from burlap came the cat. I mean to say, courage was wrung, and the plan sprung! Danced the children through the kitchen, singing songs remembered from movies forgotten.

There then arrived genuine smiles in earnest exclamatory joy.

This was not allowed. The house was to be empty but loud. Children should be quiet, unheard, unobserved.

Again downstairs the children did crowd. Huddled around, new schemes were breathed into mischievous life.

Relighting the spark, into the dark, the children sallied forth with joyous branches of coral flame.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

shameless self promotion, a sales blurb is my creative output for the day...

In the aching darkness beneath, terrible things await.

Disparate and desperate monstrosities smile with human lips, call with human tongues, and weave their spidery webs.

They mostly mean no harm, but they are wrong, so very wrong. Their pleasant pleas and plaintive question germinate strange maladies.

They only wish you to be happy, like them. Won’t you smile with them, friend?

Monday, November 2, 2015

pony noir | part four: a better vantage point

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

Oh Celestia, the big galoot has always proved helpful, even when he doesn’t mean to be.

Name’s Stoney, Stoney Twinkle, and this is my story, I guess.

It started the way these things so often do, a worried mare walked into my office. It was an old yarn.

Her colt got caught up with a bad crowd, with all the typical trouble that brings. He hopped a train to the big bad city. She hadn’t heard head nor tail since. It should’ve been a simple trick to turn so I just let Hardy sleep it off.

Besides, I didn’t think the client could my rates and my bruiser’s too.

I started with the young punk’s shiftless associates. When dealing with vagrant young fellas, it helps to be pretty.

I’m still young enough to sparkle, wise enough to shine, as they say. Coat’s deep blue, and my mane’s a glossy black (at least up until recently). Big jet-black eyes don’t hurt the equation, it all adds up to an easy time with most stallions. For some reason, they never seem to notice the brain behind my wink.

Anyway, several winks later I got what I needed. The kid was into some bad stuff. Redrock’s nothing to sneeze at, but it was about to get weirder. It always does.

The kid hadn’t been quiet. He headed to Manehattan, somewheres dockside, to cut out the middle-pony and get his fix from the source.

That’s some damn dangerous shit to do. I needed to pull him out quick, but I also had some enemies in the area. I probably should’ve tracked down Hardy, but instead I colored my mane and rode the first train East.

I couldn’t quite put my hoof on it, but something about this was spooky. The kids seemed pale and shaky, even for molasses junkies. They were scared, too: almost too scared to care about my wink, almost.

Friday, October 30, 2015

freedom is bleeding and pain to begin

led weights oxidized
held across time, like chitin
sloughing off with skin

[note that you can always cheat haiku limitations via the title]


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.


Thursday, October 29, 2015

pony noir | part three: fade to black

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

In a room full of manure it’s tough to find the right pile. Hardy reluctantly tossed two bits to a mean looking unicorn hulking near the door.

Inside, they all looked like desperate ghosts, too pale, too skinny. Above the bar bottles gathered dust. Each table was weighted with old wax and provided with multiple candles.

The barkeep pointedly looked away whenever somepony thrust a shaking spoon into a flame, cooking waxy stones into caustic syrup. Otherwise the clientele stuck to the shadows along the walls.

For several minutes Hardy stood near the door staring daggers in every direction. The candles burned bright, hiding everything outside their circles in shifting murk. All Hardy heard was heavy breathing and needy sighs.

With a snort, he clopped towards the bar. A sallow orange earth pony squinted at him from the other side.

“Whadda ya want?” she demanded.

Hardy put ten bits on the counter.

She poured him a cup so watered down it wouldn’t foam.

“Know a fella named Two-teeth?” he asked loudly.

“Never heard of him,” she said with a pointed glance towards the far corner.

All ten bits slid into her apron.

A wan white pony clambered wildly out the door. Why did they all have to run?

Hardy wasn’t much on distance anymore, but lucky for him they didn’t call it molasses because it’s sticky. Slow junkies were Hardy’s personal favorite type.

The white, shaking colt had dropped out of breath in a surprisingly convenient alleyway. There was just enough streetlight for Hardy to make out the faded form of a paintbrush on the poor kid’s flank.

“Look I don’t plan to hurt ya,” Hardy spat out up front, failing to keep from sounding winded. “I just need to ask you a question about a book.”

“Ah, shit, pal, anything but that,” Two-teeth stammered. “Somepony, else turns up out there, they’ll know it was me. You don’t understand.”

“I’m just lookin’ for my friend.”

“You don’t get it. They’ll kill me.”

“I can get ya outta here, bud,” Hardy offered as kindly as the gruff old bastard could.

“You don’t understand. They’ll find me!”

You don’t understand; I already found ya.”

The kid clammed up tight, a sad quivering pile of nothing good.

Hardy sighed and took off his coat. Turning sideways the old brute flexed his back legs.

Cocking his head towards his own cutie mark, “Time was, pal, I could kick a brick to dust.”
Silence did all the talking for a bit.

“How long it been since you painted anything?”

“A while.”

“I got thirty bits in that coat on the ground. That can buy you ticket far away and whole hell of  a lot of art supplies.”

Quiet overtook the conversation again.

“Okay, fine!” the colt finally blurted.

“I’m listening, kid.”

Hardy didn’t see the surprise in Two-teeth’s eyes until it was too late.

A splash of stars and fade to black.

Wednesday, October 28, 2015

pony noir | part two: violent trails

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

A long line of bruises brought Hardy Sweets from Foal Meadows to some dockside slum on the rump end of Manehatten.

It began with Salty Sly and a bloody lip. Salty shouldn’t have run. That led Hardy to Yellow Feather, a wimpy sleaze of pegasus.

Yellow was pretty small-time, really, a smuggler and conpony in one. He got six bit train tickets to places all over Equestria, then sold ‘em for a single coin. He’d tack on a “Oh hey, could you drop this package to my uncle Hot Stars? He’s a unicorn, long story…”

So far as Hardy knew, Yellow dealt in small stuff: bits and bobs, rare plants for mean little potions, griffon dust. He was also the best way to get a ticket on the sly.

It was too bad because Hardy and the pegasus had a misunderstanding over a hoof of cards, long time back. Boss still dealt with him from time to time though. It made sense. Yellow wasn’t talking, though.

He wouldn’t listen to reason. He wouldn’t listen to bits. He listened to pain. Hardy wasn’t all rough; he popped the asshole’s wing back into place when he was finished.

Stoney Twinkle dyed her mane and tail pink then headed east. Yellow thought she looked spooked and real mad all at once.

Hardy knew who to look for then. A long series of hoof fights, criminals he knew by reputation, and dodging patrol colts got him what he needed.

Stoney had bought some sorta antique book then left in the company Two-teeth Nectar, noted redrock molasses junkie and general sack of shit.

So, there Hardy stood under the seedy yellow light of the Seahorse Lounge.

Tuesday, October 27, 2015

pony noir | part one: headaches and exposition

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4]

Celestia raised the sun too soon, Hardy Sweets was sure of that one. He rolled outta the hay and onto four shaking hooves. A cider hangover stuck like wet taffy. Through one big bloodshot eye, Hardy caught his reflection in the mirror.

He looked like hell. Hardy’s five-o-clock shadow was a day or two late. His once deep purple mane looked positively lavender, shot through with white. When had that started? At least his cutie mark still stood bold: two crossed peppermint sticks, ending in hammer heads.

He needed a wash and hayburger. Instead, he ran a hoof through his greasy mane and choked down the dregs of a cider cup. With a practiced motion, Hardy tossed on his well-worn fedora. Biting down on a licorice stick, the gruff pony strode out into the angry light of day.

The boss was missing. She’d been gone too long. It wasn’t like Stoney Twinkle to run off without notice. She was too careful. He didn’t like it, and tried to stop his thoughts just there. Like the grizzled stallion himself, Sweets’ thoughts never listened.

Over the past few days, he had tried to float her whereabouts out of Equestria’s underbelly. All it netted him was overextended bar tabs and a terrible headache. So much for the peppermint stick, it was time for the hammer.

[I believe this is the second piece of fan-fiction I've ever written.]

Monday, October 26, 2015


The silence trickled in like light rain, throughout the long night. Slowly, quiet and snow overcame all things. The last mortal breath froze piteous beneath still air. Even the wind did die.

The wicked gods rejoiced, for their mistakes had been undone. Long schemes had wormed and won. Most had met an end, but not before they birthed one.

Kind gods, if living, sighed and counted the end as kindness. White and pure the quiet, sunless sweep, hidden horrors buried underneath.

Only Loki was malcontent, as ever.  

Outwitting death, he walked the dark reaches. Loki found the lonely wretched glow of his wolfish son’s decay. Buried below soft fallen snow, still did it shit half-digested sun-fire.

Loki smiled. Loki frowned.

Gathered he then the holy fire and with it called many winds. Thus did Loki awaken the world.

Though, the world would likely chain him again.


So I've added a tip jar to the blog, in the form a Patreon Campaign. 

If you've gotten any worth out of these poems and stories and experimental fiction and what-have-you, please consider donating. Any amount would be greatly appreciated and help to ensure I am able to keep doing this.