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.