Monday, February 29, 2016


Babbling babbling in a dizzying array of inchoate sound, he did not understand. Everyone spun, a mystery of covalent dance. His relative stillness stood out like a black thumb, swollen, distorted, malfunctioning.

Navigation consisted of ruthless lines and hard angles. Swirling crowds effortlessly parted before him, objects overlapping in path but impossible in collision.

Their gravity would not touch him; only his dying self-impetus drove him. A stranger in a sea of familiars, the spectator saw but could never know.

Did he come from the future? Was he meant for clean, modern, parallel lines?                                 

Was he rather, a vestigial remnant of imperatives long past? A straight line to lonely slaughter and warm blood and red meat?

Friday, February 26, 2016


racing upwards in
a small orb atop rockets,
series explosive

huge pieces collapse
quick away in succession,
leaving just the orb.

long-solved mathematics
steer;  the man inside must wait.
for machine rulings...

when the machines make
for a soft-perfect landing
the man inside wakes

computer dressed, he,
walking through an aperture,
becomes a hero.

Thursday, February 25, 2016

bleeding scars

White star, red flash grips,
Inlayed in chartreuse expense.
Sudden persistent burning
Pernicious insistence
Of sharpening penance,
For crimes against oneself.
Far old follies still fouling health
(and wealth [and happiness])

Wednesday, February 24, 2016

prose poem 24 | of sand and men

With each step, he loses a piece of himself. Every forward motion against the ragged winds of entropy, comes at a cost.

Ephemeral moments perpetually transcribe into imperfect memories. Memories, as always, remain unimmune to thermodynamics.

A wet failing machine is he; wet failing machines are we.

Sand grains fall irregularly… but on average speak honestly of time. What of irregular men?

Tuesday, February 23, 2016

“like a rock, like a planet, like a fucking atom bomb”

unaffected, attempted and failed,
remote, self-contained, “a naked eye”
quoth an interesting sentiment,
I detested and lived.
swirling such a stagnant morass and maelstrom,
unintuiting, twisting counter clockwise,
towards receding rock bottom,
I watched the world without effect.
numbed or synthetically, desperately grinning||
I pretended toward disaffection or honest joy,
and found neither, nor any succor.

Authenticity high above happiness.
Could I survive with less of either?
Simplicity may content me, but
can magnanimity degauss duplicity?

(Does my poetry pale towards an exposition
of erudition and archaic displays of diction?)

I fear apace each smiling face,
at least now I may stare my malady en eyen!
For sooth? By my troth? Mayhaps?


I feel like perhaps today's poem was a touch self indulgent so here is an example of a better poem.

Obviously I don't pretend to hold copyright to "Generator" by Bad Religion


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).


Monday, February 22, 2016

rage, vanity, motions of probability

Irregular glowing attacks had become the worst part of the condition. Even the growing discomfort seemed trivial.

Ziniel furiously read, meticulously noted, carefully calculated, and vociferously swore in equal measure all day. However, assuming a continuation of then present trends, vicious oaths would quickly outpace the rest.

Of all the godsdamned things, starpox.

All of a sudden he sprung backwards. A small beacon of blinding light had bubbled up from the back of Ziniel’s tawny hand. In process, his quill was snapped, an abacus overturned, and his mathematics ruined.

Another infinitesimal piece of himself disappeared. Ziniel desperately searched about his cluttered table for another pen.

It had to be the godsdamned starpox, “the beautiful ending”. Godsdamned vain bastards.
Starpox was not so fast as to frighten, but not so slow as to be easily fought. Calm pacing for one resigned to die well sooner.

A spark of pain shot through his nostril as light boiled out from every pore and orifice on Ziniel’s face. Blinded by the blue-red after image, the young sorcerer screamed until his throat choked in frustration.

His eyes ceased blinking and sprung wide. He had felt that one, fully. Significant pieces of him were beginning to effervesce into light. Spiraling orbs of once living flesh beamed overhead in elegant waves.

The sorcerer spat out his most blasphemous oaths. Wild spontaneous curses sprung out of thin air and flew towards imprecise targets. Nearby candles dimmed and smoked like terrible engines.
Orbs of violent light streaked painfully away from him. He drew static-electric dry air across his carbonizing tongue, to hoarsely whisper some final syllables of vengeance.

In that instant, Ziniel and the lights above disappeared.

Spreading outward in haphazard oscillating waves of unlikely probability. All his angry matter raced, non-Euclidean, across the hateful world. Coalescent in the Palace of Beautiful Princes, all that had been Ziniel converted directly into energy.

Friday, February 19, 2016

53rd and C

Wisps of acrid smoke floated flagellantly about the unusual man. However, no ashen stink nor cinder burnt holes could have marred his decrepit motely. Broadcloth and brocade laden, the out of place man did not sweat beneath the white sun.

Merely lounging, perhaps from accidental practice, he seemed to bring his own shadow. With each subtle shift the fool backlit his broken face. A vague desperation shone within his darkening eyes.
From the final salute of May until the blush of flushing September, he hovered about the abandoned corner storefront.

Drunk students threw change at his feet afterwords he was performing. The neighborhood breathed easier when his purpose was provided. A mound of money grew slowly about his idle feet.

Local homeless grew increasingly wary with his presence. The fool never bothered to notice them making off with his cash. He dismissed the, more thoroughly than anyone in pressed slacks ever had.
He responded to less and less as August wetly fell away.

On September 23rd he began to pace in frantic turmoil. His mouth would suddenly distend in quiet screaming. At first the singles shifted to fivers but soon enough the fool grew no new money. Soon enough, the corner emptied of all except busy people, passing quickly with hands pockets.

When Wanda Ricard worked up the courage to try and harvest the fool’s money, on the 26th, she found him long gone. She found instead a puddle of piss, a peculiar tangle of aluminum wire, and enough scratch to get a room and a bottle of decent gin.

Thursday, February 18, 2016

yonder hillock was dressed in misting, sun-dappled white

water rushing over boot tops
squealing peals of laughter erupt
singular moments, roped across
by sunlit chains in memory

to paint a springing image, gleaming
beyond false photographic seeming,
movement remembered, maintaining
salt breath and sand dissolving
in waves.

Wednesday, February 17, 2016

lively gray

Cold blown sand and spray,
stinging, oceanic sang
lusty gulls' refrain!

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

pony noir | part ten : a sudden storm

[part 1 : part 2 : part 3 : part 4 : part 5 : part 6 : part 7 : part 8 : part 9]

It wasn’t a long jump, even on old bones. Hardy took it in stride, but the colt was fucking folly incarnate.

Lightning struck.

Kid slipped, fell short, and cracked his skull before taking a cold dip in the angry ocean. Only by a miracle succession of lightning strikes did Hardy manage to pull the pale pony out from a wine-dark sea. Nearly lost a tooth for his trouble.

Still, damn kid had a swollen mound of trouble just above his eyes, lacerated and weeping blood too. With a tired snort and a bit of effort the stallion got Two-teeth onto his back before galloping away. 

The sullen glow of fire-light burned steamed in the sudden rain on his right so Hardy booked it headlong and half blind to his left. Lightning and luck conspired to hide the ravine until the two of ‘em were tumbling headlong into the muddy bottom.

As he fought to regain his breath, a deep red unicorn appeared in a fiery flash.

“Horseshit…” Hardy managed to cough out before spinning ‘round to kick the smirk off her mouth.

Monday, February 15, 2016

what of the men who play at sticks?

“Old King’s got ‘er locked up now, real sharp.
“Got ‘imself a bobbing pair, he does.”


“Been a decade ago, His Majesty Oerick, long live, decreed catastrophe, dismissed the Council of Earls, and remade the Laws of Murder and Assault.

“Carry an implement of war, outside called levies and the constabulary, and you now are attempting murder. Assault is to be charged even in mortal self-defense with ‘yron” implements. So a felling axe may fell a tree, but should it fell a thief, the woodsman is so charged.

“The penalty? Ten years in fetters or two years conscripted, of course.

“Kingdom’s military is currently better manned than at any point in history. The roads have never been so free of bloody knives. Long live.

“What of the men who play at sticks? A gentleman, freeman, or servant may of course carry a staff or cane or walking stick. The farmer must transport his heavy flail. A woman oft carries a distaff and spindle.

“Such implements, not made of ‘yron’, only carry with them the charge of assault when employed with violent intent, wrongful death rather than murder should it so fit.

“Wrongful death? Why execution with time for repentance, of course… or ten years conscription.”

Friday, February 12, 2016

anxious smile

terse wonderment rubs
against fearful firmament,
boundaries of joy.

Thursday, February 11, 2016

“office of grievance and reconciliation”

The walls were institutional sage. A halfhearted welcome splayed insistently across the counter: dusty plastic rose petals, willow branches, decaying trypophobic green-foam. 

Everywhere else, heavy utilitarian lines prevailed. The two queues killed time in parallel silent sighs. Forehead furrows and deep frowning folds greeted each new customer in mimicry of human noise. 

Customers seldom spoke a whisper beyond an echoed salutation. Their forms were filled; elsewise why would they be in line? What more need be decided? What more could be construed?

They say when it all came down, the two women waited quietly at their stations. The lines were overflowing as the working tone would never again stand.

The way my soft uncle Steven told it: 

Even as the building burned and collapsed about them, the two old G&R compu-operators waited for morning instruction. In some sort of mindless bureaucratic zen they succumbed to choking fumes and died where they’d always stood.

Steve said he almost felt sorry for ‘em, ‘til he remembered the smile one cracked at his young mother’s second reconciliation.  

Wednesday, February 10, 2016


She wanted to smile and cry. Instead she stood trapped somewhere between an incredulous snort and a nervous laughter. Giselle had little experience with epiphany.

The table in front of her was a mess, almost mathematical in its specific intensity. A half circle of destruction evidenced a sudden bout of violent entropy. Pi radians of rage as executed by the sweep of Giselle’s left arm. 

Empty decanters, musty tomes, and half-eaten meals had flung away in her wrath. Only a bottle of ink dashed backward in a bold riposte. In contrarian vengeance, it covered two days’ worth of hard won mathematics. Well, hard fought mathematics, she was forced to concede.

Centered but somewhat to the left, the loose sheets of her formulae lay in sepia ruin. All, save for half of one hastily scrawled line, was lost. However, now highlighted, her error was glaring and easily undone. The basic frame of the proper equation flashed like lightning through her agile mind. 

Madly she grabbed for the nearest book and began scribbling madly across its bland frontispiece. Giselle would not sleep that night, but she would know ere morning. 

Tuesday, February 9, 2016

living, vital, branching pain

Pain remembers, even if you do not.

A living line of energy spiking through moments in time, branching ad infinitum, pain may stay, but never be still. Asexual reproduction sows the seed well enough, but gods help those who live through otherwise.

Pain variegates inventively but remember, there is only one pain. It all draws back to that selfsame moment of birth and blood and screaming, repeated, universal, and unique.

Pain would take great pleasure in its work if it could.

But this would be like a raindrop loving the earth or the long flow of water enjoying canyon erosion. Erosion and blind force know no eros. Make no mistake, pain is blind self-replicating force.

It may seem to seek you, but know, it is merely happenstance that you  meet.

Pain will endure long past your ability to experience it...

I know not whether this is a comfort or a burden.

Monday, February 8, 2016

remembering to laugh

(How I discovered I was, in fact, old.)
Involuntary exclamation of joy, "Oh Fuck Yeah! Diet Squirt!"

(Everyday is magical.)
"And then like some shitty, hobo magician I pulled a dirty sock out of my vest pocket."

(Everyday is ridiculous.)
"It's really the Oregon legislature's fault..." In reference to my reawakened love of poptarts.

A related matter: "So there I was, in 7-11, pants falling down, armload of candy, dropping everything left and right, like some cartoonish caricature..."

"It seriously only occurred to me yesterday that shitting in box in to further my vengeful scheme was a fucking weird thing to do."
(This was in reference to something I did more than a decade ago. As a warning, DO NOT fuck up my bowling ball.)



Friday, February 5, 2016

foul musings when I should be happy

abstract patterns of organic leaf litter
water split across an ugly gnarled nob of an unjoined tree

freedom from consequence and coincidence - a mad man's dream,
freedom from incidence, poetic scream | in a lightless place.
smile anyway? can wry be wrung to the genuine?
can sarcasm less fangéd grin?
(can forcéd meter more poetic be?)

can sad beauty still see this line's third word?

does meaninglessness render all things mean?
an average of empty probability?

Thursday, February 4, 2016


Like the shaking post trauma half remembered

Like the breaking dawn, revealing tragic  tableau

Like quiet screaming through clenched fists

Like a phone call cutting across smiling moments

Like an interruption strangling new thoughts

Like a vanishing point of unfulfilled desire

"Insatiable satiety kept hold..."

Wednesday, February 3, 2016


It was so easy, severing that final tie. The moment was practically nondramatic, in fact.

The long list of hateful words, heavy nights, and bitter tears had long passed by then. 

A name was written on a xeroxed line, an ending like a dying sneeze (less meaningful perhaps), a beginning as unremarkable as waking with a yawn. What more could it be than this?

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

a world without answers

But why does it exist this way? None remember otherwise so why then do we all think it strange?

Why do maggots literally generate from rotting flesh?

Why do all birds steal secrets? Beware their spring singings, each is a secret you may not wish to give or know…

Why do curses sometimes kill widows? Why do white lies empower the dreaded White King?

Why does the wind whisper lies in spring and truth in winter? Could we all simply not hear it before?

Are we further attuned or more deeply deluded?

Why do goblins hold their markets at dusk? Why can none find their fields, their burrows, any trace of them come noon?

Where does the Sun go when it hides late in winter? And why do the moons seem so pleased?

Why do the stars only sing when you’re alone? How can the stars sing at all? Void is the death of sound…

Why do we all have the dead dreaming? How is that only second sons and first daughters may see through dead men’s eyes?

How can one lose a shadow? Where does it wander when we drink?

What makes the lefthand path always shortest? What makes the righthand path less calamitous?

When, oh when will we remember?!

How can we hope to understand?


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).


Monday, February 1, 2016