Thursday, April 28, 2016

last of its kind

My breath would sort of half-catch at the back of my tender throat. Do you know the sensation? Like with a peanut skin or popcorn hull?

It’s so much more singular, though. Swelling shuts it off, not some outside object. Your own body begins to choke you.

All you can do, all I can do is wait. One of these days, it won’t unstick.

Wednesday, April 27, 2016


I was alive. The wet, open pain of my wounds let me know real damn quick.

Impulsively, I pulled away from the sticking carpet. Red, stiff, and brittle fibers encrusted the ruination of my favorite t-shirt.

A dusty mirrored surface tried to sell me beer, but I narrowed my focus. In reflection, I saw an anticlockwise and filthy gap in the skin of my cheek. Ragged edges oozed around stuck threads and filth. It ached in unventilated air.

All the other wounds appeared to scabbing over, stuck within the aftermath of my clothes.

There wasn’t much to be done or to feel so I walked out into the thick afternoon.

What more could I have done? My corpse was the only one still moving.

Tuesday, April 26, 2016

embrace an old friend
tightly held and jaggedly
wrought, unrelenting


Monday, April 25, 2016

song is heard from beyond an overgrown hedgerow

♫ ever away, the bones they go,
ever away the bones they go
all the way away, away
all the way away

Turning to Day! the night she dies,
she di-ies, di-ies
she dies she dies she dies

ever away, the homes they go,
ever away the homes they go
all the way away, away
all the way away

There's blood in the sink!
But here in a wink!

it all will go away, away
it all will go away ♫

Friday, April 22, 2016

like an echoing cannon like an sorrowing care against bitter movement from flies brightening spark illuminate a face screaming in the dark

Thursday, April 21, 2016

in the woods of my first neighborhood, were hunted songbirds

I spend so much time pretending, convincing that insanity is power is insanity is power. It’s probably a lie, but I am not left with much else. ([Try not to think of killing myself.])

There was vent, in the house, I grew up in. Running an RC-car in reverse made it a radio, briefly.

Is that me? An accident of machinery? Functioning almost, most briefly?

What has happened to the turning wheels we heard?

Wednesday, April 20, 2016

the lamentation of tomorrow's nymph

If only I could sit still enough, I could go away.

I could grow away:
piney fresh and green.

Hot green leaves waxy, waxing hot, shading cool beneath a torpid sun.

If only I could be still enough, my half reflection real enough, I could grow:

Down, down through safe roots,
Up. up branching, fraying into sheltering leaves.

If only I could be still enough, I'd not even wish to be a tree.

Instead I'd not worry, even as a bush.

Let me shrink without needing to think, or to know:
my not dissimilar lack of control.

Even then, I would not own me:
but instead be leased as a part and parcel of the land.

Tuesday, April 19, 2016

oopsie daisies

the internet fails
betrayal at times bears fruit
strange, sour, or sweet

Monday, April 18, 2016

life as an observant causal plaything

In vast reaches it teems alone in great numbers. Its scent would be like limonene and pine trees.

However, the vastness of immaterial space renders such observations impossible.

In sparking bursts between scattered particles, it is little more than an accident of awareness. Like 10,000,000 naked eyes, it knows. It exists and interacts but it does not direct. It cannot respond.

(For instance, strong gravity wells strike it like a sour taste. I can and will do nothing to avoid them, however.)

Through time an space, it cannot but dissipate; spread thin and dying a bit with each passing object.

Still, it is vast and will endure for great, dwindling time. 

Friday, April 15, 2016

marijuana is legal in WA, too

a coincidence of shoe boxes
exited rhetoric of shopping incredible
stories prove to be horrorshow funny

Thursday, April 14, 2016

the virgin lands

The Virgin Lands had never known the footfalls of men. (Never you mind the ghostly steps of Quiet Ones.) Loamy soil broke in glee against sea-salt pitted plows.

Some few homesteads have bloomed into towns. Even fewer towns have splayed into cities, most hugging tight to the coast.

Iron and fools still  flood towards vague hopes in this new place. Lumber, crops, and precious potash bleed back toward the Old Homes. However, nearly half of returning trips flounder and drown. Still though, iron tools and desperate fools keep coming.

You should know, before your charter your boats, ten paces outside city bounds quickly shifts to deadly wilderness. Wilderness that cannot be.

Why do mad castles and wimpled maidens await in far off forests deeps?

Why do wet nymphs call from crystal streams, bedecked only in foreign flora?

Why do moldering Empire ruins stray so far from the Old Homes?

How did the Quiet Ones loose their tongues? How long had they been here before us?

I do not know.

And who would come to such a strange and dangerous place?

None who are well. This much I can surely tell.

Wednesday, April 13, 2016


There is a port in the storm.
Perhaps it is not all silent void and screaming pain.
Maybe hope kills less than faith destroys.

Tuesday, April 12, 2016

horror pony business | part 1

It had seemed innocuous enough, but there was the corpse staring blankly up at me, all four aquamarine legs horribly askew, pastel skin painted blood and rust red.

Really though, the grin got to me. Flesh hung ragged, ripped away from terrible teeth. It was kind of my fault.

It was a bad start to a long and hateful day, everypony.
Two-teeth’s poor mum, Candied Calm, lay dead at my hooves.

Monday, April 11, 2016

makeshift metaphors

A bubbling breath of friendliness slowly soured in her mouth, and fell tinny on the ears. Frequencies, more so than languages, did not properly align. The guiless cannot speak to those who need kind lies.

Her honesty had no place in a world of “How are you?” without a following pause. 

She was like a horse in heavy traffic: functional but not ideal, unfortunate for all involved.

She did not fit, and I can only speak of her in clumsy simile. What then does this leave us?

Friday, April 8, 2016

about a pear

An overripe pear hung heavily, round and ripe.

Brimming it held in pregnant potential for some seeking tooth. Ready to burst with half-hidden juice, the fruit promised a wet mess across some waiting face.

How could one not wish to eat a seeping font of nectar so sweet?

Thursday, April 7, 2016

park thoughts

Hide away your nakedness. Hide away too, other honesties and happiness. Tuck it like sheets, folded beneath bed skirts. The world is only sin & noise.

Wednesday, April 6, 2016

a trip to the hospital left me pretty high on 'scripts

mailboxes push me back,
a tangle of telephones attack.
ringing and stringing with
remembered twisting cords

insistent connection absorbs

an avalanche in a fever dream

prose poem 26 | stranger at home in a strange land

Dissonant waves and blank pages, what more could there be than this?

How had I preached for freedom, without experiencing it?

Self-donned fetterlocks & forebearance, forsooth, by my troth, I wore.

I measured my life in soft lies and unliving wages, but no more, no more.

I am broken and bleeding but washed up on friendlier shores.

Monday, April 4, 2016


alarum , alarum
it’s screaming again
decorum, decorum
it’s come to its end
every hour, and twice on some
innocence dies long past was it young?

Saturday, April 2, 2016

Agency File 6.0061

Diary of [Redacted],

Bird song is beautiful until you understand it.

It becomes violent cries of territory and demands for sex. What once was beautiful will forever be tainted by immutable knowledge.

Such terrible knowledge.

Still, I wished to know more.

From Bohr and Einstein, I turned towards Paracelsus and Pythagoras. I found the hidden pattern in [Redacted]  and [Redacted].

The sun hates. The stars are filled with laughter from this joke of creation.

Now I know. I KNOW.

Formulaically it can be expressed as Redacted] .[Redacted] = [Redacted]

I know now. I know NOTHING.

The truth is a bitter pill, but still, I seek it.

Know that your your source has been outed and processed. Soon you will be as well.

First, however, you will suffer. The Agency cannot tolerate such a breach.

On a personal note, please do run. It has been ages since I've tasted  compelling prey. 

Agency File 6.0019

"The Lumpback Floating Turtle frowns w/o reason. Dangling sympathetic algal streamers provide its nourishment. 
"Perhaps it somehow remembers cold, dead fish broken within it's beak."

Only remaining page of a moleskin notebook, mailed to the FBI Public Relations Department September of 1998. The return address simply read: "Darkening Dream Soon to Be"