Writing a Dream

Here’s another dream scene from the novel I’m working on. Again, this is first draft stuff and will probably change a lot by the time the novel it out, but I thought it was cool enough to share now. It’s loosely based on a dream I had about my grandfather just after he died. Anyway, let me know what you think and feel free to suggest changes. Enjoy!

The hotel was nice. The staff were friendly. Both Bert and Durham were greeted with a warm cookie and a bottle of water. Their room had two beds. It was the first time either of them slept on a bed since Las Vegas. They were comfortable beds with too many comfortable pillows. It wasn’t until the lights were off and the two were lying in their beds that they noticed the subtle scent of flowers in the air. Durham was quick to fall asleep. Bert had a bit more trouble. He got out of bed, put on his pants, and took the elevator to the bar. It was the only bar still open at that hour and shared the top floor of the hotel with the buffet hall. A jazz band played in a corner near the end of the bar. The walls behind them were lit up amber. There were two people sitting at the bar and no one else around. Both were staring at the band.

            Bert sat at the bar next to one of the women. He grabbed a napkin to write down the drink he wanted and passed the napkin to the bartender as she walked up. The woman next to him was wearing an elegant, small green dress. The bartender was wearing something that looked like it would go under a tuxedo. He couldn’t see the other woman from where he sat. His drink warmed up his stomach and coolly dampened a new napkin. Something he heard caught his attention. Out of the corner of his eye, Bert saw that the amber lights behind the band were blinking. It was a slow blink that lit up and the whole room, then made it dark again. All the instruments other than drums had dropped out of the song. The drummer was playing a solo that Bert recognized.

            As he turned in the direction of the band, someone turned off the flashing yellow lights. Bert couldn’t see anyone in the corner well. He remembered where he’d heard the song. It was the song the drummer played in the dream that he’d had in Las Vegas. When the thought hit him, red and blue spot lights burst on, pointed directly at the drummer. It was the same person. He stared at Bert while his playing intensified.

            “Speaker father?” the young lady sitting next to Bert whispered. “Tortoise arabica exhumed?” She turned to Bert, blinked slowly, then looked back at the drummer. “Manual.”

            Bert couldn’t look away from the man playing the drums. Even as the young lady clearly wanted to engage in conversation, his attention was locked in.

            “You never know.” the drummer sang. “You don’t know because it don’t matter right now.” he continued. Bert was not phased in the least that he understood. He expected it.

            “It’ll matter tomorrow.” the young lady in the green dress said, turning towards Bert. “You should really protect yourself.” Her eyes were flat and empty as she spoke.

            Bert had become so used to remaining quiet during conversations that he didn’t think of responding to her. The girl hadn’t blinked since she’d faced him.

            “Would you like another drink, sir?” the bartender interrupted.

            When Bert turned to his left, he lifted his glass to show her it was full. The bartender wasn’t the woman in the outfit resembling a tuxedo, though. The drummer was standing in her place. His eyes were bloodshot and stained looking.

            “It’ll matter tomorrow.” the woman and drummer said in sync.

            The woman sat still, staring at Bert through her matte black eyes. The drummer collapsed. He began vomiting across the rubber mats on the floor. After a few seconds, the vomit became blood. Tears dripping from his blood shot eyes were tinted red. The veins in his neck bulged. There was a second of peace while he inhaled an enormous breath. He then climbed to his feet, propping himself up on the bar, breaking a bottle that was pulled from the shelf. The drummer continued climbing, standing straight once atop the bar. A small stream of bloody saliva dripping from his open mouth became red vomit again, dousing the bar, the woman with the blank stare, who still had not blinked, and Bert.

            “Protect yourself.” the two said, again in unison before the drummer vomited directly onto Bert.

            Bert stumbled back from his stool, suddenly unfrozen, and fell backwards to the ground. He didn’t stop where the floor was, though, and continued falling through the hotel rooms. Thirteen floors had passed before he crashed onto the roof of a mini-van. He was in the parking garage below the hotel. An amber light flashed on a pillar a few feet away. There was no other light in the garage. The roof of the mini-van was caved in, windows shattered. It’s hazard lights were flashing and an alarm did its best to alert whoever owned the car, but made barely any sound. Bert laid back, sore, soaked, and confused. He dropped his head back and fell asleep.

             Before Bert’s eyes opened the next morning, his mind snapped out of sleep. It was just after sunrise. Sunlight struck his eyes, reflecting off something in the distance. He had a horrible headache. When he finally opened his eye, he saw that he was in the parking garage. He was also lying atop a mini-van. Bert slid off the mini-van roof. As he landed on the concrete, his ankle gave out and he tumbled over. Strewn across the ground about the area were crumpled beer cans and a few broken cocktail glasses. His hand smashed two cherries skewered on a tooth pick as he lifted himself off the ground. There was no room key in his pockets. Most of his cash was still in his wallet. Bert tip toed through the lobby, up the elevator to his room.

            Durham walked out of the room as Bert reached for the handle. He was a bit shocked to see Bert outside the room. Durham asked something, momentarily forgetting about Bert’s problem. When he realized what he’d done, he put his hand on Bert’s shoulder, pulling him into the room.

            “The first chance you get to sleep in a bed and you run off.” Durham said to himself. “I appreciated that fucker.”

New Poems

The time in between books seems so long at first, but it goes by quickly. Here are some poems I wrote this week. They’re not the same style as what will be in my next collection, but I think it will be cool to read these now, and then again after finishing the journey that is my next release, titled “That Which Gets in the Way”. These are a lot closer in style to the last section of that book. Enjoy!


she leaves the door from another dimension
where there was water everywhere
the only light came from her telephone
and walls are made of fingers
she walks into the bar where i’ve been lost for a while now, and the three of us spill our drinks on her.

she’s cold and gets someone to
eat the ice off the floor, then to tell us to have a good night
but i’m lost
now i’m having a good night with my friends
we’ve having a good night being carried by our belts
tossed into a wooden threshold
through it
into public
my teeth land on the curb
my friends,
we’re not lost any more
our drinks are unspilled

she walks back into the other dimension
wanting the walls to reach back into her pussy
looking for the rest
of the ice cubes

20 percent

flat gray skin where her mouth should be
flaps of skin, her ears folded in towards her face
a bent finger, the only one left on her hand
points to the booth you just left
then to the door you’re walking towards
the lights flicker
someone says something about an upside down boat
in the middle of the desert
the bitch grins

“are you taking off?”

jungle high

the men sat in the jungle
shirts open, tattered spirits, fucked
one put his shotgun in another’s face
taking him out of the jungle
blowing him into his house
where bop honked out of the record player

the man with the shotgun
whipped it into another’s face
taking him out of the jungle
clouding his vision
when it clears, he’s at prom
drinking in the bathroom with his girl

the man hands the shotgun to the only other one left
opens his mouth wide and
sucks in the fire
blinks and he’s on his mother’s farm
dad’s dead, so he’s the man of the house
he just wants to dig
and plow
and fuck the chick down the street


we were driving my jeep in the desert
up and down dunes, between scraping juniper branches
squeezed a tight corner with a drop off
looked down to the upside down boat at the bottom
covered in red dirt and a torn gray tarp
letting go of the squeeze, coming around the bent trail
there’s a circle of weirdos lying down
some of them were still
some trying to get off the ground
at least two of them were a green kind of dead

we pulled to the side and radioed for help
there was no answer but the groans of one of the men
he said
they’d all taken poison, even the young ones
my wife cried
my friend and i watched their souls
sink into another dimension
even the young ones


the universe is pretending to be where we live
it’s got a mask and a driver’s cap on
a bow tie

it looks like someone you’d like to take out
fall asleep next to
and fuck just before morning

but it’s a sham
it isn’t anything like what it tells us
what you see on the news

it’s drunk
and you’re lookin good
and it’ll do anything to get in your life

Laura’s Poems: Inspired by Twin Peaks

All of my poetry books, so far, have been a pretty good snapshot of a period in my life. “Couch to Couch” was written when I’d first moved out on my own, met my wife, and started taking writing courses in college. “That Which Gets in the Way” is going to be a ride along through a time in 2015/16 when I battled depression. Even “Four” was somewhat personal because it was so spur of the moment. The collection I’m working on now isn’t really an inward exploration like my past works. My ship, she’s been sailing calm for a while now, and I feel like that’s freed up my creativity.

For the time being, I’m done focusing on me. Things are moving in a different direction, where I’m treating my poems like sort of micro dreams. My goal is to experience a thought or feeling in another person’s shoes for the duration of a single poem. If a corner office, cocaine-sniffing financial broker looked out his massive windows and had a moment of disorientation, what poem would he right in that moment? A couple are driving down a desert highway at night, the radio cuts out, headlights skip across the median from the other lane, heading straight for them and the man doesn’t swerve an inch. What is the woman in the passenger seat thinking right before they all die? I’m searching for random prompts whose stories may never be told.

So, I was looking at my wife’s Laura Palmer cigarette holder and had an idea. One poem for each year she was alive. Here’s 1972-79. The rest of the set will be in next year’s release “In Your Gourd, Off the Dime”. To me, they’re more like little paintings than my previous stuff. Tidbits of imagination that can make sense individually, or as a whole. This collection will be more about theme and feel than the actual words. Anyway, that’s enough rambling. As always, hope you enjoy!



I’m not going to talk about

I’m new, fresh, reborn

you talk about yourself

you can

i sit here knowing everything you’d
ever want to know and more


you should write it down too
because that’s not what anyone
wants to hear


there’s a hand
there’s pills
there’s a bowl

the hand takes the pills from the bowl
and feeds them to the wife

this isn’t the night that she wants to be awake

maybe later
maybe when they’re all gone
all safe

she’ll want to hear again

but right now
no one is safe
and it isn’t going to sound
like a circus.


oh how beauty grows
how it stumbles around
on the carpet
looking for you
hold her up

oh how golden hair grow
she looks like a cherub
sleeping on her side
facing heaven

let’s take her out
show her off to the world
take her to the pictures

i think you’ve
had enough
to drink
aren’t getting


i don’t remember the last two
of her birthdays
what were they like?
was i there?
who else?

i don’t remember the poor thing
what did we get her?

was that when her cousin
pushed her down the stairs
was that her last birthday?

can you hear me?
open up your eyes for me
can you hear me?
it’s your birthday
your cousin should be here

watch out for those stairs


my father took me into the woods
for the first time
when i was four

the trees were the tallest
things i’d ever seen
when i was four

we had his old brown car
a green radio
and a basket of food

the walked me away from our blanket
and a minute later
on the radio
a man began screaming

he was being hurt
he was calling out
he was asking for me by name

we never found the green radio
and some say he
still screams today


my cousin and i were playing down the street
this was the year i started to think
there was a man dressed in blue
and his boy playing tag

his mother said she knew mine
but i’d never seen my mother

another family drove by
laughing at the man dressed in blue

two more families today
is this how fast
the world always

the laughing family threw greasy
burger bags on the street
where the boys played tag

they were people who didn’t care about others
not unlike my mom and dad


i wonder if the people
i saw today
keep thinking
and talking
they go away


today is the day we grow
it is the day we turn into real people
because we can’t do it
on a day that doesn’t exist
and today
is it

do you think you’ll
turn into a real person tomorrow??
i love someone
when do they become real??

do you both have to be real
to love one another??
and if i love someone else

how real is my love

When Titans Pass

I’ve been writing poetry for something like 20 years now.  I started writing as a young boy in Hawaii and continued as I traveled the U.S. with my parents as my father hopped from job to job. It helped me express the loneliness and what comes with moving around a lot. These days, though, I feel like it’s much more of a struggle to come up with something of a particular quality. As I’m growing, I’m raising my standards. I’m also defining the direction I want my art as a whole to move in; what I want it to say.

Direction isn’t something that I thought about much when I was younger. Because I was never really involved in any kind of artistic community, I feel like I missed out on a lot honing of my thought process. No one ever passed on any tribal knowledge.

That aside, what I really wanted to say: In my opinion, the internet is flooded with people who are scabbing onto more prominent creators for a few likes. That’s a painfully cliche statement, and the practice started long before the internet, of course. That doesn’t make it wrong. I think that it stems from my taste in other art forms. Look at Kubrick and Lynch. There are many who imitate their styles, but since Kubrick died, and once Lynch cashes in, we’re losing two of the most original film makers of all time. It’s the same for music when someone like Lou Reed died. There are only a few heavy hitters out there. They only got there and will only leave such enormous holes in our world because they were able to get in touch with their art on a higher level than the majority of us creators.

I’m don’t want this to be misconstrued as shit talking about other artists. More than ninety percent of what I write is garbage. This “mission” of mine is something that I felt like talking about. My main goal in life is to create as much as possible that only I could create. If it turns out in the end that I’ve only made one poem that is truly something only I could have put on Earth, that’s an amazing thing. Also, most likely impossible, right? Here I sit, with less than ten regular readers on my blog. Live streaming my writing sessions to an even smaller audience. Selling even fewer books, still. Yet, you don’t need a large audience to create something meaningful.

Anyway, I know this post is preachy. I really just wanted to write something about how sad it is to lose the really original artists. Of course I look up to them and aspire to be like them. That’s why they’re known. So whatever. I’m going to take a notebook out to the woods for a few days and see what comes of it. If I’m lucky, I’ll have thirty new poems that don’t suck. I’ll definitely be chewing on this train of thought throughout the weekend.

Leave a comment letting me know what you think about what you just read. Is the topic exhausted, or is there a discussion hidden somewhere in here? Is it an important factor important for a writer to think about, or should we ignore this kind of stuff and trek forward?

Poems from the Stream Two

I wrote more in one hour this time than I did in the entire stream last session! I had to cut it early, but I think I got some alright stuff. I was in a weird mood, so some of this is kind of playful. Posting this kind of unpolished work is a bit more honest in my mind. That said, I usually don’t edit my poetry much more than removing a few words here and there. Anyway, Hop you enjoy this week’s haul!



the big bomb started a chain reaction
now everyone’s got bombs
and they’ve all got threats

we’ve got to pop a bomb once in a while
so the fuckers know which one is biggest

bombs are planted in the mountains
under our cities
and at any moment
could turn us to dust

it’s cliche
but I feel like folks aren’t
familiar with the threat

these suckers kill millions
they’d flatten my city and everyone i know

and still some fuckers thing we should
erase north koreans like we’re
sitting in front of a chuck norris movie


nature is eating one of the biggest cities
in america

pumping dialysis machines full of
flood water, full of
tar and oil

the things that keep people alive
by removing garbage from their blood
are sucking up
street trash
rat piss

what are we supposed to fear?


everything that happens in bars
is a lie
they’re all dreams

if you bought a beer
in a building that isn’t your home
you’re sleeping

all products of folks who had an
and telling

the real shit happens in the woods
when you can see the milky way

but I can say that
either way
no matter where you are
whatever you’re writing
is better than this shit.


the hurricane left us to
scavenge and steal
like a civil war between
man and mother

long over
still killing our young
unable to flee

remember the alamo
remember bucees


we live in a new age
because now days
we aren’t saved by heros
or tortured by barbaric rulers

when we need a hand
our homes are rotten
we can’t escape

crawling through mud
a lighter revealing the
lack of escape route
helicopters carrying
drinking pond scum
families away in baskets

you and i rely on
walmart and the home depot
to come to our rescue

all hail the aisles of food
glory be to the bidder on high
gloria we sing crowded around
the almighty gift card


the long dirt road
leading in to endless tall trees
sings to you
gets up and stands before you
lit by your headlights

no one knew where you were going
but you have to turn back

“you have to turn back”
she says

in her filthy white dress
black gums with yellow teeth
her voice gritty

she takes a drink of you
pops your head open
and sips

“or, maybe you should stay”
she says

she slowly walks back
away from the window
and drops to the ground
where she’d left a gaping hole

“maybe you should stay”
she says
as she once more becomes the
road you know


do we need a building in the
smack dab fucking
center of our town
that’s painted like a cow?

green roof, black and white
splotched walls
nothing but shit on the inside

how fucking brash



in the room with the radio
where it hurts your ears
that’s where i sit

i can’t hear it over
the ringing in my skull
but i don’t think i should leave

i like it dark
the blanket smells nice
the radio
tells me stories of the outside
and i don’t want to go

maybe i’ll paint
maybe my walls will be green
with a painting around the whole
of me, back in world war 1
when i saw everyone die

the gas stuck in my lungs
i hear there’s something new
in the works
that will scare the shit
out of anyone who thinks
they can do this too me again

so I’m going to sit in my
listening to the ringing of my


wood floors cover the cellar
where the last bottle of wine
on earth is stored

it hides in the breast of
a skeleton’s jacket

should he bring a coat
and tie
to the interview?

does he need this job that bad?

dirt floor
stone walls
shredded wood stands
glass shards and vinegar

the skeleton sits
quietly waiting
holding his bottle of wine
dressed for the job
the occasion


more than ever
mood tends to ruin the occasion

someone gets upset that
their order was wrong
their drink isn’t strong
their driver took too long

i want to paint you a picture
and i can’t
because i can’t see it

i see writers in paris
i see soldiers in japan
i see cowboys headed to canada
but i don’t see my painting
and i can’t reveal it for you

because my mind is drenched
in the light of my mood

i’m awake
and working
things taste good again

but i can’t put these strokes
on canvas
even though all i want to do
is show you this picture


what if that senator
isn’t so bad?

there were all these songs
decades ago about
politicians being evil

but they’re peons trapped
by business

it seems like folks
get the nature of the game
these days
but still blame the
senator or governer

the poor shmuck
has a family
wife and kids
old and dying parents
bit off more than
they could chew
with their house payment
like the rest of us

is someone told me
they were going to
pay me a butt fuck ton
of cash to do something
at my job
that wasn’t that popular
i’d take the fuckin money


ash pours from the mother’s mouth
gray soot puffs from her lungs
over her tongue
into the daughter’s face
sticking behind the daughter’s teeth
down the back of her throat

blood is on the floor
men are banging at the door
the ash blows aside
as it sweeps open

the men
pure fire
burn down the home
around the two

but the ash from the mother
suffocates their flame
one by one
the men drop to the ground

new sand walls grow
shielding the two
the heat
grow out of the mother’s
out of the daughter’s

the men are gone
some dead

there is now nowhere
for any of us to go


i can’t do it
i can’t say what i need to say
i over did it
and there’s nothing left.

it’s a new speed bump
a new canyon
a new void in the

i won’t make it past that
and because of that
i can’t tell you the things
that i need to.


in on the wind
grains of thought drift
my ghost town burried
under suffocating
of memory

the older they get
the more they sit rocking
on their favorite chair
by a fireplace
under the hearth

hanging christmas stockings
like it’s always december
rubbing their forehead
like they’re building
a particle collider

sketching a letter
to a long lost sibling
one who never existed
on this plane

and in another dimension
those grains of thought
are stars
bulleting down towards
our mediocre little


on the playing card
i drew a picture
and if you see it
you’ll understand existence
but i will die

there are 52 of them
deep under lint in my
but only one
has my secret

pull it out
my flesh will melt
i won’t be here
at this desk

no one to take you outside
nobody to give you a ride
you’ll be stuck
knowing the secret
never able to do anything
about it.


my son
slay your brother
he hath betrayed our lineage
and can live no longer

take this blade
shed his blood onto the crops
lay his soul to rest
at the cross roads where
liveth the devil

under the tree
whence your mother gave birth
to you both

at the corner
of happy
and healthy

Poems from the Stream

So, live streaming my poetry writing session on YouTube went well. It was pretty much exactly what I wanted: A few folks popping in to listen/read, and a good amount of interaction. I think it was mostly three watchers at any given time, so for a first time, I think that’s a success. I got about thirteen poems done, even though a few need edited. What I learned? Have a few ideas ready to go before I sit down. I didn’t start writing until about a half hour in. Anyway, it was fun goofing off online. It’ll hopefully be a weekly thing. Here’s what matters though. This is what I wrote in the two hour live stream. Enjoy!


deep, unending voluptuous mountains
beat down hell on those

the town slides hard
mud wreaks havoc
tears hearts

saves not you
does the basement
the basement kills
unlit, soggy
unfocused earth
beneath those mountains
beneath that town

the town gets up and
swims away


sweet drips fall to the concrete
from the lips of my soul
blood drawn from the stellar break
in them

sweet falling life
onto the crusted sidewalk
you’re aloft
floating above
I can’t see

a crowd huddles in to
beat their heads together
shoutout their game plan
at one another
looking down at my sweet

call an ambulance
call a news station

I take the beating
I take the breaks
I lose the sweet drops

You can have them


she watches her love depart
from a hole straight through
her chest
to her back

that man reached in with his
cracked dry hands to pull it
yank strings of sticky

he coiled them on the soil
at her feet
taking his time to remove it
the love

it stuck to his hands
and his boots
her love stuck to
the next woman he fucked

but she, hole in chest
didn’t lose all of it
ropes strings
threads fibers

it latched onto the inside of her rib cage
grew over years while she watched
others roost

her ribs became meaty
where he left them bare
where they bathed in life
where they sought repair.


we can do something about time
it’s frosty grip on our stomachs
when it launches us into
orbit around black sun
past black moon
through pin hole stars

we can fix that
without elaborate technology
with electricity
bounding between stones
on the earth

time will combat our
to gain control

our frosty grip on his gut
launching it about
the violet universe
through alcohol clouds

but he cannot win.


her naked feet on the cold
of the king’s balcony
dance about
though she moves not
with a man

the dark of the morning
conceals her shame
she knows none watch
and her feet cannot stay warm

bed that is ivory granite
blanket that is honey suckle night
embraces the torch
burning in her gut

ash falls
charcoal stains the ivory stone
she combusts
in her want


his blazing cliche burned a hole in the stage
aged brown perique pulled fine strands
from his lung

the stage, afore his mansion
in the swamp
invisible under ash
and crispy leaf
and fence

revealed by his track
his arc in the debris
his arm
his leg
the strands

nothing pulled
nothing moved

the old man lie
breathless on the ground
where he had delivered
his final speech

7. – titled: I like David Lynch movies

I like David Lynch movies
I like David Lynch T.V.
I liked the David Lynch Documentary
don’t try to convince me
he didn’t murder
David Foster Wallace.

8. A poem about cars

driving through the city
its steel mill
late morning
bbq sun
late for everything
a crimson light
halts my commute

ghosts stand in the shadows
of an alley
see me
step onto the asphault
approach my civic window
reach their fingers
cracked dry black
through the slit

he speaks


he speaks


I fly past the crimson warning
out of the mill
to the hills
out of the town

every mile
we meet again
stepping onto the asphault
from the stream
from the trees
from the next town
into the slit

he sits
he turns to me
he speaks



tree tops burst into sight
as the boy falls back
his arm bursts into mist
as the trigger pulls back

bird shot breaks skin
gasoline puts hair on your chest
and will burn it off
“they’ll burn you”
the other boy says

those tree tops glow
against the gray sky
and the blood in the boys eyes
now the ash in the boys eyes
the blackness of the boys eyes

my house
wood and tall
sits in a field
in a valley
on the coast
above raw gold
under baby blue skies

my river is dry
my forest is cut
they became my house
forged sons and a girl

no pollen this year
or last

no flood

no food

just dust

wood hasn’t rotted out
gold sits worth what it’s always been

there I sit, worth nothing


lobsters boiled red swim
i boiled red tan
no one can touch that red
because of how I grew up

my grandfather shot folks
in the jungle
boiled red on acid
orange on TCDD

his father shot folks, too
in the woods
cured leather in the trees
pink on mustard

I haven’t shot folks
in the city
but i’m boiled red
like that lobster
and takin care of
my girl


Beulla met a man
met him at the bar
Beulla took him home
they drove his truck

Beulla fell in love
as they fell through the door
Beulla got down
and licked on his cock

John met a lady
first time at the bar
john took her home
in his truck
he didn’t like her car

John knew she’d go
as she stumbled down drunk
she sucked on his rod
he put it in her trunk.


on southwestern wind floats
rusted sand
through Corona

Beulla and John
walk home from
the motel
shielding their eyes
with their cuffs

the wind picks up
carrying green electric fire
trinitite mushrooms flash

shards of hell fire
speckle John’s collar
dew drop gather on his hair
worm into Beulla’s eyes


This last one needs a bit more work. Maybe Beulla and John will become my recurring characters. I don’t know. Hope you liked it. Let me know if you have any suggestions and I hope you join me for my next session!

New Book’s First 5

My second paperback is out! This little guy is stream of thought. If you think of it like a dream, or like episode eight of the new Twin Peaks, you’ll be good. Here are the first five pages from “Four”:



             This may be the (pseudo) introduction to the abduction of your mind. Sitting at the table eating swine and listening to the ranting landscapers outside. The brown dog buries her last violet chunk bite inside the tattered red flip flap blue blanket. Yelling “peace” then asking if he doesn’t know when to quit Mr. Flagstone movers fight. I just finished the Orion waste of time school of flight with a creeping headache in my back and behind my eyes. Welcome to the blathering want to be crusted papyrus scrolls someone calls my life and I ponder the intent to call art. BUT! I’m home to no Muse, honestly, I’m looking.

            Something tells me page one should be child horrifying gray THUNDER my eternal missing muse feeling sounds around his/her being pleasured by the quirky word play and special characters while lips drip pomegranate and guava over the sticky traces of star fruit. A trump card’s new winning pattern design the plan behind stopping time. Lying on my stomach wanting a helmet so I can ride. Welcome to the weak ass gray Thunder you call shit and some poor sucker somewhere calls a work of near art. There is no use, but apathetically I’m combing the desert in search. Tired of hearing the vowel sound “I”. What could we say to change the overall conscience and consciousness of spelling? Question One is never deep but as we go perhaps it will seem a little bit thicker than a year old milk shake. So far I can’t avoid “I” and it floods frustration. Where are we and why? Not my question my question my question is where? Where is my muse?

            No problem, friend, go ahead and join in I’m here for you of course you know I am a cook who used to have a little nook and now I have a bustling line and barely any responsibility or rule over time. Placement. They move me where I need to be and don’t care about my future because I’m leaving on a spiritual journey to South Carolina to find fame and a personal guru.

            Mr. Harris if that was your name blame is sometimes positive and you my vice president are to blame don’t be afraid I heard you were like me. Gallup along but really Gallup isn’t going anywhere and just the mere mention of the name sets a purple fire in their hearts (purple being a nonviolent evil). Drink and pass out in parking lots so your children will as well take your free money and buy crap. If I had free money I would buy a plane or more pencils I have to steal them right now. I can’t draw or anything but I do, do you Gallup? Sometimes but mostly those who aren’t given free money. I’ve never been hated so much except for my first couple years in baseball in Hawaii but here is nowhere near as rippled in the water. No water is that why you fight and try to die have you not begun to believe that it is smart and creative to live? AND on that thought snot dives out as I slide out to find paper to hold it in till we both dissolve. Every morning my nose is dried and grows a skin of green filtered blood. If I scratch my nose it sets it free and once I found debris inside I dubbed as the best art I’ve ever made.

My woman. My beautiful other than man human creature. She sings just to sing and her throat could make clouds whiter and purer than a pillow brand new. The clouds will sit in the sky and read books about assholes that eat lunch naked. I wrote a poem about an asshole a couple days ago and it was not directly inspired by that. BUT! In between notes and words comes requesting voices of cartoon raccoons from her soul spelling words out to write stories of fantasies. Dust pours from her mouth creating mountains more beautiful than anything Gods have done. I wish everyone were from Ohio Miss Kt. It makes me want to go there… not enough to actually go though. Well, maybe. Schools teach fools but A’s are rewarded I’m proud to say you got a good grade because I’d give you one as well. With those gem like eyes and giant hearty breasts, plentiful perky lips and child bearing hips I’d give you whatever you wanted if I didn’t know your soul but I do so I’ll give you even more and as of now this page of my life is given to you. I’ve done my best and tested my wits but I’ve done you wrong thinking about the future. I should be lying on my bed as I am now, but trying to cry because it’s been days since I’ve seen you. Felt you. Write me a history worth a king maybe even Henry baby. Tell them all you were my only because you are the gold of my crown and all the rubies. Ann is your future her heart and her laugh. But when you look back at life please don’t see me.

Standing naked in front of the window, shades down but I feel shame even though I know the stupid orange cones are on the road and it’s almost time to crash. I said my question is not why I write but where did I pick up this muse? Was I passing by someone on the street when my soul reached out with a mask and kidnapped him? Spare me questions write me a real big answer please. Send it to my forwarding address when I leave. Siddhartha follow me. The grandmother next door is stopping her two curious crying grandchildren from outright displaying emotion by making sounds of her youth. Moaning as though the children were two large men dressed as firefighters, she screams I am too hot to handle! The kids stare in awe or something. My phone floats down to the flagstone in slow motion and collides with the ground like wall going light years fast. Grandma wakens from her daily afternoon hallucination and looks out the window. Her eyes catch me walking inside to go recover my plane wreck. And Old sex is silenced. It, silence, makes me wonder about riots and clowns on stilts throwing rocks at the police trying to ruin their fun. I bite my moldy burger in delightful oblivion as my head floats far from my stomach. I paint shades on the window with Raphael’s skill to try to trick you all to thinking I haven’t made a trip to the store today.