Friday, 28 February 2014

life without Q

Without u
Where is Q?

Fuck u

Without a
Where is Q?

In the desert
Far away

From its place
After p


Just ask r
About p

They just got

Fuckin right
There's no Q

There's no question

Thought u



get worn

Water sun fast

There's a riot
At the hyatt

your neck
to see

An internal affair

glass house

Watch it unfold

Dirty laundry

fear remoulade

Regime changing

Larval stage

Cossack cosignatory
Voices singing

Run the numbers
Run the streets

Run away

Instant lottery
Losers get mauled

Slot machine

At dawn
water fast

how does life
go on

Wednesday, 26 February 2014

ghost trains

Above the earth
above the sky
i heard the train
a-rattle on by

i was lyin in bed
two cats beside
i saw that train
gone through my head

pushin through
the snow drift


dark heat

rolling bales

spirit grasps


ice rocks
sheet white

snagged like a
vagabond neck ina

Sunday, 23 February 2014


when it all ends
what will i have to show?

coffee ground residue
in my blood

when it all ends
what will i do?

rise a vapor spirit
then inhabit

when it all ends
will i get to look back?

at my life
as a GIF
on a repeat

when it all ends
will i have any friends?

to kneel on my grave
and split all my

when it all ends
will i still remain?

or just my blogs
and my ebooks
in the

Saturday, 22 February 2014

2014 Breakthrough Pitch

'breakthrough novel award pitch, 2014'

Will is headed for the great American psychotic break, at the glorious dawn of the new millenium. Whoever convinced him that having two women instead of one was the best problem he could have, left him a window seat on a slow train through hell.

Drama has a queen. Will cannot resist the allure of the sexy girl with a punk attitude and Borderline personality. She sends her snakes out to find him, charm and release. She always leaves him spinning. His best friend offers up a voice of reason, but Will is not listening. Meanwhile, another young lady is crushing on him, hard.

 In an subculture running on hip-hop and high fructose corn-syrup, a sensitive young man hoping to find himself, gets lost in relationships and urban landscapes. He paints himself into corners, then fights his way out.  Non-violently, whenever possible. Experiencing life at the center of an unrequited love triangle.

When life becomes overwhelming, Will retreats into his internal world where dreams are still possible. He often wishes he could turn back time and heal a broken relationship with his ex-girlfriend.

'k street tag, midtown' by k
Something has to give. How long will he continue to prioritize this patterned madness of poorly chosen attachments over his emotional stability? His spirit flags. Even his ring-tailed cat, Raccoon, tires of him. She cuts him up with her claws, hoping to awaken him before something terrible happens.

Girl Without Borders is a coming-of-age, character-driven story set in Chicago at an historic moment in time, exploring the fragility of youth and identity in a counterculture embrace, holding on for dear life, in the vortex of big city urban chaos.

Wednesday, 19 February 2014


Blues ran into yellows in the rain, and burst green upon the scene. The olive drab of soldiers bobbed up and down. Prayers drifted in purple-lined clouds above them, holding fear condensate.

Someone smoked a rolly with their arms hanging over a molasses colored wall of old earth. A child was watching cartoons on a clean carpeted floor. His auntie with auburn up-do, was dusting down the bookshelves to the sound of looney tune orchestra, rain and marching boots.

She could see the back.of the man hanging over the molasses wall, and the nuanced transparencies of smoke exhalations, fog and breath. The sun might not peek out today, she thought, but no matter. An extraordinary day to be alive.

Blues ran into yellows in the rain, and burst green upon the scene.

Sunday, 16 February 2014

mental - quattro

He was showing me unconditional positive regard.
I was telling him all the ways and places I was scarred.
He was chewing on the fat of my tales.
I was eating all my fingernails.
He was redirecting me like a train conductor.
I saw red and charged like a bull.
He was charging me through the teeth.
Paid in full.

I was waxing poetic.
His thoughts told him I was pathetic.
I gussied up to him like a whore.
He had his back to the door.
I blasted him for offering me Prozac.
He looked at me like I was crazy.
Called me a fucking throwback.
Or was it the voices in my head?

I slit my wrists and put them in his face.
He let me bleed out. Unconditionally.
I paid to have his carpet cleaned.
To keep my credit clean.
He was showing me unconditional positive regard.

I asked for a cup of tea.
He fifty-one fiftied me.

I ran away before the sedation.
Into the flickering movie
of guided imagery.

He was golden showering me
with unconditional positive regard.
I had clearly drawn up my knees,
drawn up my guard.

He drew checks off my back account.
I drew pictures of infinity.
He rented Girl, Interrupted. 
Then handled me with
more or less

I was embryonic again.
He wore a Buddha smile on his face.
I was unfashionably broke
and stressed.
Locked up in chemical

He poisoned me with

Saturday, 15 February 2014

Swiss Miss and the Illiterati -ii

The Illiterati were a transparent outfit, universally known to desecrate a good thing. 

While their focus was the world of words, they were known to have their misdeeds seep into other sacred institutions. They were for-profit, of course. Uncreative heads, uniting to get over. Pandemonium of desperate pushing of e-paper over fair market and free flowing venues like Amazon. Polluting all rivers of language with their sub-basement communications. 
 The in house rule was. Only one creative thought allowed per quarter, per bitch. They were bitches all of them, though they called themselves 'authorities'.  They did not hire minorities. They hung like scrotums off of nepostalic seniority. 

To keep a fair rep, they might outsource some talent.  Maybe credit out off of some poor Creative Commons licensed victim. They could paraphrase, quote, and steal with impunity. It was a sad day if they tried to insource a title. Any work mined from these lethargy-stricken corn-fed minds stood out from the others like a second draft of what might have become some wonderful masterpiece if reworked two thousand five hundred and three times before circulation.  If not the roughest draft. 

Glue and paper and stick figures could have brought a greater response.
tbc (to be continued)

Thursday, 13 February 2014

Swiss Miss and the Illiterati -part i

Swiss miss. 
The nemesis and stalker of real writers and readers, aka: you and me. Roosting and lording in a decollaborative fashion over her house label of omni ignorance. The Illiteratis.
Formerly, abundance came here to nest. 
She is up to no good again, swiss miss. Panhandling the system. Damn, what shall we do? Ghetto blast her out the city limits? Tried that. Listen to see if she has something today to say? Tried it. Accept and tolerate her? What choice do we have. 
She's always there, like gum under the table. 
Cannot pull her passport. Her license to quill. Under strategized pseudonyms and marketing blurbs straight out her mental vanilla extract suburbs. Gosh! I hate to be mean. But when someone is oozing self-centered fullness of being? 
Leeching off my holy land, the word scene? 
I find my mean girl comes decidedly back into creative being... 
-to be continued-

Tuesday, 11 February 2014

mental -iii

So i was rolling with this sweet as saccharine pretty young latin thang, on an real affective high, joining in the bipolar unilateral uncompromised brilliance of the new day, treading on an adidas insole grip, feeling like a princess for a change when suddenly she stopped and turned me around to look at this ugly street scene. She said something about getting a french roast at one of those less than average corporate coffee outfits, maybe Seattle's Best or Starfux or something. I really cannot pay attention on purpose.

Hey hey hey hey now, I said, making mad circles with the palms of my hands facing her, like I was painting a Starry Night. What did you say? 

She told me again with great controlled precision, almost irritable-like. Were she not so saccharine sticky sweet like with her unfrosted platinum blonde wig all situated like real hair on her dome, I would have been audi 5000 on the bitch. I gave her my full attention, and my pressure cooker started heating up a bit. Not a good feelingstate for my mental. I tried to channel it out of my shoulders with a roll and a couple of shrugs. But it got locked up inbetween the blades and started bouncing around in there, my chi, like a video game gone beserk. Damn. I wanted to slap the bitch already but it was just a thought.

So we went and she got her gingerbread shot or whatever, and I sat impatiently on a cold dry laminated redwood waiting. I always wondered how I got into this kinda mess. Some double-blind study was I. Blinded first by her beauty, then by my own future idyllic daydream of what life could be in the presence of said beauty. Never once did my mental suggest sitting on a plank in central yuppie, california, while holier-than-thou got a gingerbread.

Reality crept up on me and backhanded my chi out of tilt!

Monday, 10 February 2014


honestly. as i can. february. aquarian.
honestly. as i go. letting the words let me go.
honestly. for real. there is no other way home.
honestly. so you know me.
better. so together. we can find our way.
together home.

talkative. this is me. sometimes singing.
singing to myself.
in the shower.
to my kittens.
or nobody.

caring. so much it hurts.
til i cannot care no more.

social. anti-social. i do my best.
sleep alot. for the preservation society of
undiluted bursts of
clear loving

social. anti-social. i do my best.
what i think is most important is that i never rest.

Wednesday, 5 February 2014

this was home

for a while all i wanted was space. and silence. city sound became punishing, like the thoughts i had toward myself. against myself. i hoped for a quiet place, where i might sit with my self and work out these difficult fears and feelings running me down relentlessly.

i hated myself into many panics. i let myself be used. sometimes the hope was two negatives would lead a positive charge. this method was in the end, mostly madness. i was no good at chemistry. but i thought i could run a current across my life.

prayer was ineffectual, in a time of spiritual deficit. i might try to pray. i was sincere. it came off bad. i could not often sit still unless i was terrified or sleeping. and i wasn't often either of those.

i could not quiet the city sounds. the cars, trucks, helicopters, voices yelling laughing screaming crying. trains. fireworks. motorcycles. gunshots. car accidents.

broken glass.

radios, televisions. doors. moving trucks. dogs, cats, animals. freight loading, unloading. babies. car tires. speakers. chains. subwoofers. arguments. fights. broken glass. screen doors. ambulances. basketballs. sirens. kids. deadbolts.

landlords, tenants, junkies going through withdrawals, laughter, mania. strange unearthly sounds. manias. depressive wailings. loud silences in certain bad places. soundless muted murder. dead silence. followed by violent storms of cacophonous cackling and butchering of the english or other language.

blank loud stares.

i found myself holding my breath.peeking through keyholes. wondering if i was next.

the law would come in, or a rent-a-cop. you could tell by the sound of the walk who was walking


the weight of the belt, the holster, gun, taser, keys. maybe it was just a maid or maintenance man.

i was often pacing or waiting for my number to come up. still distant. still hoping for a little space. quiet space. my internal would not have known what to do with it, though.

maybe push me more violently into thanatos gulch. or mad river quarry. the depths of which could not be fathomed by the human eye.

yes i certainly knew how bad a toll i had taken, how violently my bell had been rung, when, long after i let the burgeoning toxicity overtake me in that urban nightmare reality

pale and sick and past caring, angry and helpless to my reactive emotional.sad and skinny and losing my faith...

god gave me a chance to come up for air, in a little rented motel room some do gooder rented me, away from the urban amorphous ink night. and what did i do? after jumping for joy? i got so depressed like never before. i lay down and slept for two days and three nights...

then got up to such a madness, without thinking, movement away from that taciturn moment, quiet little retreat from my quiet retreat, orchestral movements in the light, pumping my legs by my feet on the pedals

screaming silently back to oakland from richmond, knowing the strange beauty in another terrible mistake, feeling the electric storm of old oakland overtake me, all the cacophonous sounds pooled into one current

coming across my body

high voltage seizing me all over again. the smell of homeless teenage angst wrapping around me like blanket with its piss warmth mental poverty

addictive, additive recycled air, oozing with traffic remoulade, parsed with law enforcement, sprinkled with social services, crusted with age-old desperations

i smiled and forgot myself again. lost my self in the insanity, cause this was home

Saturday, 1 February 2014

love awhile

the chamomile had a calming influence on the chakras
her body armour softened
made room for essential oils
to drain into the pores
tagging the aura
like spraypaint coating
the locomotive
on the rails
southwest of Portland
getting rusty
in the face of the sea
the land with

the dogs began to wag their tails
the alpha cat slunked up to
the beta
whose tail thickened
to half a fox
as they met
in mid-air
in the underbelly
of the salty vapor
essence of

she was interested
in HER

not suddenly...
watched over time
over classroom desks where
the art
was mastered

chalk lines
dusty fresh
dripping heat
of knowledge
out of a vacuum
into central air


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