Take that, Shawshank Redemption!

Walked the neighborhood in the night, it’s quiet save for the cars with loud stereos and loud people talking loudly on their phones. How can you be that loud and have that lung capacity?

Feel the wind begin to chill, it’s going to get colder. Feel the rain, take off my hat and my jacket, I’m in my undershirt feeling the chill rain drop on my clean head, on my naked shoulders. I’m being spit blessed. Unto this I receive your blessing, night cold rain wind.

The chorus of a song sticks in my head, I don’t bother to clear it out, just let it carry me, raise my arms in the way a boring ass hero baptized by rain is in all of those movies. That’s not how I’d do it.

It’s raining hard. Water gurgles from gutters onto the broken pavement, a forgotten alley, rain drops glistening the shattered glass and empty chip backs like a shattered disco ball. Leaves and muck dapple the uneven walkway to a 3×6 drain. Overfilled garbage cans receive the downpour, adding a sweet, sickly stench to the air.

The rain intensifies, litter, leaves swept up in the torrent flooding towards the sewer drain. A moment passes and part of the ground begins to buckle, a bump develops in the mud, growing larger and larger. Before long, it becomes a thick, viscous, organic veiny bubble. The rain beats down on it as it grows out of the ground. The bubble is rumbling, liquid inside. Something alive, something.

The cyst, for it is a cyst from the earth, the muck, the sad, continues growing, blocking the mud and water.

From inside, something is fighting to get out. It has to get out, panicked punches and kicks until the cysts bursts open, deflating as it empties blood, mucus, shit, vomit, everything. Sliding out among the sick, a pale naked body plops out, rolls over, and lays still in the filth, the mud, the debris of the alley. The body is hairless and still, on its back.

Is it dead?

It jerks violently, spasming, choking, until it rolls over and pukes its insides, the bile and gunk in its lungs, coughing, choking, shitting itself, piss dribbling between its legs. Exhausted, it collapses again unto it’s back. It heaves for air and chokes as mucus coughs up out of its mouth and nose.

It’s a boy!

He stares up. Rain illuminated by the street light drops on its face, looking like stars zooming past. The lights hurt his eyes Confused, scared, cold, he starts to scream, screaming out loudly until the screams turn into sobs, hard sobs. Sobbing known only by the lost.

Now that’s how you write a birthing scene.


Poem: So You Don’t Have To

I beat myself so you don’t have to.
I lash my back, I give myself the pain,
Upon my body I inflict this beating
So you don’t have to.

My flesh opens wide for your convenience
My blood drips from wounds torn by my hands
I break my own skin, I expose myself
So you don’t have to.

I end myself, I disappear into the abyss willingly.
Freely, I fling myself into the void, the absent.
I crush my heart, my self, into self-annihilation.
So you don’t have to.

What Fresh Hell

I’ve been a Doctor Who fan for over thirty years and, for just as long, a devotee of Douglas Adams’ The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. My fervid belief, consumption, adoption, and adaptation of these products in my life have been a part of my life for four decades. I’m not well read in the Classics, yet, I can rattle off an obscure Adamsian phrase like a shot. My schooling in philosophy isn’t much, so I rely on the wily cynicism found in Hitchhiker’s and the darker Who stories. I feel like a hollow person, if I really wear my self-deprecating brain. I’m a chocolate egg; delicious and enjoyable but nothing except stagnant air when the shell is cracked.

My writing is very florid and well-worded, and yet, I’m not a published author beyond freebies I’ve given to various websites in hopes of padding out a writing resume. Indeed, I sit here, mere weeks from the age of 47 and find nothing upon which to hold this foundation of Being A Writer from the wrecking waves of time.

In short, I do not write enough. And what I do write tends to be blisteringly self-critical. There is nothing romantic about writing, for sure. It can be a very difficult process, indeed, especially in generating ideas worth writing about. I sympathize with the renowned lady of letters Dorothy Parker when she opined, “I hate writing. I love to have written.” Terry Pratchett echoed this sentiment as well in a post on the Usenet group alt.fan.pratchett:

Here’s a tip, though. Successful writers don’t pass the MS around to all their friends after they’ve done five pages; they get a grip on grammar, punctuation and spelling (even if accurate fast typing escapes their grasp:-); if they work in a genre, they read widely outside that genre; they get hold of one of the vast number of books which, while of variable quality as far as actual writing advice goes, are usually pretty sound on the mechanics of getting agents, submitting MSS and so on; and they want to WRITE. Too many people want to *have written*.

Funny note, I actually tracked down the original Usenet post that the last, much missed, and very dead Sir Terry made on this subject. Usenet of old, I miss you. You were so much fun.

(Small brag but I apparently once made Sir pterry laugh using a catch phrase from the Goon Show.)

In our society, to be a writer, you merely have to write. To be a thinker, you think. To be a drinker, you run up a high bar tab. As long as you have ideas, you can keep going. And going. And write. And write more.

And so it goes.

However, I do need to take the imagery by it metaphors and write more. Every day. Not just wimpy, limpy little entries like this but something big and bold and brash and blonde. Perhaps, not blonde but alas, I needs must figure out a way to stuff my chocolate egg full of thick, rich, and creamy fortitude.

The words. Get them out. Make them work. Repeat. Here endeth this episode of The Impostor Syndrome.

And so we bleat on…

100 Words of Horror


Over there.

Behind you.

There is a thing.

I know you probably can’t see it and it may be something horrible.

But you’ve got your back to it.

If you turn around, it hides.

If you try to see it in the mirror, it looks like something else.

If you want to describe it, the words fail to appear in your head.

It is colorless, without volume, and lacking shape.

It is senseless to try and master it.

It’s stalking you actually.

Just some friendly advice, though: Don’t try to run away from it.

That’s just what it wants.

The Brain Dump Journals


Ceci N’est Pas Ma Belle Vie

The heat had become unbearable for anyone but the Devil. Every room was draped in humid, torrid oppression. The upper level was a sauna, the main level not much better. The only slight respite was the stuffy, cool lower level.

In the basement on a cot with a box fan blowing slightly cooler muggy bands of relief, the writer prayed for enough relief to fall asleep. The large water bottle he had filled with ice cubes just two hours ago was already at room temperature. His skin felt sticky and dirty against the bedsheets. The contact of his own body temperature warmed the padding enough to make comfort futile. He pondered taking another cold shower, but feared that it would add just another hour to his heat-induced insomnia.

Flipping over his phone, he saw the time was 3:25AM. He would have to be up in less than two hours to work a shift at his job. He hated his job and he could feel tension rising at the thought of it. The lack of air conditioning tattered his nerves on a fractal level, each strand begetting another frayed strand, which begat another and another into infinity and he could feel anxiety and anger take over his body. He twisted again, his sweaty, bare skin burning against the warm moistness of top sheet. He kicked his legs and beat his hands in frustration, screaming into the dark. It was too much.

He sat up. The rage in him building from the frustration, heart beating faster, warm air from the fan. Enough. Getting out of bed, bare feet pounding on the steps, he burst out of the basement and into the kitchen. Flinging open the freezer door, he pulled out an ice cube tray and rubbed it all over his body.

Over a cold beer with a warm friend, the writer laid out the truth.

“I need to get out more.”

The friend nodded. “You do. You are spending way too much time cooped up in that house of yours.”

“And it’s doing fuck all for my sanity.”

“How much are you writing?”

“Not much. It’s that fucking Internet. So damned distracting.”

The friend, who had just pulled out his cell phone, sheepishly laid it down on the table.

The writer tried to think of a good line. He began writing words, any words, nonsensical words. He began jamming his fingers on the keys like a free jazz pianist, he wanted the feelings to come through his little fingers, to create to imagine the world in a different place like if women wore pants on their heads and men have to wear skirts to cover their faces. A world where lions vomited up gazelle meat to create entirely new creatures to dance among the wilds. The sort of universe where an orgasm floods a village. Ancient Egypt as the mecca of multimedia. The more he banged finger to key the more the space on the paper became littered with little word babies. He imagined the universe collapsing in on itself and then expanding again and again, like a lung. He was breathing fire now, enlivening his prose with multi-hued imaginations. Fuck spelling, he thought, I am giving a new language to the people, a language based on filth and humor and love and wonder and spite and deep, passionate embraces from a naked friend, skin on skin, rubbing together.  He realized that it had been a long time since he last had sex.

Consider the Vernors bottle: a vessel containing modern ingredients and additives creating the facsimile of a 150 year-old recipe, yet bold enough to proclaim that it’s the “Original Ginger Soda”. Definitely a product designed for fleecy comfort and, anecdotally, stomach problems.

I turn the bottle over in my hands. It’s made of plastic molded to resemble a barrel design, distinctive from the typical soda/cola bottles with which it shares shelf space. It is 8 ½ inches high, of which almost half is a mosaic-textured plastic, unsure what the feeling is meant to convey. Wood? Maybe?

The glossy label paper is done up in green, gold, black, white. The background is a printed wooden green barrel with distressed gold barrel rings, suggesting the concept of an aged oak barrel such as this drink’s purported beginnings were made. However, the caloric information, UPC box, and the message to “Please Recycle” belies its rustic, antique façade. The words “Naturally & Artificially Flavored” in a thin white font mere inches from a badge proclaiming “Authentic Bold Taste”. But then you get to the ingredients:


A celebratory banner featuring the drink’s mascot, Woody, and celebrating the 150th anniversary of “Vernors®”. The idea of a registered symbol and copyrights speak of lawyers and board rooms and shortcuts for cost effective replication of the recipe.

I must really make my own Ginger Ale at this point. I’ve found one recipe that makes a basic Ginger Ale concentrate, where you add ¼ cup of the mixture with 8 ounces of sparkling water. “Serve immediately”, the instructions suggest.

2 cups of water, 1 piece of fresh ginger, ½ lemon (rind only), 1/3 cup of honey. Boil, steep, strain, add honey, cool.

Even then, am I making authentic ginger ale? What is authenticity? Even the ale that came in that plastic bottle, preservatives and flavors natural & artificial and caramel color all, could be considered more authentic but only because it has marketing behind it..

He had forgotten what it was like to really create, to just get words out there, to write honestly, non-judgemental, no self-critique, care not if someone reads it because he would be doing it for himself.

The books that he was reading, about Crazy Wisdom, about danger, about what they did to Goddess when they found Her, non-binary. Who gets to see this shit? “Shit” is a failed anagram of “this”. He was being clever, showing off. It’s like masturbating alone: becoming aroused, pleasure friction, feeling the warmth wash over, yet no one to share the afterglow with.

You can’t dive in to Derrida no more than you can ball dance with Baudrillard, but he knew that authoritarian structures and hyperreality act as a mesh all over the land (the map is not the territory; the menu is not the meal; the meal is a facsimile of the recipe).

There is no way out of the system unless you wield supreme chaotic powers, but even then, you’re still stuck in a discourse. Even soul mates share a language, even Ying cleaves to Yang.

The candy bar. The skeleton. The immortal. The flotsam. The wake. The pencil. The window. The beard. The