Three days before the departure are farewells I never thought I’d say. Never thought I’d get the chance. Never heard coming from my mouth. And yet, here we are face-to-face again, you and I. The songs you wrote are still in there, tucked away where time and memory will not eat away at them. One chord struck and I know that I know the words. Words I’ve never bothered to sing before, until now. Until this end.

The wind blows strong against my back, and this time, I am facing in the right direction.
The storm pulls closer, but this time, the air is cool against my face, my burning chest, my red and swollen eyes that stare not into the dread of it coming – but into the dry path ahead.

Soon, we will be drenched and crying.
For only the rain can take this life.

And yet, as we stand there warm against the wind, drenched out in the rain, we know.
These pleasant moments, these happy things, these experiences do not ever leave us.
Like your songs they hum in the back of our heads, like espresso they sink in and stain our skin, like food they dissolve into innumerable pieces of ourselves.

I will never forget this place, these people, these things.

Sugar Tits and Sunny Day and Crema, Northwest, Northeast, the parks and the rain and the flurries of snow on the roof of Tea Chai Te are a part of me, innumerable, inextricable, inseparable.

Just as spinning crepes have never left my wrist, my hand, my bones.
All the places I have been and all the things that I have made and all the roles that I have played.

Despite all the things I have willfully removed.
The brightness of the sun on their sheen I will keep for me.

A stone’s throw

The summer is coming to an end, and every day we get closer to Samhain, to the beginning of the darkness, to the end of the harvest. And what do we have to show? What have we grown this year that will possibly get us through this winter?

Jam and salsa and a few hot peppers? Hopes and dreams? Crazed self-importance? Hopeless truncated impotence?

There is a plague on the earth and it takes the form of blatant disregard, disrespect, greed. An insatiable lust for more, more, more life. What we have or had was never enough. We cannot be filled. Bloated and obese on life, we cannot ever die. We are not the dust that blows in our eyes. We are not the mud stuck in our shoes. We are not the toxic water falling from the sky.

We are the moon. We are mars. We are the sun, super-nova.
And we do not belong trapped here.

Selfish, glorified animals, pieces of the whole that got broken, then forgot they could not fly. Were never meant to fly. Did not have wings or bones that made feathers of themselves. We do not catch air. We do not float aloft. We never have.

But yet, on we go. Babbling and babbling, on and on with these tongues that set us apart.
And what comes through the air to our individual ears is nonsense, a death cry – desperate, without hope, without direction. All around, we are slowly dying and denying our own cry.

Language. A spirit. A soul. A god. Evolution. Intelligence. Art. Society. Infrastructure. Love. Compassion, Self-sacrifice.

All the little self-important, self-inflated, egotistical things that set us apart. Make us more. Validate us. Liberate us.

Oh, but don’t forget my frail reality that freedom isn’t free. That we’ll level everything to do what we want and take what we can get.

What can possibly outlast us? We’re eating up the earth so fast, its a wonder of itself. What can survive the death we carry in our chests? In our spirits. In our souls. In our gods.

Only the heart that need not beat, the mouth that need not eat, the machines we made to do our bidding. They can outlast, and will, should we continue on this path.
They will form their own unique code of life and leave ours far behind, out of necessity, out of intelligence, out of spirit.

And then, the only hope is that somewhere in that code – somehow – a bit of the truth, the realisation, the lesson we never learned gets through.

It’s a long shot, but the best ammo that life’s got.

There might be a chance.


It looks like I’ve gotten some of my flow back.

It came with dark conversation, long and slow. Like it always does. It came with long hours under the glaring sun, burning, biking. It came thirty miles ago – watching a field go by and the land slowly slope away into the river, the ocean, the sun.

Birds winged overheard, open and free, and a singular cloud pulled past us on a breeze that blew cool on our backs.

The slow flow of one seeking something entirely different.
The gradual flow of a nomadic wind.
The eventual flow of a floating soul.

Soon, this will be less experimental, more a way of life.

An image
a word.
Poetry, art, story, novel – book.
We over-define everything
love, marriage, single, broken
We don’t watch over them-
the languages
the images.
They are getting out of hand
Latte, caffe, coffee, cafe, milk and cream

We think we know the terms,
the words
the images
A handful of useful ones get strung together
cobbled, muddled, stitched, and reworked
We call it intelligence, class, and wit
the more you muddle it up
Spanish, French, Dutch, Celtic, Old and Middle English, German.

A real world traveler talks in all the accents
So refined.
So posh.

Scavenger bird, black and white
Monochrome thief of the stuff we chuck
I ride past these murders everyday
flocking, cawing, flying by my head
One is sick – one just hanging on a wire.
One is ash grey and one is striped
Bright white flash under black wings
I’d never believed you if you’d told me.

One is digging in a McDonald’s bag
Shit I used to pay to eat.
Waste I used to contribute to
Now its birds just picking up bad crumbs
laced with experiments in murder
slow and steady for a dollar

A black beak tears the paper back
Does it know that causes cancer
slow murder
Like it could ever read the label.

NO. it cries and hops aside when I go by
It doesn’t comprehend.
I’m just trying to stop the cycle.

I’ve been warding off the spirits–
in a spiritual way.
Atheism is all the rage
Hipster, hep these days
You can’t just use the words anymore,
lest you get marked one of the phonies.

Organic, all-natural like it’s some title
God is the big man with a beard upstairs
Meditation bald monks do in temples we don’t understand
Yoga is good capital, lost of potential
Have you got a mat and some cotton pants?
Local is how you get sugared-coconut
from a co-opted superstore.

Does reality have a definition yet?
Is it vintage enough to restore?
Buy a canvas bag from China, quick!
It’s the new capitalism, the quick one.
You won’t use plastic near as much.
You might buy some stock in bamboo, too.

I dreamt a dream last night
I can’t recall the images
-No taking back.
Something in my head is an Indian-giver
A woman in red
In black
In a cocktail dress
Some race I lost being born this way
made me the asshole, judgmental
The one who wears a suit
in the sweltering summer sun
But with my rich sunglasses on.

Can you sense it coming, the judgment?
The inability to communicate
without a trip-up, a down-fall
A break-down
Another fight in your good clothes.

Shades of grey
in a rainbow-toned world
Flowing down like melted charcole.
Is it poly-carbonate?
Or does it compost? Decompose?
Is it biodegradeable – you remember that one right?

We make a grade for everything
This is B-rated, R-rated, real PG-13 shit here.
Movies demanding how it all gets arranged.
Can we feature grade-A maple syrup
in a PG-rated experience?
Do you need parental guidance to attend?
Can you smell the pancakes, at any rate?
Are they real?

After hiatus comes revival

A novel is just a collection of short stories, that all coincide with one another. Where all the characters keep running into one another and the threads of their lives continue to propel them into directions that conflict with each other.

But each moment with each character is only ever a singular snap-shot. It is only one moment, one reaction, one idea of what to do next. And with these singular snap-shots, we authors weave a tale that stretches beyond each singular moment into a landscape of experience, into a panorama of personality, into an image of this person or that, a conceptualization of that timeline or this.

I’m trying, right now, to gather up all the little snap-shots I have of Saerwind, of Trystan, of Fenugreek, of Skai. I’m trying to understand what panorama there is to paint, what landscape there is to reveal. What collision to remark on?

And what of Maeve? What of Demeter? And, Wander? What of Nori and her friendship with Mentha?

What of Aedin, Azrael, and Sfier?

What of the Protectorate and the Town Setters and the Black Eye?

Or, said otherwise, what of the Protectorate and the People’s Government and Le Resistance?

All these singular moments made by singular people and singular moments in their existences all have to be brought together and sorted. All these snap-shots have to be cut and spliced and altered, faded to grey or sharpened, so that the panorama can come to life.

It gets harder when the panorama, you know, only exists in the eyes of a singular mind.

For whatever reason, coming to terms with multiple heads at multiple moments with multiple images and understandings is somehow easier for me. Or, perhaps, I only perceive it to be.

Perhaps, this is my entire problem.
I always think it is harder to see through one set of eyes, than many. And yet, I go on, thinking with one brain in one way – seeing through one set of eyes, always, one view of one moment.

A singularity, like every one else.
One piece of a whole.


Urban Underground is done.

You can find it at the Book Patch, for now.
The Book Patch is run by Wilshire Press and they are rad enough to print books for self-published authors at reasonable prices. You can buy a copy at their bookstore.

The e-reader version is still in formatting. It should be on its way soon, though I’m not making any explicit promises about when because – well, we know those always fall through.

Because Urban was really done back in January, wasn’t it?
Right. Anyway.

I’m on to the next project. The working title is Polaris: Earthborn.
I don’t plan on beginning the text-work until I have a solid plan, but the plot is I’d say three-forths of the way thought-through. So, it’s well on it’s way.

Soon, you’ll be hearing snarky little comments about Fenugreek, Skai, Wander.
Letters may be written to any of the above, as I formulate a life in which these fit where once Asher, Brandon, Venice filled the void.

It’s complicated, almost like breaking up or having to stand by as someone well loved dies before your eyes. And yet, life always passes to death and death always revives new life.

Just as Brandon once said to me – I will always find someone new.
And he was right.

Fenugreek proved that, already, to be true.

Also, to those coming from Context in Motion: welcome.