Starfighter support.

I have to pause from the usual routine today to give props to one of my favorite graphic artists out there — HamletMachine.

If you have never read Starfigher Comic, you should. Right now. Be warned that it is definitely NSFW in a deliciously beautiful way.

The reason I am bringing this to your attention is because HM has just put a kickstarter out for a visual novel project of Starfighter. As a small awesome artist, HM definitely deserves support for this project. Also, it is going to be awesome.

I can hardly contain myself.

Go check it out: Starfighter Eclipse
Please support it if you can.

On how to avoid haunting places

The danger of calling, installing, collecting, and recollecting ghosts is a frequent one in an isolated and piecemeal society such as the one we’ve been running. These ghosts, once established, are hard-pressed to be banished or abandoned, exorcised or forgotten. So, I offer in the stead of trying to vanquish such ghouls and nasty ghastly haunts – a temporal situational solution.

When one comes upon distress, don’t bow or bend to stressors. Don’t lay down at the gates of oppressors and assume the worst is yet to come. But instead, pro-actively create a new route around wounds and sores, around pains and stakes too high to break even with. Momentarily sidle by these lulls in your gravitational pull.

Create new avenues to escape the old. Pattern new modal melodies that end you up in the same places, but by different roads and alternate means. Alternate reality.

A house, for example, may become haunted in your mind when the subject within has caused a complicated situation to unfurl about you. Don’t curl your toes and try to avoid looks while you stride loftily by. Oh no. Go around to another house, another route, another path. Don’t become hung up over either high or low road – but simply take a different one.

Practice parkour if you cannot trace an angular line along the roads paved and the ways devised for you. Jump a fence if you must. Crawl a catwalk. Light a match and blaze a trail. Scavenge a torch and find your way through underbrush and into hovels and thickets and clearings unseen.

But aim your compass always north so you don’t get lost along the way. For the destinations here aren’t the complications and if we devise new ways to let the blood and loose the pressure from our complex endeavors, we’ll find that ghosts need not collect in vents and lint traps, in hampers and hangers-on, around corners and where the ice is getting too thin for you to skate by safely on your way.

Sunlit park with dashes of rainfall

Lazy days watching birds and tapping rhythms with the ocean waves lapping and slapping against rocks on the shore.

Funny how we humans think we need to rush around, always having something to “do”. Funny how we think sitting and being, doing what everything else does — just existing is lazy.

Not exactly funny, I’d say. It gets a little unnerving.
How we’ve domesticated everything, including ourselves. How we shackle and cage, and rain pain down on things that don’t obey. Subvert dominant violence in subtle phrases like–

No-one would get hurt, if they’d just do as we say.
Don’t fight and don’t get punished.
Stay in line or pay the price.

Always someone behind those words willing to hurt you for stepping one centimeter out of line, out of place, out of control. Always some tool to prod you on quicker, quicker, more productive now. Fill the gap and move it, fast. Get it done now. Go until you rot. Don’t stop.

While birds float lifetimes on wing and water. While trees spend centuries growing a few feet taller. While everything lives and dies and lives and dies and lives and dies, on and endlessly on through what we percieve as a river of time.

If it has a current, why can’t we be happy just to bathe in it?

Because we want more and more and more. And we want it faster and easier and better and more pleasing and more fulfilling and give us everything right now without waiting.

I slip further from those lines and slowly untie those knots from around my wrists and ankles that have for years, years, years been rubbed raw. Now if only I could get this chain noose off my neck, I’d be free.


No, but I’d be capable — at least — of returning.
For now, I’m scratching like the rest of us at the surface begging to find release.

Whispering forests of conveluded escapes around me

Gallows hang with trappings of lives I have left unlived, and all my crafted hallowed places are burned again. A match set flame to rituals and spirits I was just getting to know. The curve of the earth tips and tilts, and I find I feel like I am being spun round and wrung to bits.

Another turn. Another season. On and on in the perception of the cognitivie earthen’s collective soul. Toshidoshi, okorumente.

Through this logic, I can know my core is made up of stardust. And inside this heart is a black hole with all the memory and knowing and componants to make another star outside these bones and walls. A gathering of dust somewhere further off.

Is the live we’re living at the edge of extinction or the bending edge of the world?
Are there monsters and demons and greater beings waiting to devour us on the other side?

Is darkness the same as the night?

I tumble headlong into images I don’t comprehend. A rhyme and meter in time signatures I’ve never heard in quarter and quadruple tones my ear can’t pick apart.

Walk me with along this road a little while longer and our fingers will find thorns in each other’s sides. If we’re careful, we can pull them out one by one — for a little while.

Third, fifth, and seventh day of spring. The sun blazes over-bright in our tender winter eyes. And how funny that we spin around it and not the other way.

Center of the soul is the center of the world and both, I swear, are made of molten rock super heated to flow like blood through veins until life bursts forth.

I am approaching, slipping, sidling in toward the warmth.
Cradle me in that safe old dark.
I only want to be loved hard.

Just for today, a message.

You are in an era of the moon, of tricks and trips, of tests and wits. Can you keep your footing and not slip? Can you enter into this half-lit world of shadows and find both peace and amazement? Or will you become teased and tortured, picked apart by faes and fantasies that you have no grounds to comprehend? Will you be splintered by the things you never imagined could exist?

This is the platform on which we must understand.

Today is a day of encountering an emotional and spiritual foundation. You will find a serence and peaceful supporter. Someone who is on your side and is willing to give the support you need. Compassion and protection from the world’s harshness can be found easily abundant today. The light glows and reflects around a calm center. If you allow yourself to drink from that cup, you should be fine.

Perhaps, a hiatus in an emotional and spirtiual safespace will help you in keeping those wits about which you — in these times — need so desperately.


This, that. You, I. Light, dark. Day, night.

Not a first sign, but an obvious change in patterns, now, that are noticeable. Trace them with your fingers if you like. Wood grains morphed from summers hot and winters cold, but this moment is a hiatus in between.

A balancing out of extremes.

And how funny is that in this twelve hours of wake and twelve hours of rest — I will not speak of it with you.

“Why” you ask in cries and sighs that echo forth from other sides of rooms and places like secret palaces where I have never gone.

Respect was an ephemeral thing that drifted away on winds and wings. A constant pulse to understand and comprehend that lasted not too long. For once it had its hands full, were you aware that we started piece-mealing apart at that exact moment?

Slow decline and decay and a gathering of particles that when they break off from our fingers, don’t go back into place. Not a right or wrong or fitting or unfit, not places we can’t name or trace or replace. Just nowhere at all. Turned not to ash but blubber rubber in the decayed outer shells of tortoises and porpoises and purposes rotten and dragged bloated down to the oil-dregged sea floor.

Do you see anymore?

A blaring white light like an imitation sun is glowing from the inside of poison walls that off-gas things and dreams and nightmares you can’t even imagine.

When was the last time you woke up screaming? Was is from dreaming? Or a sense that something more important was leaving, escaping, slipping through your paste-colored fingertips that you’ve recently noticed are fraying, breaking, skipping and tripping and stopping you from working? Do you feel it slipping?

Reigns and knots and cords that kept you tied up tight like a puppet on some very ill-designed strings. Pull and push and tug on your arms and head, feet and neck — but everyone around you is so tangled up who can tell where one ends and next one begins?

Don’t worry. It’s just an energy field that makes us feel so hopeless, hapless, down and desperate. If we cut the bullshit and clear out the cheap shit and get a longview of the long road ahead of me and you — well we can make a sort of progress in the kind of speeding toward our death.

But life and death do not increase at rates which we can comprheend. No, gravity that holds us down is just the rate of causality in the world, and who but a universe can even think to alter all the rules?

I’m scraping at the ground to dig a hole while you keep burning fuel. We’ll see who’s hole outlasts the disaster coming, coming, coming…

Tuck and roll and hide your head. The ithusi tokoloshe are coming bearing arms.
They’ll kill these fake masters in a moment of heat and hate.
My hole goes down underneath the blood while your holes prick bubbles like needles through balloons that float away from you into the nothingness.
Can your wings hold you up above the fireshed? The smoke and ash? Now just ask yourself if you’ve cleared gravity and orbit yet.

I bet the answer’s still no.

Oh. Right.
Have a happy conscious equinox.
I’ll be singing inside and beating out the vibrations of life on a little drum by fire light through the twelve-hour coming night. And in the morning, probably wake with the same amount of weight.

I can’t wait.

Pieces of

Toward the end of dinner, I was bored with my date and didn’t have enough money for our check. She seemed expectant that I pick up the tab regardless as to how it was going. It was time to play the old “I forgot my wallet” line. Hands out in front of me, completely open, totally innocent. It was a good act and it seemed to be working. So I never said anything and let them think they knew me.

I knew somebody had rank the last of my orange juice and put it back in the fridge. THat’s why *I* ate the last of the ice cream. I knew if I didn’t take such immediate action, you’d have done the same. I would have done it better than you. You were always just too unfocused, too self absorbed to get it right. After I said that, our band broke up, and the cover band of us kept playing.

A surly teenager boarded the bus with a lollipop. There were no seats and it was summer. They stood in the back next to the door so they could leave whenever they wanted. “I’m feeling pretty pretty sketched out, wanna ditch?” Maze said, sidling out.
“No way, we’re in this Stack,” said the queen of Hearts to her son Jack who was too busy messing with the tarts to listen.

Drunk and in love, I made a regretable error. I chose the Celine Dion song one too many times on the bar jukebox. This big muscle-armed kid — I mean like eleven or twelve — came up and punched me in the face for it. And, sure, it hurt a little, but mostly I was just struck by how stupid that was. In hindsight, I knew it was stupid, but I was yound and didn’t care. No one would ever speak of it again.

My silence burns your eyes.
“Did it hurt?” she asked “When you fell fom heaven?”
“IT was more like a float than a fall.”
In this way, they were able to watch everything for a while before it landed. When it did, the wind blew so hard it felt like the earth shook, but it was only the grass sweeping around.

“Sip your coffee and shut the hell up about it,” the server barked.
The customer’s eyes widened and their mouth hung slackly open.
It was one of those restaurants where you were allowed to break dishes if you paid a cover charge. A popular spot for Greek weddings and deep pocketed assholes. It was also the sight where Aphrodite smote Goliath. I mean, that’s what the tour guide claimed, but who believes those assholes anyhow?

In the center of the field, the kids sat in a circle, slowly burning the last fragments of their pasts.
“If anyone tells,” said Max, “we throw you in and burn you, too.”
THere was no doubt they were serious. So we hired a clown to help lighten the mood. When the hired entertainment arrived, no-one believed how ugly the cheap wig was. When it fell off, everyone just aobut died laughing.

The path we took lead to the water. In the water, a crockodile sat. Nothin was visible but his eyes. That’s when she took their game of peek-a-boo one step further and disappeared. The police searched for days with no luck and no leads. Then, the call from a so-called anonymous informant came in, but everyone knew it — it was the whistle-blower, Sipper.

A dog was digging a hole in my yard. I’d had enough of that, so I got papi’s gun and blew its head off. It wasn’t a clean “off”; it was more of a scattered mess of blood + bone. They swept it up and hopped in a car, a dustbin of gore, and raced to the hospital. Maggie, near blind from the cut in her scalp, felt to check if she still had two eyes. She did not — one had fallen off, the other had sunk into her brain.

Sally from the shoe shop was not feeling her best. She went to the baker for some smile cookies to make her feel better. The door jingled as it opened. And then, the knot that help the bells on came loose, and they jingled to the floor.
“Oh no,” Jimmy cried, “I didn’t get to jingle all the way!”
Christy scowled, “Paper money is better any time.”
“That’s why I throw pennies at homeless people.”

Flash fiction written half-blind, sentence-by-sentence, in the round by 5 writers.

Progress to the (just past) full moon

Withstanding the final read-aloud to make sure the whole thing tracks, Un(en)titled is completed in draft. Final edits, final readers feedback, and copy-editing is about where we are. Oh, and cover/internal art is still in the air. But, it approaches printing at a nearly break-neck pace.

Toshidoshi has been both titled and almost entirely plotted. A few tweaks within sections and the ultimate “where does the story start” question. Well under way on novel four.

Crazy Sad has passed judgement, verdict — not guilty of tropey useless narrative. Onward and forward and so on. In other words, this is in last and final incarnation.


I have handfuls and hundreds of you’s that I’m talking to.

And I wonder if you can pick yourself out. Well now, it’s easy if I make obvious reference. Name and place such as what have you. But the clever ones can do it without any unnecessary, heavy-handed clues.

How about you? Do you know? How well do you think you know the you I’d call to? How well do you think you’d know the places I recall you from, the places where I recover the memories of you, the ways I dispell the ghosts of you.

Do you know the rituals I use to call you back to me?
Do you know the mirrors I hold against you?
Do you know the hurt I keep close to myself like a knife in my pocket I can pull, at any moment, on you?

Do you know who you are and why I’m talking to you at all?

Spirits and wind and breath — all of these.
I’m chasing fog on a reflection of water, chasing smoke off a fire, chasing vapor.

I’ll catch you one of these days, if only you’d approach me.


The goal does not change, merely because time has passed. The purpose has not been altered because the tracks are difficult to follow or because the time between myself and the end is far and strenuous. If it were not so, I would not need to track.

If I change my goal simply because it has taken a while to reach it, I have failed at tracking.
If I become distracted by other goals and change direction, I have been deceived and I will never reach my destination.

To track is to have patience, yes, but also perserverence. A stuck and focused determination. A steady, constant assurance that you are making progress — albeit necessarily slow and careful.

The tracker, in the end, makes the kill.

I will kill this inside of me.