Below you will find a mixture of prose, poetry, random thoughts and a variety of images including some of my favorite music videos. The icons above will take you to my other social media pages. Click the blue button on the right to subscribe to this blog and receive posts in your reader.
But most of all enjoy your time here 🙂
Human nature is ugly; if we wish to be beautiful, we must act with what little grace we are afforded and remand the remaining wreckage for mortality to erode away.
ripen at the behest of con-men
in their seedling temperament.
We cannot feel the
at lightning velocity.
When everything not iron-braided
to our wavering arms is
for the frivolous taking
is the only earthly trade
and worth a damn.
Can I Guess Your Religion by Your Answers to These Five Questions?
You may be skeptical but I’d wager it can be done. Just answer A, B, C, D, or E below. And no none-of-the-above’s or what-have-you. That’s cheating.
A. Franz Kafka
B. Lizzie Borden
C. Gretel (but not Hansel)
D. The guy who invented the trebuchet
A. Cinder block
C. Wax warmer
D. Dyson’s sphere
E. 100-foot tall statue of Jesus
B. 2i + 1
D. The cosmological constant
A. New Brunswick
B. San Bernadino
C. One of the Maldives
D. Seven miles off the coast of Laos
E. The comforting arms of Jesus
A. The soul gravitates from darkness to light
B. The primordial soup bubbled over into trees and dinosaurs and stuff
C. Everything is an illusion of the mind including the mind itself
D. That cake isn’t going to bake itself.
Judging by your answers I’d say that you’re either a Born-again Christian or just some weirdo who likes taking quizzes. Amirite?
I destroy everything I touch
(and all I don’t) by exhausting
their latent meaning. The stories
are all that I possess
until I’ve forgotten how they began.
I can mesh your mind with nonsense
if you consent. Nothing’s more clear
as a method of escape–death,
a dissertation on love
Biology asks us to believe in beauty
as life-giving (and a crucial flaw.)
Nothing we can devour. A breathless
flourish. Evasive . . .
I have no power.
Words begin and end of their own
volition. I’d wish you all well,
but I’ve always been hidden.
( . . . and the narrative chases
me down again. and again.
Superlative, anxious falter, how you grace me:
You, the irons in my ambitious fire, thrust deeper
than sorrow into the furious embers;
You, the undetectable fracture in love;
You, the tidal moaning over the graves
of causes deferred.
The silence elongates you, unfurls you
into a shivering frailty. How heavy
your notes. How seizing
When the whole world opens wide, I
close my eyes. How alone.
However, your immediate chasm
does not swallow, only invites a root.
I am not a tree, a fist from one plot.
I’ll hide from the sun when I need a reprieve,
but the horizon is still mine to bend.
The strangest encounters may come to fruition
from the day-to-day-to-day.
And we only know how to answer them
tomorrow . . .
A long time ago in a grassy field non-existent now beyond the neuroses inflicting me with memory, a girl with red hair and a flair for the dramatic told me that she spoke Spanish, fluent or near to. Well, I the relentless student who’d yet learned a flimsy representation of this musical tongue, in all my youthful eagerness gave wide audience to her. What she spewed forth was gibberish, something approximating a fourth-generation distillation of pig latin and actual Latin. Or in the moment, that nonsense imprinted on me so.
Life was simpler then, when we wept
from even the most frivolous aggression
against our being. The bully was always
in the effort not the ends.
But now . . . People rarely look me in the eye. Most incoherence directed my way comes strangled by an equally enigmatic anxiety. The last person to say “hello” to me did so with a sickening note of vapid goofiness. Love cannot flourish in such a wilting place.
Quiet reigns, for I’ve no endgame
save a fascination with the bubbled ends
of the fragmented future . . .
I wonder what became of that red-haired girl and the wound she nursed slit from my unambiguous disbelief. What would she say to me now that the springtime of her naivete has ripened and fallen away? What burgeons from maturation’s blood? Perhaps I can conjecture.
“My life will be bookended by lies.
So will yours. I only hope they will be
(from @pixelatedboat, a frequent source of comedy gold.)
Also, if you’re so inclined, you can follow me at @mutesarcasm where I post dumb jokes and repost a lot of weirdness from other, more popular twitstreams. I’d appreciate a look or two.
The sun in tatters plies the horizon
over itself, and the anger of the sky
washes into pink acquiescence.
The darkness mulls an offering . . .
. . . that final voluminous hour.
You’ll believe your own lies.
And set them to melody, a skin of euphony
snaking around the most precious nothing . . .
No voices, just an understood echo.
Redacted screams . . .