Of debtors and their debt
A blistering festered writhing
The luckless bastard wreck
Wreaking sighing seethers
Eyeless earless breathers
Breathless whining screaming dreck
Godless helpless hapless bet

Bring the young here to my mouth
That they will whisper heard
To learn what is unspoken,
impassable the word
That lives between my teeth,
a boast, damnable gloat,
Lean in little child, brief,
And listen in my throat

Do I not smile prettily?
Do I not wink and sigh
as I call down the alley ways
As you do saunter by?

Come know sweet secret acres of sliding sinking joy
Such happy fun to have down here for every girl and boy.

For every girl and boy.



We are all children of love, starving.
For only having loved may we feel the famine of it.

Poison me with love
Poison me with need
Push me when I shove
Love me when I bleed

Belle Gunness

Tooth and nail, claw and maw, these things awaken a primal fear, the practical repellence between predator and prey. So much greater and complex is the cosmic fear one feels upon gazing into the eye of a monster with its teeth on the inside, the serial killer.

No matter the revulsion I feel at the atrocities that these creatures have committed, I, never the less, remain transfixed by, not only their reasoning, but by their varied personalities.

Thus an idea began to spawn in my mind. A musical comedy staring a rogue’s gallery of female murderers. Once in a thousand years their souls are called to the courts of hell to plea their case for parole and reprieve. They are given a court appointed defense attorney from heaven, and a prosecution attorney from hell. And so begins the insurmountable task of the defense to convince, not the jury, but the convicted themselves of their own wrong doing, thereby allowing them to move on to limbo and begin repentance.

Our first plaintiff is Belle Gunness, noted as the first female serial killer. Her modus operandi was to lure young men of standing to her estate through flowery love letters, where she’d pin herself as a widowed damsel in distress. She’d weep into her parchment of her financial woes and bait the young beau to come meet her at her decrepit estate. When they arrived they’d realize why she was some what shy to include her picture or any self description, the woman was built like a school bus, with a face like Newt Gingrich. Needless to say, they would have it out, but she could usually at least pursued them to stay one night, and get some rest and a meal. She’d get them drunk and when they fell asleep she’d chloroform them, suffocate them, and steal their money before chopping them up and feeding them to the pigs.

After all was said and done she murdered up words of a hundred men this way. When people finally became suspicious of her, she hired a new nanny for her children, murdered her, murdered all of her children, then she decapitated the nanny, put all the bodies in the basement, then burned the house down. What’s worse, she told the farm boy that was in love her to meet in a certain spot so they could run away together, instead the police met him there and he went to prison for her crimes.

She wound up escaping to Florida where she eventually died of old age under an assumed name.

All that being said, I give you the first part of The Belle Gunness Tango. Where Belle Gunness tangos with men, throwing them in piles around the stage, when she’s done with them.

All I wanted was a man.
You tell me, is that a crime?
Men may die, as people can,
Everybody has their time.

Just because I own a watch,
doesn’t mean I make it tick,
and their time passed through my fingers,
thank the lord he made it quick

Bachelors are a delicate thing,
when they’re here, it’s so easy to get tangled
I could be as gentle as an angel,
Still when we embraced he could get strangled, Oh-oo, Oh-oo!

To have a child is a gift,
and I was blessed with two or three
But if that gift our lord should lift
How on earth could you blame me?


Long awaited hello to you all! I have been giving all of my creative juices to my novel, Halfbake: A Christmas Odyssey, for the better part of a year. I have many other small projects that I have yet to post. They are coming soon. The good news is that part one of HBCO is packaged and ready to be sent off to it’s first agent. I have already chosen whom I will be trying first, I am almost finished with the cover letter, then it will be off! We shall see, dear readers, we shall certainly see.

In the mean time, I have written another song, the muse of music has had my ear this year and she cannot seem to leave me be. I hope to one day record these songs for you all to hear, but for now, in a somber baroque style, I give you “Beholder”.

When the moon rises high
and the stars blink out from the sky
I’ll be there waiting by the well
I am waiting, waiting by the well

When your neck is bending low
When you’re lost with no where to go
I’ll be there, waiting out of sight
I”ll be waiting, waiting out of sight

Always there
Always there
I am there
Always there

Just behind, Just beyond
Just around the bend,
Beside you, here and yon

I’ll be there by your side
No matter where you hide

When the moon rises high
and the stars blink out from the sky
I’ll be there waiting by the well…

Calling your name
Dreaming your face
Waiting by the well


I began this rather interesting stream of consciousness writing project while I was high a while back. I was a bit apprehensive when I recovered the project, but is actually rather quaint. Enjoy the weirdness. See if you can spot the brand new word I created.


Alaska: is the feeling of steam from a mint tea, rising out of the cup to caress and tingle against your face. There is a song of birds, and reeds, and a growing hum that will one day over take it all.

Alabama: is the sound of a metal rail bending in and out of shape, as in the ancient prophecy. To this emanation the children with blond smiles dance the dance of daffodils. Soon they will know the language in the bending, soon they will hear, soon they will understand, soon it will be too late.

Arizona: is the flick of a latch once opened long ago, whose unknown occupants fled, and now stare down at the highest thrown, whispering through the mouths of kings to further an unknowable agenda. And on that day, when their ends are finally met, still no one will know them, and further, no one on earth will ever know the part that each of us surely has played.

Arkansas: is a word in the language of lizards, it means both ‘a call to arms” and “a defeat”, as well as the sociophilisophical state of “being nowhere at once”. A concept, the meaning of which is culturally untranslatable. It is known that this idea played a large part in the losing and winning of key battles in the wars of the first eon, when evolution became a right, before its history was lost and it’s science born.

California: is the blue sky on a cold rainy day. It’s the naive expression of children with lipstick smeared across their teeth, smiling ignorantly, shuffling to work in their Mommy Heels. It’s the lonely moment of fear a child feels when the blazer he wears of ten sizes too large, is the next week ten sizes larger, one day to realize, too late that he is locked away in a poly blend prison.

Colorado: is still late. It’s always been late, since the first day it arrived. The technician had been called at first notice of defect, everyone present simply agreed to pretend that nothing was wrong, certain that it would be fixed before anyone noticed. No one came. Apparently the parent firm was unexpectedly fossilized. However, there are a few more chronologically attuned individuals, calling themselves The Technicians, who have noticed, and are taking action, but as the manual had been lost millennia before the package arrived, there is no way to know what will happen when the Colorado correction occurs. Implications range from some sort of static chronoplasmic discharge, to the destruction of earth, or time, or nothing. Nothing at all could happen, or everything, all at once, perhaps. Perhaps it already did.


Casualty is a song about love, but it is certainly not a “love song”. It’s a song about the prescribed ideas of love, oft sung of by the Taylor Swifts of the world, or ministered to the congregations of apt church goers! It is about a man, who’s expectations of love have been beaten, broken, and shattered. He is here to tell you what he knows, what he’s learned from the battles he’s fought and lost.

The song is written in the style of a weighty, musical theare, ballad.

Love is like a shadow
like an adder
like a spy
it can hide in anything
On a napkin, in a lie

Love cannot be good, it isn’t right, it isn’t bad
Like a thing you’ve found you’re missing
that you never knew you had

Love does not recognize your sex, your status, or your vows
It’s simply “Buddy, hey, your next!”
It will not hear you “why’s”, or ‘who’s”, or “how’s”

Love is like a dagger in a pocket passing by,
Ah, but once you notice it,
They’ve already got your eye

Then it’s “Hi, how are-”
And, “What? Me too!”
Concidence as fate

Statistics do not lie
You have not found your mate
Just the next thing that you’ll hate

All because there was some “love”
in your poorly hidden glances
It’s not your fault, the stats don’t lie
You just lost for taking chances

Love is cold, not
hot, you know
colder than Pluto’s sunless snows
Because it leaves, it always leaves
So suddenly it goes
That it can take you years before either of you knows

It’s like an empty cradle
It’s like an unmarked grave
Nothing clearly fatal, yet some how so depraved
Will anyone be saved?
Will anyone be saved?

I am like a shadow
Like an adder
Like a spy
I can hide in anything
You’d never know if I passed by

For I too am a casualty
Wearing shrapnel near my heart
afraid that if it beat again
I’d die or fall apart

I am like a sparrow
Like an attic
Like a ghost
My pathway’s always narrow
My guards are at their post

I maintain with clear instruction
I’ve dodged, and hid, and passed
I whistle by each new destruction
Singing “It won’t be the last”

I’ve learned the truth
I lost the fight
Alone I stand here every night
Until the last window snuffs its light

Watching for the moment when love will come again
Fearing my own answer
When asked “Will you let me in?”