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?”

It Gets Better

I do apologize for my absence these few months. I am hard at work chronicling Halfbake’s adventures, along with my daily toils, and a  project borne under the mantel of another muse (Word to Melpomene). Ah, but my blog gathers dust.

For that reason, and in honor of Pride Month, here is an acoustic piece I wrote after the Pulse Night Club tragedy.


Hey you, in the corner hiding lonely tears
Hey you, by the pulpit, hoping that he hears
Hey you, shoe laces undone,
wasn’t life easy before all the fun?

It gets better in time
This one moment won’t last forever

The pain will heal, and the fear will fade
and you’ll stand and hold your head up tall
and next to you I’ll stand, hand in hand
and next to me in hand another brother

You are not alone
You are not alone
You are not alone

Hey you in the bedroom, wondering if she knows
Hey you in the costume , regretting what you chose

Hey you in the mirror saying “Who do you think you are?”
Is there an answer or do you just stay silent?

It get’s better in time
Don’t let the moment rewind

Let it go, let it fall
and when the dust settles it all
you’ll still be standing tall

It get’s better, I know
I forgave them fifteen years ago

Odds Bodkins

A poem in homage to Aagonish by William Hughs

Today I saw things that I didn’t see,
was seen by things that couldn’t be,
became the things that I was not,
remembered that I just forgot
remembered that I just forgot

It wasn’t really what was not
that kept me push pinned to the spot,
what it was was not the thought,
the thing that I recalled forgot.

Something here that isn’t there
Something lurking in the air
Something crouching on the stair,
catching me within a glare

within a flash of futile fright
from epochs filled with starless light
from within a mind maligned
by something there I’ll never find

Will I ever move from there,
that thing there sitting on the stair,
with those eyes wide closing in
trapped with in begin again


Happy Trails

An erratic poem about waking up in a rut. I believe I initially wrote it as a song.

Woke up suicidal,
pulling at the reins,
chewing my own bridal,
scratching at the chains

Passed a man screaming to get out of it,
Wearing someone else’s shit
Thought it must be nice to be frothing at the bit

But I  know that it’s too late to hedge the bet,
too muddled with mistakes,
too riddled with regret,

I see the pretty horses go to pasture
or maybe they just pass you as you limp to your disaster

As you walk to your good morning
when you just said your goodnight
And the sun shines early warning
but you just turned out the light

And every prayer is “Happy trails to you…”
But maybe they are waiting ’round the bend,
guess we’ll just keep smiling until then.

“Until we meet again.”

The Return

I was inspired to write this Lewis Carrollian prose poem after seeing a good friend of mine after many years. Love you, CJ.

Sometimes in this night long world of moonless tears and mirthless gnashing,
Sometimes in this wakeful rut of insomnia mornings and headache weeks of arrested growth,
of menial days of stop-loss progress, of mealy miles of meaningless motion,
Sometimes in this seasick tottering of toiling autonomous monotony,
Sometimes in this loitering life of bygone dreaming, when you look up out of your own decay sometimes you can believe enough to see straight and clear out of this waste bin coffin,
where the bad ideas of the universe are crumpled and thrown away, oblivion,
you can perceive a full color world of hue, a progress world of sound,
where walk the wonders of breath alive,
where love the life-people,
a strange and incomprehensible thing for the dark of no matter,
but you can, I find, if you let it, when you allow,
Sometimes in this place of grace you can looking glass glance a wonder
and see that there is life living,
and living too can life you.