Tuesday, December 11, 2012

new chapbook for sale

Hot off the press, a newly organized collection of flash fiction entitled "recycled fiction for the impatient: a self-explanatory chapbook." So there you have it, it's fairly self-explanatory. Check it out, buy a dozen, tell your friends. Huzzah.


Sunday, November 11, 2012

Wednesday, October 3, 2012

october 3rd, 2012

Here a couple new poems. Enjoy.

been a while

I haven’t written poetry in a while
or sat down with a pen and a fresh bottle of whiskey
and I miss it.
I miss the outpour of anger and frustration.
I miss the hangover the next morning
that accompanies the reread,
because when the reread is good,
when the poetry feels right,
the hangover sprouts a pair of legs
and struts out my front door,
into the Los Angeles heat.
I miss the bad rereads too,
when the poetry feels wrong,
because it provides that necessary push,
that essential first step toward greatness.
I miss defeating the bleakness of three a.m..
I miss the ambient music that soothed my drunk bones.
I miss the fear I felt reading better work than mine,
knowing it would take a million more whiskey nights
to be mentioned in the same conversation.
I miss pacing around the kitchen,
pulling my hair out,
readjusting my posture
and staring out the window in hopes of an answer
or the one sentence that could change everything.

I haven’t written poetry in a while
and I don’t have a fresh bottle of whiskey by my side,
but this poem feels right
and I no longer fear better work than mine,
nor do I fear happiness,
for it’s merely an excuse the weak use when searching for a scapegoat. 

“I have a mentor”

“I have a mentor”
she says
“who tells me to write ten pages everyday
just get it out
ten pages everyday
it’s gonna be shit
oh it’s gonna be real bad
but if you write ten pages a day
for ten days
you’ll have 100 pages
and a script.”
“so it’s like diarrhea
of the pen”
I say.
she says.
glad we’re on the same page.

I tried to walk to a nearby diner
to work out the kinks
with a green legal pad
a black pilot g-2 07 pen
and nabokov’s lolita.
my privacy was taken from me
by a friend,
a man I like,
and a girl who’s writing ten pages everyday
for ten days
until a bad script drops from her bowels
like a corn infested log from my hairy asshole.

all I wanted to do was drink alone in peace
with nabokov
a green legal pad
a black pilot g-2 07 pen
and my concerns.

the novel is getting to me.
it’s tearing me apart.
but I think i like it.

Tuesday, September 25, 2012

assassinate the void

Look for these pasted in your neighborhood

Thursday, September 20, 2012

september 20th, 2012

From the novel:

          Mitchell walks into the light of day, wearing his laughably out-of-style shorts, a faded green collared shirt he was given through work and a pair of white tennis shoes (sporting a double-knot tied upon purchase). He holds ground for a moment, looking left, then right. An unusually curious disposition sprouts above his chin as he appears to be soaking in the idea of absolute freedom. This looks invades many minds of diverse backgrounds and situations, but tends to fade like the last rising smoke from an extinguished fire. True freedom is a concept understood only by the confident and willing; those who view challenges as means of self-improvement, those who do all they can to defeat mortality by leaving an indentation so deep, future thinkers place their hands on their hips and study with awe and admiration. Mitchell may be able to take a sip of such potion, but to think he can guzzle the whole bottle is na├»ve, left only to the childish over-optimists—who suffer from the very same problem. It’s not simply about having a tough skin, for you can have the skin of an elephant and remain void of potential. The toughest skin protects the man willing to admit death scares him, only to ask, “What can I do to shrink that fear into a ball so tiny I can drop it in my pocket and maintain control?” No personal accomplishment worthy of pursuit is going to be easy, nor should it. You must find out why you’re afraid and alleviate the answer. Sure—this drive lies within all you humans, Mitchell included, but it suffocates the meek to the point of excommunication—a thought expelled, a desire determined ludicrous. I see this unusually curious disposition sprouting below his scalp and smirk with arrogance. Soak it up all you want, Mitch, for the fear that paralyzes you cannot be squeezed into even the largest pocket you own.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

july 31st, 2012

I just found out that three of my pieces will be published in A Few Lines Magazine in September. The poems maybe her body followed and los feliz were accepted, along with the short story tomorrow. Feel free to check out the publication here:

It's been a slow year, so I'm very happy about this and can't wait to check out the rest of the issue. I'll update you with more info when all's finished. Thanks for reading.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

"even if it takes all night"

In reference to my last post, you can now purchase my chapbook "even if it takes all night" here:

If you live in Los Angeles, you can also buy it at Skylight Books on Vermont Ave. in Los Feliz. Great book store, regardless of your intention. I highly recommend you check it out. I also highly recommend you buy this chapbook, but we all know the doubtful nature of that wish. Boy do I wish I wasn't being sarcastic.

Long live poetry. Be well.

Wednesday, June 6, 2012

Thursday, May 3, 2012

writing update

I'm currently writing a novel based on a story I developed with the lovely Erin Dillon. It has a long way to go, but I figured an update would do some good. I'll continue posting poetry and prose, but there's no real intention to publish another book until this novel is done. Perhaps I'll post a chapter from time to time. We'll see.

Also, I wrote an article on Henry Miller for a great publication called Beatdom, but I don't believe I ever mentioned it on this blog. You can check it out here:

Hope you enjoy and thanks for reading.

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

april 4th, 2012

a divide

The older I get the more I think about the impending divide between those actively involved in my life. At a certain point we’re all forced to choose a side and no longer is anyone else responsible for your decision. The beast knocks with polished, unbiased knuckles. How will you respond?

Your first option is a reality in which Art dominates thought because creation is an idea as eternal as God. This is a reality in which the infinite coincides with human potential. The expected, tested, tried and true notion of three is tossed aside, for no barrier is breached without understanding and justified change. How can I take what inspires me to new levels? How can I pay homage to the deserved souls while simultaneously chiseling my own immortality? This is a reality in which truth and beauty guide the mind through murky swamps in search of the orchid-- knowing damn well the quest may end in defeat thick enough to see; a thin veil in perspective, but one capable of temporarily blinding the hungry doubter. The illusionary reality of Art contains only those who openly accept fear because no man is without it, it’s simply a matter of how tall you choose to stand before it.

Your second option is a reality in which art is no longer capitalized because it is no longer necessary. Like beaten hand-me-downs too small for the unplanned younger child, art has been tossed on the freeway shoulder to rot like flavorless gum below the circling, salivating vultures. This is a reality void of deeper meaning, leaning upon the splintered crutches of brainwashed business delusion. Ambition has been replaced with subservience and with enough hours punched on the clock, by golly, you could apply for the job upstairs-- you know the one I’m talking about, the one that comes with the mahogany desk and the power-trip and the vacant assistant begging to grant your every wish! It’s a much sought after position so I recommend you keep on plugging away with that same sense of mindless devotion. You musn’t worry about art anymore child, for it proved to be an expendable commodity. Like an unsightly, pesky wart we had it removed.

When the ground begins to split underneath your feet, which side will you feel compelled to join?

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

march 14th, 2012

the return

Loneliness rests in the nook of Eve’s arm.
It is the crease opposing our elbow,
the indentation which evaporates
before our covered identifiers.
Pupils are cloaked
and uncloaked for amusement’s sake,
like gigantic
holy movie screens;
palettes of projected immortality.
The red velvet curtain ruffles up,
momentarily faking existence
before unfurling
with smooth

Loneliness is a beauty mark I had removed,
a cyst I nurtured night in and night out.

But early this morning,
beneath the unchanged darkness of dawn,
the two of us reunited.
The unremembered face,
the miserable mug,
the beast I so proudly defeated
cried into clasped hands beside me.
His tears watered the cheap, colorless upholstery
and I embraced him with every muscle in my body.
I dug the ends of my fingers into his tender back
and clutched his hollow spine.
For the first time in years
he appeared beautiful.

Forgotten loneliness is a lovely thing
when you’re driving home alone,
surrounded by the unchanged darkness of dawn.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

february 28th, 2012

how to assassinate the void

You must start with Imagination;
the blessed,
and chosen beast
handpicked for gruesome battles
such as this.

For the void is a disease
that feasts on the public,
tricking the cerebrum
into believing that money and monotony
breed satisfaction;
a meaningfully adequate existence.

The sad part is
the disease has claimed mountains of victims.
Some of them are dead,
unable to repeat and repent,
and some of them are alive,
walking past you on the sidewalk,
serving you lunch
or cutting your hair.
They are merely shells of human potential;
hollowed out bodies
programmed to respond with simple answers:
“Yes sir, right away, sir.”
“No sir, my fault, sir.”

The diseased are no different than crudely built robots.
They accomplish their tasks at work
with moderate
to above moderate success.
They acknowledge their co-workers
with polite farewell gestures
and drive home in a generally safe manner.
Red lights mean stop,
green lights mean go
and yellow lights should be read as slow down.
God forbid you strike another vehicle
and injure a healthy,
capable cog.
The government does not appreciate such accidents.
In fact,
the government does not appreciate much of anything.
The government is doing just fine,
so move along.
Nothing to see here.
Your work is appreciated
and so are you.
Move along, champ.
Nothing to see here.

The next hurdle involves Passion.
A dash is fine,
but I recommend a handful.
Passion is a difficult ingredient to apprehend,
so do not succumb to its elusiveness.
Do not surrender if the search prolongs;
Passion is a pure
and honest commodity
worthy of its journey.
Many weak legs have collapsed
before reaching the pillar it rests upon.
Many courageous men have lowered their sword
in valiant defeat.
Passion will evade your efforts
until desperate necessity kicks in;
pumping ferociously
like the legs of the prey
narrowly outrunning the fresh feet
of the hungry hunter.

Problem is--
the hunted outnumber the hunters,
but the scaly beast of oppression
strangles the advantage,
sucking the air out
until the purple, lifeless face
collapses in defeat.

There is no formula
no matter what I’ve said,
no matter what you’ve heard,
so do whatever it takes
for however long
to assassinate the void
and emerge an independent
fireball of a progressive thought.

Monday, January 16, 2012

january 16th, 2012

Here's another new one, a quick Sunday night/Monday morning cut-up.

leaning out on the edge

The spiraling roar of a miracle

tears through curtains of porcelain doubt

like a golden comet

shot through tattered lace.

The whirling spasm of ingenuity,

when caged

and tagged for future research,

crushes a lifetime of groans in a




Life is a relay race

and the only thing that matters

is whether or not

you’re holding the baton.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

january 15th, 2012

Here's a random piece of prose I found written in a legal pad. I'm sure it's the result of a late night, but it's not bad.

top five

People make lists because they are physical, organized manifestations of interests and disinterests we consider “real”. Lists provide validation, state opinions and etch trivial decisions onto paper, cementing a thought, albeit momentary, into the sidewalk of a chosen surface. They act as handprints in the sidewalk, and when put into perspective, affect nothing equally. Like most activities, lists attempt to solidify the invisible.

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

january 11th, 2012

throw him a curveball is featured on Young American Poets blog today, which is very nice of them. the heavy musk of masochism and keep it simple previously appeared in late 2011.


I haven't posted new work in a while, so here are two poems for you to enjoy.

can't you hear me knockin'?

Before I could react to the knocking
it was gone.
A few modest pounds
followed by sustained silence.
The kind of silence that permeates through an auditorium
hours before an orchestra takes stage.
Hauntingly inspirational,
yet suspiciously dormant.

Before I could answer the door
the knocking was gone,
and I was left standing
like a fool in the rain.

los feliz

Now we live together.
Just like that.
Seems like, well, at most a year ago
when we first walked toward each other,
awkwardly closing the cement gap with wobbly legs.
Sure as hell doesn't feel like four years.

Now we live together
and we're 25 years-old,
merely skimming the surface of potentiality,
meticulously chipping away at the tip of the iceberg.
A subdued smirk sprouts above my chin
because I have seen the ocean floor
and the massive frozen base.
I have seen what we are capable of
and fully intend to capture it,
ensuring we are there to witness it blossom.
Others are free to watch,
for they will always remember the couple
who unleashed what they could not.

Now we live together
and it's easy.
The vinyl is continually spinning
and the art comes in spurts,
always returning moments before you swear it's gone for good.