Monthly Archives: January 2016

The Refund Is I’m Sorry

it’s all the same
the refund is i’m sorry
this turn to boast now, some are time shopping
some are time shopping
capital fail
in it insane, and they’re at it with another of our arms
we are in hell with poverty on cheap wine
poverty is the check product
but they’re on this land, will arrive right on time
well, to a suitable is the fault in charge
to hope you can begin with no charge
begin to accept it
begin to accept it
or rock well, there’s an offer this next very troublesome day
we’ll get drunk, my friend
we will drink to our staff
to our staff
the value is none of it to hell
to hell with you
to hell with all of you

Ice Mutations and Medium Burns

every grain of sand on
an imaginary beach
i’ve ever known feels
so out of reach
so close & yet
so far
once more unto the breach
my shoes are still not too tight to dance

jumping off the cliffs into
a dreamtastic sea
pursued by shadows
dusty rooms
a lonely place to be
to absolute zero
a frozen heartless plea
but my shoes
are still not too tight to dance

an apple split in two
a sharpened knife
a worm inside that wriggles
through all time & space
washed against the tide
& we sing a sad song
far & wide
far & wide
my shoes are still not
too tight to dance

sometimes i’m like the snowman
cold & soft & melting
sometimes i’m like the pyramids
hard & lost to a distant past
sometimes i’m like
a sinking ship
torn sails & broken mast
my shoes
are still
not too tight
to dance

It Takes a Thief

Austin Kleon’s Steal Like an Artist has been a huge influence on me, helping me get past a lot of creative blocks I’d set up for myself long, long ago and then hit my head against ever since. But after reading this post quoting David Bowie, I had one of those flashes of insight that feels like the walls of the house in your head are being blown apart, an explosion of clarity.

Why do I have such a difficult time coming up with plots for stories? I’ve long said it’s because it’s just hard for me to come up with plots, but what I meant was that it’s hard for me to come up with original plots, rather than copying the plots of other people’s stories. Why do I have such a difficult time creating characters? Because it’s hard for me to come up with original characters that aren’t clearly other people’s characters with the serial numbers (barely) filed off. Why can I be zipping along with my writing and suddenly slam into a barricade of “what words do I use next? OMG I CANNOT WORD AT ALL!”? Do I really have the oh-so-dreaded Writer’s Block? No, I’m just afraid of using other people’s words instead of being original.

When I was a little kid, I was so much more un-self-conscious about my creativity, and I cheerfully stole from everything that excited and inspired me. I traced comic books, renaming the characters and rewriting the dialogue. I stole characters, situations, and plots wholesale from comics, novels, movies, and TV shows, and I didn’t care, didn’t even think twice about it. And nobody told me I shouldn’t do that…until I got older, to that age when society starts hammering into you that stealing is bad and originality is good. (It’s the same age when society starts telling you that art is something only special people do, not something anyone and everyone can do.)

It’s monstrously stupid and a big, fat lie. But it’s a lie that is very powerful in our society’s narrative about creativity, and even after reading Steal Like an Artist, it’s been hard for me to truly see that narrative embedded within myself and break free from it. (more…)


it’s always like this
molly cat-eyes
faerie queene
pops through time & back into life
language to describe us
entangled in artpunk
& we know each other still
mystery strings sneaking past the moon
pennywhistle silly
& nevermind the cloak of murderous desire

strolling through the falling stars
an aftermath
smooth as honey
clueless as sand
drawn together by the thin white duke & his glass spiders
& from the moon we look
unbound by that spin
more magical than anyone truly deserves

maybe it’s we that connects us awkward teens
chancing after dusty windows
how we arrived here with all these years
these fleeting golden years
pain we don’t talk as the labyrinth
down in the underground of dreams
waving back when we were
a connection so strong
binding through time then
but there was of youth
when we knew each still conversation
slips & dances

no back
back in the bright-tiled day
all our magic is
we never a painted clown
& a puckish entangled in black
& pretty in mars
“do you consider yourself openminded?”

Gods With Vanilla

not a hoax!
not an imaginary story!
this is the real reality
the world
at its finest!
the worm

biting its own tail
around & around
we go
melting like butter
intelligent alloys

this is a hell of a world
so let’s go!
our sentient satellite hq
is waiting

for us to begin saving
the world
in a jam
of infrasonic panchromatic transvisible
ambient ultradreaming

this phony phantasmagoria
as shadows of falling bombs
paralyze us
& yet
this is

not a hoax!
not an imaginary story!
we’re here
& we’re here to go!