Too Far

There’s never an excuse for laying it on too thick
unless it’s completely out of necessity, and then
since you have to go for it, you have to push it
all the way or anything else will seem entitled
and reek of insincerity. You have to be so sincere
that it hurts, or your point won’t pierce. But
you’re popping a bubble that was floating along
and made it above the clouds, sailing free and blissful,
never once assuming that it would ever burst
because it didn’t actually know how fragile it was
or that it was simply made of soap.


The mockingbird takes its time in preparation.
It sings its little heart out with borrowed tunes.

Tumult is the only way to describe it.
The burgeoning crisis that resolves itself
if only you can relinquish its pound pound pound.

Where in the world is there a break? Is a break even real?
There’s no stopping the life cycle, there’s no stopping
the turbulent reaches of inner existence.
Where does fancifulness let you off? Will it?
No questions can be answered in two words.

Two words have the floor. Two words take the cake.
Two words steal the bread and feed their family.
Two words fight and scream until they’re black and blue.

How can a sparrow fly for so long? It beats its wings too hard.
Wouldn’t it just be easier to divebomb the pavement?
It must consider that alternative sometimes.

If there are indeed answers, they don’t come often.
They present themselves from a distance, in a sunset.


Flash photography captures
the stingiest faces.
Fluorescent bulbs flicker
in tired corneas.
The dirt needs a friend.

It’s dry.
Institutional, sterile,
narcissistic and lonely.
It’s dry.
Crusty, burnt, shallow,
immediate and sporadic.
It’s dry.
Duchamp, Zappa, Einstein,
frustrated and aware.
It’s dry.

Creation takes time.
The dirt needs a friend.

New Energy

In the recent past I’ve considered myself a bit of a pen aficionado, always on the lookout for the magical utensil that will write and draw the ideal letters and lines every time. Now I believe I’ve found that pen, and it’s cheap enough that I’ll never be long without one (if I ever let my supply run so dangerously low). I dislike dropping brand names, but these pens will float my boat for a long time, so I figure I might as well let folks know (and since this is just a dinky personal blog without serious exposure, I think I won’t have too much of a guilty conscience about it). And considering the amount of time I’ve let this build up, now the pen won’t be nearly as cool as I’ve let on (which is what I was trying to do in the first place). My mystical utensil is nothing more than a Uni-ball Jetstream RT 1.0mm. It’s smooth and consistent and doesn’t smear and writes straight lines and has an excellent hand-feel. There’s really nothing more I could ask for in a pen.

Now that I have that branding drudgery out of the way, I can impart to you just what my life embodies since completing my treasure hunt. I have a unified source for my creativity: a box full of a dozen of these buggers. They’ve been regulated in the market to sell for no more than 3 bucks per pen, and each pen has an identical action and lifespan that regulates my own process.

I will invariably leave pens in several different locations, just so I can remember that each of those locations is a spot where creation happens. I won’t have to worry about which pen I’ll be using that time, because I’ll know exactly what line to expect. This will free me from qualifying my work as a product of different media.

My work has always been pen on paper.

Now my work will always be this pen on paper.

I move forward in a straight line with a single source,
just as a painter finds his brush and oils and canvas.
I’ve always wanted my craft to be simpler than that.
A blank sheet and a sharp ink are as close to perfection as I’ve ever seen.

Thanks for reading.



We each experience our own inner hell
and peace whenever we want to. Those
feline emotions, fickle and furry,
inexplicably adorable yet sharp, clawed.

How have we made it this far? Someone
or something
must really love us.

We take the world with a grin, but shudder
at the notion of a cold slab of stone,
the way others access us; facades.

Emotions hold truth, sure, and feel good