A disc of a childhood favorite movie, press play

Clarity breaks through fuzz only for a moment

Fond memories relived when smiles were

more than a meaningless response

Single frames repeat in a loop

Press play again in vain

Sentences cut short

Frames repeating

Sk-ski-skipping along the same scene

over and over and over and over

I want to see the next scene

To see the story progress

But it just keeps on


over the same


What Were You Expecting?

The driver’s side window of my old four door sedan stopped working recently and is stuck permanently rolled all the way down with no buffer from outside forces.

It’s been raining frequently this afternoon in infrequent intervals. Those downpours that occur when the sun is shining brightly and there is nary a cloud in the sky, the kind of rain that I can’t help but feel is a socially acceptable glitch in The Matrix.

I was returning home from a place that doesn’t matter, stopped at a red light, when I heard a voice calling out to me over the rain drops.

“Hey buddy! Hey buddy! Buddy buddy buddy buuddyyyy!” I instinctively gritted my teeth and looked over at a sharp midnight Tesla Model X, the tinted passenger window rolled down, and an unnecessary face poking his head out of it. “It’s raining, man! You and your car are getting all wet! Be careful, buddy!” The view of his floating head faded out of view behind a veil of darkened glass and I turn back to whatever thought was occupying my headspace previous to the interruption. And then

I unbuttoned my shirt and dug my nails into my chest, snatching off a large patch of skin and attached it to the interior of the window with the nailgun I handily keep in the glove compartment for such a situation. The skin’s break from the body was clean and smooth and not a drop of blood splattered anywhere. The compartment in the backseat that leads to the trunk popped open and a world famous surgeon crawled out in scrubs and surgical mask and his assistant followed suit, carrying a satchel of surgical tools and sanitizing equipment; and the surgeon started a skin transplant over the exposed muscle and bone, popping enough codeine and muscle relaxers in my mouth that his scalpel work felt like tickles and left me conscious enough to continue driving once the light turned green. I heard the sound of wind chimes over my shoulder and a cartel of purple poverty fairies placed a large bundle of rolled up $100 bills on my lap and kissed my nose before once again evaporating into thin air.

Sunshine peered in through my stretched skin, bright enough to make it translucent. I waved at the Tesla passenger and mouthed a silent “Thank You” and he gave me a thumbs up.

Jealousy Can Be Healthy

thats my theory, anyway.

Ever read a book by an author that seemed to express feelings in ways that you never knew were possible to say so (seemingly) easily and made you feel emotions that you didn’t even know were possible? Or heard a piece of music that made you astral project out of your physical form, out into the stratosphere and could feel clouds slip through your fingers as you flew past?  Or played a video game so immersive that you can’t possibly comprehend that you’ve actually spent as many hours in it that the screen says you have as you save your progress before taking a piss break?

The creators of those kinds of works…fuck them. Seriously, those assholes can go fuck themselves with a Hepatitis infected tree branch whittled with a carving knife by an ISIS kamikaze bomber in the bathroom of a suburban elementary school. I say that with love, of course.

For if folks didn’t feel this way, art would cease to exist. No one would be inspired and no one would be under the influence.

Everything comes from something. The next Big Idea will inspired by something, the same way cavemen were inspired to create a mini fire source, like the flaming orb they saw in the sky. Or the way a young boy will aspire to grow up and harm millions of people the way his presidential father did. It’s a beautiful cycle that will never end and, hopefully, never will.

Nothing is wholly original. Everything has already been done, even if nobody’s seen it before. But that doesn’t make it any less significant.

There are authors and artists I look up to and will probably surpass some day but it will never be me who comes to that conclusion. Some lone kid will come across something I’ve created and go, “Oh my god, this guy is brilliant. Fucking asshole.” Meanwhile I’ll be ignoring whatever accolades come my way and reading a novel from 30 years before I was born, saying the same thing.

Comparison will kill you, this is true, but having nothing to compare yourself with is death itself. 

So fuck everyone who is far more talented than I will ever be. I hate you and I hope you live long and prosper.

Dragon-Faced Fairy Takes A Cigarette Break

I have been bullied

I have been the bully

I have watched bridges I’ve crossed burn 

I have, at times, held the matches and gasoline 

I have lived many lives 

I have died many a time

I have been lost in Heaven

I have found comfort in Hell

I have drowned in puddles

I have swam across oceans 

I have envisioned The Conclusion

I have not yet written The Climax

And The Beginning is somewhere back there, in a place

I have long forgotten 

The End Is The Beginning

It’s a strange phenomenon when your parents stop being your parents and are just other people.  People, that in the past, had every reason to do with why you are here now, wiped your bottom, fed you milk that you can’t remember the taste of (and don’t want to), and dictated nearly every aspect of your life. Then… you get older and reach an age that your parents may look back at in relation with themselves and hash out fond memories that they had at your age. Offer advice that seems to have no relevance to modern times, what you should do and should be doing.

What they’ve always done, if your paternal parents had an active part in your life. But it’s different now. Instead of a parent/child relationship dynamic, now it’s two/three seperate adults with their own ideology and worldview, who thinks the other is misguided.

In this moment-if you’re like me-you’ll start thinking about how your parents have lived an entire life before you’ve ever existed, perhaps, as long as you’ve been alive up to this point. And then start to think about how short your life actually has been, even though your life is the longest running condition you’ll ever know and physically possess. Perhaps start contemplating the scope of The Universe and your place in it. And realize that not only are you a mere dust speck in the Sahara but you haven’t even been around long enough to know how enormous the Sahara is.

And it is at this realization that we, you and I, part ways in this path of thought as you will have time to consider these ramifications and I will be already gone off into some other dimension that has yet to be defined in scientific terms. I don’t say this with any pretense, mind you. It’s just that I’m writing this post now and when the post comes to an end, so will this train of thought.

Oh, how I can feel it derailing already as my original point has already been somewhat forgotten.

“You know that it’s entirely possible to not finish this post and come back to finish it once it’s fully realized.” 

Shut up, Me. What could you possibly know? You from three minutes ago couldn’t possibly comprehend what I know here in the present. You’re just another dust grain floating in the wind to nowhere special. And I’m somewhere different. Not presently yet but in the near future, once this post ends.

Yes, this train of thought isn’t going anywhere I recognize and it makes me uncomfortable. So I’ll get off and go somewhere else. Just as soon as this post e-


Got no use for Nice Days

I’ve had my fill 

Have no desire to See You Later

For the future holds no thrill 

Got no use in pulling myself up by the bootstraps 

The soles peeled apart long ago

Have no use for hollow words to bridge the gaps 

You don’t care how I’ve been and vice versa 

Got no use in holding on

Have no forward inertia