The Ramble excerpt

Aside from being the Artistic Director for Northography (, I am also slowly amassing words for a three-volume chapbook, THE RAMBLE NOOSE. Its another experiment, an etude in quadraphonic composition. I bought three thinnish moleskeine notebooks, and I have to fill them with a stream of consciousness work. Editing will take place when the last page is dry. Here's an excerpt. More in my journal.

Burt was going to be generous again. Grand Marnier cut bitter with brandy.

Damn that crass clown.

"And who gets off with me being drunk?"Collapse )
Arrested Development

Getting to Write Again

Hey folks, your friendly moderator here.

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So, the goal of getting back into the writing spirit has been a tough one. In case you couldn't tell, I'm not big on holding my own deadlines. In a lot of ways, getting back into the habit of daily writing is a lot like restarting a daily exercise routine or starting one for the first time. Recently, I have been reading that the best way to become interested in a workout routine is to vary the kinds of exercises you do, the basic genres of physicality, alternating weight training with aerobics or calisthenics. I think the same can be applied to writing.

So I am providing you all with a set of prompts, one each for a different type of creative writing. You can post your personal results or not, it'd be appreciated if you did, but, of course, you don't have to. I only ask that you enjoy them. :D

Fiction (any length): This prompt is designed to modify your outlook on character and voice. Your story's character is in an area with a lot of people, be it a mall, a party, a subway, as long as there are people. The goal is to write a story around this character and instead of using other people's opinions of your character, have as many different perspectives from your one character on his/her surroundings. Play with style, play with setting, see how many different ways you can coax a single character into viewing the same set of people and things around him/her.

Creative Nonfiction: Kind of a standard one, but a good one. Scent, as psychologists believe and Old Spice: Red Zone commercials tell us, is the strongest sense tied to memory. The goal is to write an essay or other piece of creative nonfic not based off of the smell, or necessarily the memory that that smell encourages, but how that memory is formed, what it means to you now. You can incorporate the smell or not.

Poetry: This is a painting by Latin American cubist, Wilfredo Lam called Femme Cheval (Horse Woman)

Write a poem!

To be fair, I will do each of these prompts too and post my results, no matter how embarassing or dumb. XD

Happy Writing!
Arrested Development


There are very few things that I downright miss about the college life. Social drinking is one. Sure, drinking utterly by myself is fine and sustainable for a small number of days in a row, but nothing more than distraction. Which is why I on both a connoisseur’s and a drunkard's level enjoy visits by my brother and enabler. Thus, he believes me an alcoholic when the term "hobbyist" would be much better suited. Just so happens that my hobbies include reading, the piano, video games and drinking. MY only addiction is the word, and I am afraid I am no longer even in withdrawal. Which brings me to my most missed aspect of college, an aspect that is not incumbent on being enrolled in as much as a pottery class. That is the degree of prolificacy I exhibited while in college. I am loth to believe that this mass of output is resident solely on existing within the academe especially considering the abundant evidence to the contrary (i.e., how thoroughly maintained was my level of production during summers, although not during winters so much.) So, I am resolving to return to my ways, seeing as I have little better to do anyway.

How can someone so wallowed in unproductiveness bounce back, you say?

It’s not going to be easy and, unfortunately, it will seriously curtail all of my other hobbies save reading. Reading is the hypodermic needle to writing’s injection; they are reliant upon each other for the possibility of success of either.

Another way is to follow this column. It’s being written by a British author I admire if not particularly enjoy her writign. It seems like a good idea and an active way to maintain the bare minimum of routine writing. I love prompts and I think it would be nice if writers, if not believe that we as a race should, love them too and find them invaluable. For you writers that are reading this, I recommend it for you too.

The third is the revitalization of how I view poetry as a tool to explore language, phrasing, syntax, all that nitty-gritty nuts and bolts type of writing that I also believe writers should be active in, if not necessarily through the acrobatic of poetic form. The apparent and senseless abandonment of this conception is probably why my poetry production has also fallen off.

Finally, it is by the daily writing of one fable, the genre-related semiotic implications of which weigh heavily in my style, at least for the interminable time being. They can be long or short, the only requirement that it be a complete fable: conflict in a relatively fantastical context, involvement in some way an animal (speaking or not), and a concluding moral, clear or not.

While I’m not scheduling or requiring of myself any further daily production than this, it will throughout be my goal to write more and more, particularly in the fiction sense. This is convenient as I have a novel to outline and at least three short stories lined up for plotting.

As I plan on posting the results (poetic and fabled and, when appropriate, fictional), it is also my hope that this inspires those of you writers reading this to yourself begin writing with high regularity, if not necessarily daily. Remember every little bit counts; advice, believe me, I administer as much to you as to myself.

So, here’s a fable. Good luck to you if you join me, but also wish me luck, if you will.

A penitent hunter, small hands wracked with cold but filled besides with determination and fading adrenaline pulled the arrow from the game and addressed the stag, prone on the hard ground, the life steaming from him, “Friend,” said the hunter, “there was once a time when I would shy from this shaft. Now I see in your eyes that you are shying from this world into your reward.”
“Friend,” replied the circumspect deer, “the wood of the shaft and the bow shy not from you.”
The hunter penitently watched the deer’s weakening breath steam like the dark pool collecting beneath him, the two alone in the great and silent wood, and each individual tree shook from a wind that troubled their highest branches, the same branches that sheltered the two from the snow. But some flakes made their way through the labyrinthine branches and drifted, at last, to the forest floor, shaken loose from the canopy by the unexpected wind.
The hunter drew the knife while watching all of this happen and sheathed it with a blessing deep into the stag’s neck, releasing him into the wood.
They'll kill ya

Freedom from this fickle fighting world is a hard thing to come by, there are many places to look: a

Freedom from this fickle fighting world is a hard thing to come by, there are many places to look: a bottle a syringe a burning spoon a song a lovers embrace. There're all these places but freedom, not escape, can't be found in any of them. the conlcusion though seems to be in death, but not an unnatural death. Freedom can't be rushed

My eyes are pulsing to rhythm of dwaynes mechanical manufactured drums, its drawing my attention capturing my imagination. Taking from me all of me. Damn him but I love it all the same.

Every time I close my eyes I see sunflowers and poppies nothing else. Just sunflowers and poppies. They aren't moving, there no wind to make them undulate and live. Just the starkness of these two flowers mixed and staring back me. Daring something in me to snap, but what. What do they want to snap: sanity, love, hate, excretion. I don't know what they want

Whiskey and cigarettes seem to be what god gave me to taste heaven, and perhaps welcome me there a little faster. Who knows. Who knows anything. Does anyone know that there is wisdom in knowing nothing. I don't I guess no of us will ever known anything

They'll kill ya

(no subject)

2 cigarettes crushed beneath a rocking chair’s rungs. A couple drags off of a 3rd and clothes fall off. Falling into a semi-cold pool, drift, stair, sluggishly swim till everything feels done. Trudge up the slime wet cold steps, water sliding depressingly off. Finish the 3rd cigarette. Put the shirt, the boxers back on. No point in the shorts. Head on back inside, check through cumputer mush. Anyone send digitized cumfort, feelings, understanding? Nope. Shut down the computer, the lights, the fan, too bad can’t shut off like them, can’t just stop. Meander through the uneasy too natural darkness, up the occasionally creaky steps. Into the bedroom, flick the switch bringing startling maternal artificiality. Pull the string back to the uneasy darkness. Shirt off again, boxers stay on. Slough off onto the bed. Eyes closed, this is the cumforting darkness. Relax alittle to much and eyes slip back open. Affronted by familiar posters, pictured covered walls, the familiar bed-posts, floors, desk, ceiling. All too familiar all to close. Black again, back again, Safe again
They'll kill ya

Small Boy... completed

I was walkin the town
When I saw the dutchmen dead
In the door way of his bar
But All I could think of was
Whether or not they left him his bus fare

Black albatrosses wheel in the sky
As the city buildings beneath breathe death
Every person cowers and prays
Except for a small boy spreading light

I remember walking the field
When I saw a young daughter
Who was covered with
Her fathers blood shadow
It draped across the wailing half of her face

Black albatrosses wheel in the sky
As the city buildings beneath breathe death
Everyone cowers and prays
Except for a small boy spreading light

I was a walkin the street
When I saw a building burning
There was a lady sitting
Who just let the flames eat her skin
As she laughed and laughed and laughed

Black albatrosses wheel in the sky
As the city buildings beneath breathe death
Every person cowers and prays
Except for a small boy spreading light

I remember walkin Johny's line
Except I don't know who I was walkin it for
but I didn't walk it to well
Till I met that one right there

Black albatrosses wheel in the sky
As the city buildings beneath breathe death
Every person cowers and prays
Except for a small boy spreading light

I was walkin the catacombs
When a good friend a mine came up
With terror across his face
His was rantin and ravin about his just recent death

Black albatrosses wheel in the sky
As the city buildings beneath breathe death
Every person cowers and prays
Except for a small boy spreading light

I remember walkin memory
Where held a daytime flashlight
Boy did it do wonders
To what I saw and what I felt
But it didn't matter cuz I left it in the gutter

Black albatrosses wheel in the sky
As the city buildings beneath breathe death
Every person cowers and prays
Except for a small boy spreading light
gorey penguin

(no subject)

Dunno if I posted this before. I was thinking about changing..a lot about it, wanted to see if I got some shared ideas..

Pavel Filonov
Oil on paper

What are you?
City colors somber, a legion
of sovereign cubes gingerly placed
in a juxtaposed vision.

What ancient code
betrays reason
for such seemingly
senseless abstraction?

Each line, in frantic delight,
loses itself in geometric knots
while colors bleed
in this quaking eye.

From nebulous cloud,
the shadow of some
noble beast slips,
exposing a bearded goat.

Is this the reason
for mottled abstraction,
to shroud this beast
in a manic veil?

Or is this assemblage of squares,
an attempt to express
the complexities of being
through a single manifestation of life?

Comments and/or Critique Would Be Greatly Appreciated

Exquisite Corpse—Instructions for a Private Burial

Don’t embalm me, leave off the lipstick,
say your goodbye’s while I’m still soft.
Bury me under a tall oak tree,
no apologies, just as I am,
just like sex, it’s meant to be messy.
If you’ll look, the sun bakes them in piles,
overripe exquisite corpses.
I’ll join in the drone
of thinking swathes
of sweet, tiny bodies
plucked and rolled in like helpless fruits—
Do not lose sleep
I am dirt-food, tree-food
I am presented like a salad bar,
the roots pick and choose,
suck a choice tid-bit
here and there.
I am a part of the bark
for future generations.
Plant me, please
in a wild place,
leave my heart to it’s own devices.
Come back to visit with your grandchildren,
Stop at the trunk to put your ears up close
love me still, and say very little.
  • Current Music
    "Angel From Montgomery," Susan Tedeschi