Stretch a Dime Over a Bucket

Stretch a Dime Over a Bucket

It's awkward really; sitting

in the passenger seat and

riding on back-roads

that connect to back-roads.

Pest control hasn't changed. It

still hangs there against the murky

wooden poll, stapled flimsily

against the moist and rotting

bark. One wonders if anyone

ever notices, but bare trees have

always left a few in awe amongst

fields kept greener than spring.

My hands can only hold a

handful, and there's only a

handful of problems that

can be shelved

into a bucketful of quarters.

The shimmer always dims

before the dreams start to

overflow. They fill boxes—

so much dust in such a small

space, and the rent is due tomorrow.

Give a dime to hold it off.

Though a dime is never

enough, it is still something

when never enough is all there

is to give. It'll grow into

a quarter one day—how the

dreams brush the grass before

the morning. The tips of

their fingers only feel like

fire as they nurture the earth. It

only keeps the nightmares away. 

Updates and Announcements

THE BOOK! Well it’s official, the collection has been released and is available on Lulu press. For a physical copy of the book it’ll cost $13+shipping. Doing some research I’ve realized that online markets price their stuff cheaper than physical markets, and so I am following with them. The E-book version will be slightly cheaper, $9 to be exact. In which you will receive a PDF file of the book.

To order a physical copy of the book, it can be found at this link:http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/byzantium-last-rights-to-nowhere/18835191

If you want the E-book, you’ll have to send me a note, message on Tumblr, Twitter, etc. Once I get a note of your order, I’ll give you my paypal which is where you’ll send the payment too. I will send the order to the email address you use as your paypal. If you would like the file emailed to a different email that is not the one you use for your paypal, please specify that in your message, along with a username so I know who it is.

I cannot thank Narf and Phosphorous_Tick enough for being a part of this little project. Their contributions are an amazing help =]

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I’m writing a new book, well not alone. I’m writing it with :icondarkninjabunny: We’ve decided to call this book 101 Ways to Fuck Up your Children. We hope to finish it by December.

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I’ve been looking into actual indie publishing such as Write bloody. I’ve decided on submitting some work that I’ve been working on for some time. My goal is to at least see how far I get the first time around since it takes 2 rounds of submissions, one round being 3 poems only, the second round being 40 poems. It’s going to interesting to showcase some work I’ve been revising for a while.

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn

Too Many Cigarettes to Burn

Some days, I dream too much. And

though sleep is good for the soul,

the heart collects dust as it

pulsates on the ground against

the earth of your skin. Let your

fingers touch it lightly as if God were

creating Adam all over again—make it

feel holy! Content is not enough, it

wants to be alive, but the heart has

burned one too many cigarettes to

dream about the regret.

There are days where it

moans and bitches about the cold

but our feet only feel the sizzling

of the asphalt, knowing that it was no

hotter than it was yesterday. There

is so much dirt around it, growing

fierce with the grass and staring at

the sky’s belly, how it stretches for miles.

I wrote about the scars one day—they

were always like snow, disappearing

after the warm winters had set in. Those

cigarettes keep coming back, and it just takes

one more hit for the holiness to leave again. Sorrow

was never its anthem, but neither was Amazing Grace,

though when grace did come to comfort she left more

than a burning dove at the door step. The heart

has never earned the right to regret anything in its

life, nor even the right to sorrow. And Grace, the

heart only has a few visitation rights.

Grace came to visit, soothed it the

best she could before she left again. She

mixed words with songs, brought life back

again. Andas she vanished back into the soil, she left

on the doorstep another cigarette to burn out. 

Byzantium: The Last Rights of Nowhere

Sometime soon, most likely on or before January 30^th, 2012, I will be releasing a collection of my work. It will be available in Hard Copy (paperback really) format, and hopefully E-book fomat. However, this collection will not just feature my work, well written work yes. It will also be featuring the artwork of two other artists:

Narf1070

and

Phosphorous_Tick aka S.Smiley

these two artists were kind enough to provide some artwork for the collection. I can not thank them enough. Their work is always amazing, both of them, and it is an honor to present their work. I'm really excited too, the artwork is looking fantastic!

This collection will feature a majority of my work: Poetry, Short Stories, Prose Poetry, Flash fiction, and as a bonus, a WIP of my NaNoWriMo product which is still being worked on here and there. Which all nears to roughly 100 pages, it's not exact, but somethings are still being worked on and it's getting close to that amount.

PRICING! This is tough and I know people are on budgets. Unfortunately manuafacturing costs are not always cheap, however I can guarantee that the price will not be going over $15. I'm thinking roughly $12 to cover manufacturing costs and to make sure everyone is getting their share from this ^^ This will most likely be the same for the e-book edition if I can manage that edition. Manufacturing costs don't really apply here but Barnes N Noble and Kindle stores do take their fees.

I will be posting a journal, updating twitter, tumblr, facebook, blogspot, wordpress, practically everything I can update when the book is released.  

An Earth Too Distant.

An Earth Too Distant.

I wondered how I looked today.

Standing at the mirror wondering

if it'll ease over the cracked

asphalt, but grace never enjoyed

my company. Maybe I hitched a

mile too many. She could never

stand a person without a single

tear to hold.

There are days where I just

stare out at the window, waiting

for her to tap me on my shoulder

this fire that's been sitting there. But

the heat is still there, and it's got a

lot of skin to burn before it leaves.

Water can only go so far, and

there's no help for what's

been charred. There's only

a moment of relief because it

takes grace to soothe it over

with her touch, if she cared to give it.

I've written enough manifestos

to know that the soul is not so

easily cooled away with sleep. The

words I'm Sorry only go so far

against the fire before it starts

to trudge again.

Drowning has never become me,

nor will it ever no matter how

close I get to it. The song I look

for, always look for, just landed

at an earth far too distant for my reach.

Maybe one day my fingers

will stretch over its dirt, and

allow its wind to calm

the anthem I brought with me,

so I can say that I love you.  

Sunday Never Forgave Me

Sunday Never Forgave me

The holiness of myself never was…

How I’d love to drown
in the whiskey of my
sorrows like the rest
of the damn world, but
the truth is, I never was
entitled to sorrow.

There are only so many
Psalms which my feet can
walk on. My soles can only
feel so much amazing
grace before it disappears
and as I look to God. Really
look to God, I realize such
a person never existed.

The sun rose again today, an
anthem in the sky. My dreams
sing their own songs — the
clash never was beautiful.

I came back down to earth
for a bit, the whisper inside
its own fury soothed the
aches of my muscles. December’s
ice had never felt so warm to me before…

I don’t talk to God anymore. I laid
that book to rest an eternity ago. I
watch the echoes vanish at the shore. Their
moans could wake a soul from the cemetery
if they so pleased. Their cries never
leave the crisp edge of the tongue, how
they only want to be remembered and
we do remember them! Silently.

It took me years to realize
that I was a devil. But a devil
needs love too, and I am loved.

The holiness of myself never was, and
though we all carry our troubles…I, this
devil, was never entitled to them.

The Sleep God Dreams of on His Smoke Break

The Sleep God Dreams of On His  Smoke Break

Hello, I love you
Won’t you tell me your name


I’m good for nothing
Would you love me just the same?


--The Dresden Dolls, The Perfect Fit

We all need a little sleep,
a little time to listen to
the songs in our own Woodstock.

Just let the guitar burn for a moment,
it’ll be alive in the morning, much
like we will be alive when we wake.

There have been days where
I never wanted to wake—where
I never wanted to lift my eyelids
and breathe for a moment. How
long could I make that guitar burn?

You can only shuffle on the cliff
for so long until the edge grasps
your hips and pulls you away
from the music, and I have seen
too many prayers to a god lost
in the gold-lined pages below.

How they moved with the rhythm
of a gasmask revival, fumes for
flames amongst a spasmodic
body of people. Their voices
were so hypnotic before their
guitar vanished—added to
the palms of verses below.

How long til I am able to
set the strings on fire
again? My ears beg
to hear its dissonance again.

Just Two Hitchhikers

Just Two Hitchhikers Against the Smoke

We’re blind pilots, you and I,

living while others eat

a shrimp cocktail and smoke

their next cigarette—their ears

could never hear past the snow.

We’ve been walkin’ a long—

long time, and I can feel that

it’s just gonna get longer, but

filling these cracks over time,

to see that smile dance across

teeth, cools the aches of myself.

Our feet navigate through smeared

leaves left out to dry under

nature’s kerosene lamp. We

could never hear their rustling

voice their protest, but loose

change is never vigilant. It

is only at the edge, and returns

every year to someone’s house,

someone’s pocket. We never

go without a crumbling

penny from the tree.

Let’s travel a bit more, find

our own hole away from

the whiskey mornings of

these faces in this crowd. I’ll

stick out my thumb, and

hitch a ride so that we can

get lost, and be alive.

Alive and on Fire

Alive and on Fire

we lay on leaves smeared across an earth-soaked canvas

      ochre clinging to a riotous threshold as you take my hand

light the kerosene, for the morning has never felt so alive

a front porch in a distant avalanche

a front porch in a distant avalanche

let us walk beyond the sun

get a little water on the grass

as our feet splash through the sky

we never once looked back at our shadows

leaning on mountains

creating avalanches in this new world

but it was never really new

only an alternate world

a dream that was once a truth

how it missed the glass breaking against the clouds

and as loud as its voice could be heard

we still stood inside a quiet dream