Tourist Seasons

midwestern tourists with white socks pulled halfway up their calves in polo shirts with muted tones. Deep in exchange with drug-addled tokens of lost rave days, negotiating mouthfuls of tentacles. A sentence escapes, directions and change and ten salutations to old mischief and gods lasso’d from plants and sci-fi pages.

Foreign travel informs other language encounters, avoided with translation devices churned active with charades. Just like overseas both parties are nervous, and then someone takes a picture and buys a doughnut.

My eyes on the mother, stout firm and grounded from three children sliced from her body. She won’t offer her tale unless asked, and then it’s all getaway cars and field goals and journals inked thick with secrets. This woman won’t hug like she’s been interrupted. She’ll press her breasts into mine until they grow.

Her male counterpart something else all together, propped around wars and his grandfather’s wars and the job he was supposed to retire from until he didn’t. A camera saluting the labors of silver miners, his hands those of harvest. His wife will graduate to crone without having been abandoned, but if he’s asked who he is he won’t answer.

Meanwhile the ravers recall friends, all dead, who once occupied pants with enough fabric for two and filled dance floors with movements that would better serve some city, before one was left to foam her overdose alone so no sick sort suffered prison. Big city burdens bruising small towns long after notions of illegal dancing.

At twenty it’s not possible to measure the collection of bodies and faces and pick which hand will pull the card of cancer, will avalanche all the way down the mountain with no memory of bodies to cushion them. Image preserved of a cloud kicked up by two cowboys who never knew horses, stamping time in high desert lines while my tent became shelter for lizards. Daytime heat would force our retreat under mushroom canopies, then night resurrected lost thunder. We listened without hearing the warning.

Some went without gravestones in favor of ash recalling dormant volcanoes. Other shells had one autopsy, two, with neither revealing an answer. Others assume phantom forms to warn big eyes away from empty houses. Names and faces preserved through clothing artifacts collected in a bag, honoring a time when tshirts stopped short. Robots and aliens stitched in homage to sounds, silked with sweat and ringed in candy.

If they ask who I am, I won’t answer. A sugar different from the offering of this city, stolen from plants and sci-fi pages.




Ebook now available (and all these other things)

It’s pseudo-summer in Portland, which means sun bursts interrupting our regularly scheduled rainfest. Hooray for pale pallor disruption! Hooray for tacos and margaritas on porches! Hooray for all the things!

The ebook for Psychopomp Volume One has arrived, and is available via the following link land. 

It’s also available from me directly in mobi, epub, or pdf formats at $3.99. Click this button right here and shake all the change from your pockets POST HASTE!n .mobi or pdf format. The cost is the same either way: $3.99.



For those of you who’ve been waiting (im)patiently for me to finish Volume Two: All of Us Are Hiding, I’ve got bright news: I recently received a RACC Professional Development grant to attend the Port Townsend Writer’s Conference in Washington. This conference is unusual, in that it also functions as a retreat without the competitive aspect most retreats implement to make sure participants all have active New York-based book deals and a last name evoking images of liberal intellectualism. The only competition I’m interested in engaging with other writers involves the phrase “demolition derby” and I really wish the AWP would get on that already.

Anyway, for two weeks I’ll occupy a state park and wade through the too many pages of writing completed while building volume two. The location is isolated enough that it’s unlikely that I’ll have a wireless connection, which means less hours wasted wandering around social network sites spying on people I’m attracted to and folks I haven’t seen in decades. When I’m not locked into writing whatnot, I’ll be able to wander around and get my Thoreau on during the most predictably dry month on the year. This and my winning $10 scratch lottery ticket clearly indicate the tide has turned.

If you haven’t read mah book already, this very affordable ebook version should tickle your fancy (and wallet) into immediate action. Feel free to tell everyone standing in that agonizing roller coaster line all about it. Please read the ebook with both feet firmly planted on the floor, after memorizing the security code of your favorite credit card and drinking no less than two cups of coffee. This ebook will not make you a more social person. It will not assist with voting in forthcoming elections. It will not get you out of jury duty. It will not guarantee admission to the college of your choice. It’s unlikely to result in a fruitful job search, a healthy 401K plan, or to resolve any lingering addictions. It’s recommended that you purchase six copies. Upon purchase of the sixth, you’ll be granted short-term access to the invisible seventh level, which will cause everything in your pockets to spontaneously explode. Please empty your pockets to avoid this sort of unfortunate accident.

Happy reading to you all.