On August 19, 2016 I was driving around aimlessly — something I never do. It was Friday, I hadn’t slept the night before, I was restless, so I cancelled my plans and meetings for the day, and waited. For a few red minutes I considered going to the bubble tea spot on Hawthorne in Portland …
The quiet of this cyber space should not be confused for an absence of activity. I’ve been working, working, working on a stand-alone novel that includes some of the characters you might already know. It’s an exorcism (or maybe an announcement?) of the ghosts that have been trailing me, as more and more important faces …
How can I say this? There are many people posting things right now that offer insight as to how to talk someone out of suicide, largely in response to Robin William’s death. There are links to lists that outline preventative measures to intercept a suicide before it happens. These lists often assume that suicide is …
A while back I was contacted by Bob Priest, guru of Portland’s annual March Music Moderne Festival. Turns out he’s a fan of Psychopomp Volume One, and was wondering if I was interested in participating in the fest. His idea was to have me pen something of an introduction for a night dedicated to Lou …
The Discomfort Zone: Metal Machine Music, March Music Moderne IV Read More »
Headlines are murder to my eyes. Today’s reading allowed me to learn than the top 1% of the country now controls 40% of the America’s wealth — the highest percentage since 1927. These people send peasants in RVs to Burning Man ahead of them to establish elaborate camps they can parachute into, wearing the standard …
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 …
You’re done for. There’s one thing, then another, and there’s nothing after that. What does that mean? A cleverly concealed pocket-knife could wiggle me away from a railroad tie-down, and suddenly my sour mid-life expiration could alter to paper-skin ancient, eyes pearled and body bent to occupy chairs that wheel and rock. Or maybe future-me …
2:36AM Two crows on the fence, waiting. They tell me: Listen. I do. Listen harder. Am I dreaming? No. Perfect. Listen. Fine. Triple-lock the door. I peak through the blinds. Two crows on the fence. Still waiting. Caw. Do humans turn crow as purgatory, trapped observing the living with their kind-of-a-funny-stories and toddlers tied to …