Saturday, June 18, 2011


There was once one man, who believed in the rain and only the rain. He sat on his front porch with a harmonica and played sad songs. The gray clouds rolled in, and the tunes would slowly turn to a major key.

Slow drizzles came from the sky, beating on his tin roof like a million chirping crickets. And in those moments, he was happy. But only in those moments.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Haiku? Haiku!

Best Breakfast: A Haiku

Those bright, certain eyes,
sit upon that crisp grin. I
love bacon and eggs!


Sunday, December 5, 2010

Those Damned Boys (to be continued)

There was only one house in St. Juiet, Tennessee where you could find people outside barbecuing in the start of winter, without their shirts on. This was at the Goodwill brothers’ house. All six brothers stood outside, goose bumps dotting their skin, with beers in their hand, except for the oldest. He drank whiskey. From oldest to youngest, their names were: Daniel, Adam, Matthew, Nathan, Ethan, and David.
Phoebe Goodwill was washing the dishes sixteen days after David’s second birthday when she realized her error, as if she had pricked her forefinger on the point of a knife. Two days later, at a neighbor’s dinner party she found out that the town referred to her six kids as the “damned boys” instead of the “Goodwill boys”.
Since birth, they’ve been inseparable. From youngest to oldest there was a ten year difference, but this mattered none to all of them. At 18, David moved out of the home he had grown up in to live with his brothers. And that winter, there they stood, 19, 21, 23, 24, 28, 29, craving burgers and hot dogs, Matthew manning the grill.
“All right, Boys. Let’s try’n be civilized tonight and set the table instead of eatin’ in front of the TV again. Matt, holler when you need a hand,” Adam said after giving the proper laughter to one of Daniel’s stories.
“Thought I was the older brother?” Daniel asked, taking a sip from his whiskey.
“Yeah right. We all always knew Adam was the leader of this pack,” answered David, earning himself a shove as they all laughed, making their way in the house. Nathan stayed behind.
“I’ll wait out here with Matt, bring in the food when it’s ready. Shouldn’t be long, should it?” he said
“Nah. You can wait,” Matthew answered.
“All right, then. See you guys inside,” Daniel said.
Nathan walked up next to Matt, staring down at the sizzling burgers as he took a long swig from his beer.
“What’s up Nate?” Matthew asked.
“Nothin’ my ass. You’ve been quiet all day.”
“Just a bit cold.”
“All right. I’ll leave it.”
Nathan took a look around the small yard. He noticed the house was too small for six guys to be living in, but it was exactly how they wanted it. The fact that there was no privacy was never an issue for him, and it was never an issue for any of the brothers. Hearing Matthew whoop brought his attention back to the present.
“Wendy Adams! Back from the dead. How you doin’, Girl? Haven’t seen you around here for a month now,” Matthew yelled, laughing at his own comment.
“I’m doin’ fine. Been busy and all, you know how it is. Where’s your brother?”
“Oh, so y’all are still together? I wasn’t sure with your extended absence. He’s inside settin’ the table with the other guys.”
“All right.”
“You want somethin’ to eat? I could throw another dog or burger on.”
“Nah, I’m fine.”
“All right, then.”
“I’ll see you inside. Hey Nathan.”
“Hi,” Nathan answered. Wendy went inside.
“Fuck. Who invited her here?” Nathan asked, feeling more cold than before, bouncing up and down to get warm.
“What do you mean? She’s always invited. She’s Daniel’s girlfriend.”
“Yeah, but…she hasn’t been here in a while.”
“I don’t know…just seems wrong.”
“I don’t know what you’re gettin’ at Nathan.
“I don’t know either.”
“All right. I’m gonna head inside and get some barbacue sauce to put on these burgers right quick. Be right back.”
Matthew headed inside, leaving Nathan bouncing and staring at the burgers. He took another long swig from his beer as Wendy came back outside.

Saturday, December 4, 2010

StrikeSlip (To be Continued)

Julius walked down the deserted main road of his quaint town with his hood up, as if there were people he had to hide his face from. His eyes moved along the fluorescent signs advertising cheap beer, cheap food, lottery tickets. He then moved down to the innards of these stores, the white lights white washing empty isles. His eyes then moved down to the pavement that moved below his feet, taking in every crack, and in his mind, each and every crack became the roots to a tree, and he’d follow the longest one until it tapered off, before picking up on another root. These roots in the pavement lead him to the only place where he’d find another human body.

He walked through the revolving doors of StrikeSlip. He saw all the blue doors were closed, except two.

“Took you long enough,” a young man said behind the counter, “I’ve been waiting all day for you.”

“Sorry. I had things to work out,” Julius answered.

“Like what? There’s no one out there.”

“People still have bills to pay.”

“That’ll change soon enough.”

Julius took another look down the long corridor, where behind every door he knew there were bodies after bodies reduced to the slip state. He thought back to when the drug was first introduced. He thought about the slogan: Escape. It was all looked down upon. It was served at less than reputable bars in a glass, mixed with gin. Usually taken by the divorced, the dying, and those who had recently lost someone to death. It was for those who couldn’t cope. Who couldn’t move on. Couldn’t look forward. But it spread like a virus until the seedy bars serving StrikeSlip in a glass with gin all uniformly changed their names to StrikeSlip, and made it available to consume intravenously. Now they looked more like celebrity pharmacies than seedy bars with sweat you could wipe from the bar. And towns were deserted. Cities were deserted. The only people who were still conscious were a collection of scientists and doctors. The ones who manufactured StrikeSlip.

“Regular dose?” the young man asked.

“No. Double it. End of the month. I wanna be out for a while.”

“Guess those bills got the better of you.”


The young man took out a vile with a pink liquid inside. He put a sterilized needle into the vile, and drew out the pink liquid to about half of the needles capacity.

“Enjoy your escape.”


Julius walked down the long corridor to the very end, going into the last room and closing the door behind him. He layed down on the cot provided and stared at the pink liquid before he put the needle to his forearm. He injected the liquid into him and closed his eyes, laying on his back, arms at his side. He felt the familiar thin vibration in his bones as the drug struck his core. In slow motion, the humming of the lights in the room began to fade away. In the middle of the back of his eye lids, he could see a white dot that grew in time with the fading sound, until, finally, he heard nothing at the same time as he saw nothing but white. Then he felt nothing at all, slipping into his escape.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Moon Child

Moon Child

I reverberate in an empty room,
no audience to hear my melody,
no one to love my harmony with lonliness.

I fill my glass with reflections of the
I sip slowly,
savoring the cleansing
of my tar filled veins.

The trees become jealous of this orphan,
they once soaked in her light.

Now she saves it for me.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010


I, like many a human before me, am fascinated by the night.

I don't know why, but I'm easily transfixed by a clear night sky.

I was thinking about this love for the night when I came upon a great poem, which then reminded me of a great song. It's a pretty popular poem, but for me it was like going through a chest in the attic and being gratified by sudden elation which is then suddenly washed away by the ever stronger current that is melancholy. I hope you enjoy it, be it your first or fifth reading:

Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieve it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And for the song, it's something I would listen to on drives home in the fall or winter at night, maybe after dropping friends off at home and I was alone in the car.

It also reminds me of one time during a drive down to the beach at night, I was with my friends Justin and Jordan, and the song came on. It was one of those moments where you felt you were looking into the rest of your life, and you think about each and every passing second as hard as you can so as not to let go of it and in doing so, you burn that seven minutes into your memory.

Here that is: