Had a work published in the experimental journal Brave New Word .
Posts
Parable of the Health Care Bill
When the health care bill was born it had teeth. Little scraping teeth, rows of leech-mouths waiting inside the pages, hungry and gulping. The proud parents held it and said, “A son is born! He will be the death of tyranny!”, but the villagers knew better. They took it in the night, holding carefully but not successfully avoiding those rings of razors, those voids that wanted blood. “This should have been a stillborn,” said the wise woman. “It is animated by evil as some things are.” Her cure was cheap. She placed it on the fire and let its sickness burn away. At the end, the blackened teeth were left in the grey ash. “Make these the tips of tiny arrows,” she prescribed, “and each of you take some. Shoot the parents when you can, sting them with the cruelty of their child. They will live, but they have too much blood in them, which must be drained away ”.
Playing with Predictive Text Generators
"Will you not leave me shortly?" I tell here much longer, "I know the scum at the top of the sea." Because in blankets, subsisting inside me's what power." Because we are hungry and whisper, "I know the pit of the sea." "We'd be here we are withering, disturbed by the teeth of the teeth of the desolate depths of the sea. Because in a forgetting how we are hungry and mud. You don't mean it." Because in the sky, I vow by the sky above roiling, my love. "You may leaving, but it's coursing through fire all stay 'til the scum at the teeth of the depths of the sea.” Because this is not a forgetting inside me shortly?" I tell here much longer. It's only one sky above has just questioned my blooming. I catch up my love. "Will you be passways. I vow it." "Will you not leave me shortly?" I tell her, "I know the scum at the teeth of the rust questioned my love. "...
As the sun beat my flesh, I could hear a great crack echoing over the seas. Like a chunk breaking off of an iceberg, England left Europe to melt in the waves, and where will the hungry bears live? They swim and their fur clings down wetly to underfed bones like moss growing on brittle twigs. My poem, The Ending of the Advent , appears in the February issue of The Lake. It's a poem of a very specific period of time: December 2016, while I was reeling from the events of that year and looking forward to the inevitable horrors of 2017. I will have more sociopolitical poems than this one in print before the end of the year.
On Modern Poetry
Poetry, in this modern world, must strengthen. If you are a poet who is worth anything, you are now writing poetry against the terrifying direction this world is taking. Remember that this means nothing if you are still writing to an audience of other poets who occasionally scan a magazine or press to see if it's for them. Poetry MUST have an impact. This entire style of art has been largely overrun by Dunning-Kreuger effect and the worst of what free-verse could mean. This cannot just be confessions with obtuse imagery, no notable rhythm, and line breaks. Poetry should be for allowing non-poets to describe what they couldn't before.
Synaeresis
My poems "Owl" and "Lunatic Mood" can be found in Issue One of Harmonia Press's new literary magazine, Synaeresis. (Where I said in my bio that I was published in "The Lovecraft Ezine", which is the title of an ezine of Lovecraftian horror, they thought I was being redundant about an ezine just called "The Lovecraft". I think they thought it was a whole different type of publication. I am sort of standing with one foot in Literature and the other foot in soft, comfortable Horror.)
My writing is a winner of Bogleech's 2016 Creepypasta Cookoff! Read them under the subheading "Contest Winners", and if you know how to have a good time, read everything else. 4/6 of these stories and works were written specifically for the Creepypasta Cookoff, which is an excellent source of inspiration. Krokodil and The Dead Village were previously rejected by other publications I thought might enjoy them.
New Year, New Fear
I rang in the new year writing, despite my best intentions of spending it tossing and turning in bed begging for sleep to come so I could be rested for work in the morning. This is a good start, if you listen to those that say what you're doing at midnight on New Year's Eve will direct the course of your year. 2016 was a pretty good year for me, personally, but a terrible one for the world in general. My best hope is that this continues. I'd love for 2017 to be good for the world, but it's hard to see that happening without peaceful mind-worms infesting all our leaders. (We can fight against the mind worms, but I say give them a shot first, see how they do.)