And so the men of wood, stone, and steel, after a day in the rain, return to their homes made of plastic.

But my home, O, my home, is made of wax, dripping golden hands down wooded floors, fragrant with the power of Pine-Sol, baby. The floor’s boughs way heavy with the scars of wolves at play, joy bleeding from their wounds like paper cuts from an old spell book. Spells of dancing, spells of laughter; spells of worry, spells of despair. So much doubt… But despair no more, child, for we have scriptures ripe to replace yours! Vibrate through the echoes of our fathers, and swear upon the oak mantle that you are descendant. Soak your tongue on the ashes of our stone heroes, burned to a crisp by the dragons they sought to slay. Join their side on that oak mantle as you chase your very own damsel in distress and don’t stress the distress you press against the corridor walls of your heart and please in part ignore the stars that dart through your eyelids cuz those celestial masterpieces were not made for you. Do not love the dragon that stole your damsel; that love is not made for you. Burn your wick on the oak mantle here in your home of wax, made just for you.

burn bright

burn bright




Long story: I wrote this while listening to Bon Iver’s “Holocene,” of which provoked an overwhelming sense of fear. My heart raced out of my mouth and something flashed before my eyes that appeared to be a road coated in the vibrancy of night. This isn’t a new thing for me, simply a symptom of my self-obsession. Or just obsession; the subject doesn’t matter. {the following statements may contain each of the following: incoherence, confusion, redundancy, hypocrisy, redundancy, redundancy, overuse of punctuation/parentheses/slashes, and/or pitiful attempts at comedy. You have been warned} The point is that I have no point; I’m tired of saying “I” all the time; I need something more than “I.” It’s these kinds of thoughts that haunt me in a vicious cycle, 24/7 (well, my vivid dreams give me a break… I think). I’m losing focus (again) for this visceral moment as I descend back down into the clouds around my toes, so I (again… Maybe?) will say that my confusion may be confusing, but this moment of clarity (of which is clearing out like a man who accidentally walked into a dyke bar due to the purposely wrong directions given by his cheeky bugger of a friend) is true. So what’s true to you?

Short story: fuck.

Lying Tigers Run Bare– Oh My!


One year ago today, I was… a Testicle. Now before you crucify me for living as such an abomination, allow me to explain my ascent to enlightenment and how the approving Native American is involved.

‘Twas a dark and stormy night, and all the Arizonans were tucked in there beds all tight. Mexicans in Twinkie trucks crossed the border, and IHOP was still open for your midnight order.

A lonely owl hooted a broken tune (it had enough rat in its throat to clog a bassoon) while crackheads shared a trash-can feast with a not-too-rabid raccoon.

Well I don’t give two shits about immigrants, owls, bassoons, or even raccoons, cuz I live in North Carolina. So why am I telling you a story about Arizona? Because that is the very place my blind stereotyped mind pictures a Native American reservation to be.
So why all this nitty-gritty depressing imagery? And why am I asking you questions, when I’m going to answer them myself anyway?

Well that’s because everyone likes IHOP. Especially a wandering Native American who has decided to leave the fenced-in reservation because all the close-minded Testicles (a “Testicle” is any one person who wishes to be a lump in a sack of flesh that hangs beneath a human male’s genitals and then proceeds to be a total asshole in life) have been getting him down and he just needs to escape before the madness of being trapped consumes him entirely and the only thing that lifts his dwindling spirits from falling into a void of evils forbidden that I promised that I will NEVER DO–

Is an IHOP. Open at midnight, as always. Its bountiful supply of nocturnal pancakes are enough to cheer up the poor Native American, and that’s all he needs to approve of you.

So give me some pancakes.

Free, True, Love, bby.

The UberSandwich

First:  a slice of bread*, caked in Nutella.  Toasted.

Second:  banana slices, just ripe enough.

Third:  strawberry jam, mixed with blackberries.

Fourth:  another slice of bread, caked in Nutella.  NOT toasted.

Fifth:  any leftover candy from Halloween I can cram together and melt down into a steamy, pulsing spread of processed delicacy.

Sixth:  twelve slices of capicola (cured in sweaty basements of a Sicilian home for eleven years, three months, and seven days)twenty eight strips of the finest pig and buffalo bacon, still sizzling.

Seventh:  a final slice of bread*–smothered, not caked, in Nutella.  Toasted.


If there is anything that you would like to add to the UberSandwich, please specify in this post’s comment section.  Thank you.Image

*Can be (and should be) replaced by any kind of bagel–ANY KIND.  Preferably cinnamon.