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Apologies for my apologies


Apologies for the mess.

I’m currently working on getting everything situated and put in order.

Thank you for your patience and understanding.

Poetry posts
Short story posts

Book Progress

The Pegasus Fiasco
 
Current Status:Completed
Sojourners
 
Current Status:Final draft editing
Outsiders
 
Current Status:Chapter 18 rough draft
Threadbare
 
Current Status:Chapter two rough draft

Recent Posts

  • Sell

    I take the smallest fragment of a spark
    And then I set it by a lens
    A backdrop made of green so I can filter out the dark
    I magnify it till it seems as if a sun that won’t descend

    Positioning the light before it fades
    I simply take a photograph
    Then alter it in ways to make it show in different shades
    So it’s a loop that ever plays and no one hears the epitaph

    So others, even now, can see it glow
    In ways it never did before
    In patterns that conceal how much was never there to show
    And masquerading what was real as if a mask it merely wore

    The spark, however, died a silent death
    Within cavern hidden well
    But since no one can see the light no longer has a breath
    Nobody knew to even be there when I put it down to rest
    And no one seems all that concerned as long as I still have the photographs to sell

  • Autopilot

    In weaving this, a wonderful mirage,
    I place a veil of lacquer over empty catacombs
    And painting little stars to hide alone where night is blacker
    Than the part of me that knows that, in a way, it’s sabotage
    Because I promise you a winter
    And a sign of “None May Enter”

    But here I have become a mere facade
    An effigy I’m burning in the nights to keep me warm
    And stifle any need I have to mourn for what I’m earning
    Where the centipedes are crawling in the veins of dying gods
    And I am just so very tired
    Of the darkness that I’m mired

    In hearing you, a siren in the fog,
    My heart a steady rhythm made of dread I’ll have to drink
    My hands are on the brink of reuniting with the prison
    That I fashioned of impressions of forgotten dialogue
    Because I knew what I was saying
    When I chose the path betraying

    But now there’s only corridors of smoke
    A palace of attrition made of people that I lost
    Where windows in the summer wear their frost like an admission
    For within, it’s always winter
    And my eyes see only violet
    While I move without a reason
    Navigating through the fog on autopilot

  • The Pegasus Fiasco

    So, I finally got around to releasing a book of poetry.

    I mean, I got it sorted out back in February but I’m not exactly loud about these kind of things.

    It’s called “The Pegasus Fiasco”

    You can click on the picture of the book to get to the purchase link or just click HERE

    It’s a book of rhyming poetry. There are 314 poems. Anyway…that’s really all I have to say about that.

    All the works I have in published form can also be found under the “Books” link on my home page.

    Side note: I’m about 60k words into “Outcasts” – book two of The Solar Cycle – and once I get that wrapped up, I’ll probably officially release book one “Sojourners”.

    My book progress is also viewable on my home page (I have progress meters for the things I’m working on).

  • Obsolescent

    All that I remember is the fuse before it lit
    The vivid coloration
    With a sound like an ovation
    And a silhouette of circles at the bottom of a pit
    …swallowing the shards of its creation

    Everything before is just a blur and little more
    A slow reverberation
    Or a glimpse of a location
    And a hollowing sensation slipping slowly through my core
    …vertigo from inverse elevation

    What I seem to see in all the moments that remain
    Are figures, iridescent
    Where the sun is now a crescent
    Hiding low behind a moon that only ever learned to wane
    …living in a cycle acquiescent

    All I see before me is a fuse wearing a spark
    In painted rooms, fluorescent
    With the sound of flies, incessant
    And the words are made of echoes that require no remark
    …at how they used to carry such a weight, however stark,
    Before they slipped away in circles at the bottom of a pit, now obsolescent

  • Crashes

    The problem, I guess,
    Is the fear I confess
    Or the fear that, I guess,
    Isn’t valid unless

    I can measure its weight
    Or define its dimensions
    In lines that are straight
    I can bind and then gate
    And assign to a valid extension

    The problem, I guess,
    Isn’t clearly assessed
    By the fear I suppress
    When I’m clearly a mess

    And I’m digging a grave
    In a desert of ashes
    As if I could save
    Anyone from the wave
    That I cause when the fear that I feel and I crave,
    On the shores of reality, crashes