Category Archives: Writing
“You feel weak, but I still think
you’re the strongest man I’ve –“
it’s dark and I am sitting in bed,
three attacks in two hours
“You’re the bravest –“Shut up,
shut up. This is no daring here
this is primal survival, walking
in the woods of the city making
sure the cars don’t run me over.
“You can do this, you have me – “
no one is enough to fight this,
just me and the absence, anger
the desperation, and my tears
This is not genetic, there is no curse
tied to the ATCG worth passing on
to a child, in my future, I will hold
scared to death the seizure drops
The fluids show it is not cancer, no
panic then, you are healthy (sort of)
keep true to your smiles no matter
how you hide them, or slip away
Photosensitivity free, lucky for you
there is a light at the end of this
tunnel unlike for the rest, but recall
the absence, when it hits, breaks you
I walk out the building, hood up, monstrous
The homeless of the Tenderloin and I share
a certain shame and resiliency this morning
These streets know not the steps or pattern
of the brain waves hunted by the sensors
married to my head, held in holy bandage
There is no consummation – humiliation,
perhaps — but I want to lay in bed, alone
my head held high in hope of the sign
from on right-brain glitch to nodes,
the heavenly disconnect of my senses
to the tech – one cord, from monitor
to temporal lobe, temporary, lonely
The talismans are wrapped on
a string around my arm, wrist first,
penitent. Why did this happen?
What ties did I break that made
this condition my faith, my body
its sole temple and priest?
To the forearm, and the threads
become tenuous, protective
to the shivers in a blind animism
where all my will would rather
stay with frayed elder strings
than unbound to the seizures
The bicep, where there rests icons
misused saints I used to pray to
but stopped – now, I whisper
small phrases to them as auras
move past the shoulder towards
a flux – divine, wicked, unknown
I will remain the man shaking violently
Even at 90 and the last flicker of light
When my daughter stops calling me
As I see my wife go into the ground
After I see my child’s eye for the first time
Before “I do” leaves my mouth in May
The last time I’m allowed to go to a festival
Tonight, writing this in fear of my future
Despite all the control and safety from pills
There is one maxim to learn, after all these battles
when I have hyperventilated into angel’s trumpets
refusing the touches of careful women saving me
from the midnight fear and morning complications
finally facing complexity, embracing my absence
until my body turns into the predictable maelstrom –
Yes, there is no particular ending to a seizure
The waking up, the consciousness resumes
and we are once again left in this universe
on fire, white hot or slowly burning lethargic
But we will not let the black and blues define
us, we will take the bruises and the pain
as signs that, yes, we are still here, fighting
the ghosts that refuse to let go of our brain
And we will push our bodies, just as they do,
until we become heavenly, orbiting, unlimited,
drifting with hope that we will meet each other
And I will finally remember all of our names
No rest for loud thoughts.
Stay up alone? No, savage
fits destroy my words
Roses and fire that prick
my fingers and arms
Sight is a luxury slipping
into my ruin on repeat
The ashes, I will not let
them choke me down
It does not have the right
to leave me here, alone
And nobody truly aware
that I am hurting inside,
dragged into a spiral
of thorns and flames
I feel but cannot see
Let’s go far away where the shivers won’t scare me,
my body reacts at the contact from phantom winds
I want to see the bay and the dark sky, the stolen
mix of highways and comfort in masking absence
This may be the only road I see out of this trip
where my world is lost when lights become auras
Triggers create threats, a stream of scattered havoc
springing out from the ether and breaks of emptiness
Triggers bring flames and flames on the walls my hands
are banging against – no burns, only wide-eyed fear
Triggers create memories, displays and a pageant
of frenzies I portray in front of you, my dear
Triggers sit tight, for they live inside and around me
watching for a time and place to grab my hands
There you are, taking off your dress, a smile
slight yet bit-lip enough it washes cautions
held every time you saw me fall into space
and caressed me in the post-seizure haze
This is the moment I hold you down, hard
onto the sheets and say “Fuck the fear.”
I have touched you there before and loved it
My thoughts, I shut down with a tongue –
a flurry of strokes and moans and I am free
But, in the sex and switched postions It returns.
The damn thing was hidden between the thrusts
and the command “Keep going, don’t stop,”
I follow the wrong gypsy, the cursed one
who puts her spell on me, the impossibility
of an orgasm when my body forgets its place
All these mind-fires burn what was the old me,
a blaze in the last bonfires of a cold beach
I see, in the inner effigy there is hope left
If I use the ocean – I see it there, the waves
of the new coast calling to me in a new tongue
What is there left to do but to lean back,
let it crash over me, wash the flames away
and ready my mind for the new self, waiting?
Hi, I am your lungs contracting at rates of complexity
per seconds, blinking faster, your words on remix
Ven aqui, compadre mio this won’t end ‘til you chill,
‘til you die, ‘til the shivers go away happy once they
ate away at all the quiet air you had left in the day
I decided that, this year I would make the attempt of running the National Poetry Writing Month gauntlet. I have something that is helping the journey – my seizures.
Short story: I was diagnosed with a seizure disorder in early 2009. I have it under control luckily, but I do have the occasional bouts of absence seizures. When those started coming, sometimes I’d jot down whatever the hell my clearly messed-up brain was coming up with.
As the years have passed, I’ve decided that one day I would write those pieces into something larger. At its current incarnation, I am calling it The Absence Epic. I’ve posted the first week-plus’ worth of poems (0- 8) on Instagram, Tumblr, even the old DeviantArt daily. However, I decided it would be here where I would put the poems weekly. So, here is the first week. I have no idea where this will go, and how many of these will actually stay in their current forms.
In my dreams, forged from mother’s stories of that day,
I see pieces of the infinite, supernovae and flares,
Planets I did not know the names of at that time.
As a child, I gave them titles of my choosing.
Now, when I wake up, I know their true names,
Losing all memories of the ones I gave them.
I wish I could remember their names every morning.
I am litter on the floor, eyes open,
Bent, twisted turned as a crumpled can.
The only thing that holds me are drunks
called friends and freaked out passersby.
There is no stopping the absence,
the fear of staying asleep in my mind
forever with the memory of a mind on fire,
a pain deep, rending me comatose.
How do you give a voice to a silent rumble? Do you fall,
convulsing, attempt and hold it together, failing,
…stay here and grab my hand…
…this absence is all I have left.
This absence is all I can leave behind.
Please, let me leave it behind
I spin out, wheels without,
feet on the ground
with no direction
I feel the pins from within
rip through the epidermis
harder than the sound
I walk in haze, mind ablaze
but stumbling is better
than giving up to delirium
I met the complexity the follows me
Now that cold morning in Lima,
And it rested within me, patiently,
Waiting to be reborn, for decades
We did not shake hands, or kiss,
But I will tremble to its control
The maturing deformation,
The real pain? I feed it to this day,
As it is my new and everlasting muse –
Not the women, the anger, nor the drink,
Just the absence, and it will always be
At my side, eternal, until I blink into dust
No activation response for my senses
my head is taking in cold breaths –
I cannot allow
a breaking point –
but the chill seeps in
and under red storefront lights, I align
my shame with growing suffocation
I fear the sliver between
awareness and the great abandon
Within that crack lies a beast
that gnaws on my left arm, caressing
my head, anticipating a devouring
of my direction and spitting me out
into open neuroses, disintegrating me
I will fill that space between myself
and the crack, or the crumbling begins
I should make it my muse,
its touch moving my fingers,
writing in its trembling diction
of stammers and repetition,
the quiet chant of reticence,
the hymn of failed resistance,
the melody of sweet absence
ascendant where disorder lingers,
and scattered divisions that it chooses
No joy, just presence and memory,
a constant night breeding a will to drift
into the “what ifs” and “who’s to know”
that I am in persistent loss of control
and that my fears are fed powerfully
To Whom/What It May Concern:
I am applying for the position of Lead Torturer in your Destruction League Headquarters. I have attached my resume and accompanying media for your review.
I am going to have to put some of the photos enclosed into perspective. First off, I want you to know that despite the amount of blood in the first four photos, I am very well organized and neat individual. I cleaned that room up in less than twenty minutes and held another subject in there within the hour. I have a turnover rate of 15 victims per day, which I believe meets your postings requirement of 10 VPD. I am also a trained surgeon with 6+ years in hostile organ removal.
My equipment needs are very minimal, as I like to work with my own tools. I hold the patents to seven devices, many of them designed for victims with higher pain thresholds and are well within Good Torture Practices.
I have included a video with some of my freelance work. As you can see, the subject was able to clearly speak while being bored in twelve different locations by mini-drills (one of my creations). The meat hooks were specially designed by me to inflict the maximum amount of pain while reducing the tear on the skin.
I am highly motivated and willing to work in any environment, and I am also incredibly independent. I normally work out a a refrigerated eighteen-wheeler, but I can accommodate to working in a more permanent environment. Supervision under one of the senior partners is preferred. If I am handed off to middle management I will not hesitate in flaying them.
My references will be more than enough to help you make your consideration. Due to the nature of my work, most of these people know me by different names. The Crimson Death Squad knew me as Evisceraptor, while the Morgue Group put “Flay Master” on all my checks. Most places will know who you are talking about if you mention Percy, though.
I hope to hear from you soon.
These last few months have been pretty busy for me. Besides the day job that forces me to work under two assumed names, I have worked alongside two projects.
WHO WANTS TO BE A CULT LEADER?
My good friends Phil and Cindy, who work on Cram Magazine with me, have created a card game based on their interests in the modern skeptic movement popularized by Carl Sagan and others. The premise of the game is that the player takes the role of a cult leader, and has to gather the most power through numbers of followers and renown. I jumped into the production, serving duties as the writer of the story and world the aforementioned followers are a part of. I don’t want to get into many details as I am writing my process on the Cram Games blog (yep, we’re keeping the brand name). There is a more detailed take on my role in my first post.
TUNING THE TRANSFREQUENCY
The simple synopsis is that it is a story about two friends stuck traveling through universes after a freak accident where one of them attempts to see his girlfriend via a exportation device. It came from an old idea we came up with when we were making strips about ourselves back in our college days. We took ourselves out of the equation and took the original idea of multiverses and make, I’m not going to lie, a pop-culture blowout. Kirby dots, Civil War robots, mysterious travelers, are parts of what will mostly likely become just a parody/love letter to all the genre stuff we’ve both grown up with.
The website is still clunky, so I won’t bother putting up the link yet, but Rob is drawing and I’ve stopped re-editing and just straight-up write the damn scripts that needed to be written.
That’s all I can say at the moment. I’ll start putting down some of the research for Transfrequency from time to time on the main blog. Now, back to the grind.
Damn, just made it. To be honest, the quality isn’t as great as the stuff in my other goals. Here’s the breakdown:
My running playlist – 814
A rambling mess of a poem that also needs heavy editing – 129
my interview for verbal PHANTOM for Cram issue 3 – 660
My small post on my first memory of being in the US – 412
The bulk of it was an additional 2,691 words added to a new story involving urban exploration and cults. It’s almost done.
I’ve been productive lately both physically and literary, but I need to put myself more. So with that in mind:
Some ideas on how I’m going to do that:
Go through my “Potential Stories” folder and see which one is doable. I’m only seeing two at the moment .
More short stories for the urban fantasy epic. Or even write entire chapters of the novel.
Keep working on the dream dealer story for Kali and that potential movie.
Let’s see how that works out.
“Fifteen minutes ’til we’re out,” my boss said. I chuckled and pulled out my wallet, checking to see if I had any singles on me. I knew that they’d be needed soon. Ten minutes later, I got up from my chair and walked with him to the office door. He kept going towards the elevator but I waited for the remaining three coming along: a girl with long curly black hair and a valley girl accent, a middle-aged lifer that had been in the company longer that most of the executives, and the new guy sporting industrial earrings.
My boss jumped onto a closing elevator. The rest of us waited for another, giving us time to laugh at how ridiculous it was to be eating lunch at a strip club at one in the afternoon. When we reached the lobby, I could see el jefe out on the sidewalk texting. We met up with him and walked south on 4th St to meet up with the final member of our party, the resident gambler on our team, puffing away at a cigarette.
“So how many singles do you have in your wallet?” my boss asked the gambler.
“Uh, y’know, enough for the buffet an makin’ it rain.” he said as we all walked down Howard.
We continued down a few city blocks until I saw a blue carpet leading to a wall of a man in a black suit standing next to a door with the word Gold Lounge written on a royal blue awning. After the card check and paying the five-dollar cover to a disaffected cashier in a tight black dress, I stepped into the darkness and blue glow of the main floor of the club. The music geek in me immediately noticed the song playing, “Smells Like Teen Spirit”. Like in most strip clubs, you can tell a good deal about the girl on stage by their theme song before you even see her, so I assumed she was pale, skinny with absolutely no curves, and covered in tattoos. I looked over for confirmation and, lo and behold, I was right. I would have checked to see if there was any image of Cobain on her skin, but I was very hungry, so I made a beeline to the buffet line.