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Saturday, June 30, 2012

Turning the Page

A young Paige Burner stood looking at the bathroom vanity mirror, behind a locked door. In her hand she held a bewildering rainbow array of pharmaceuticals. Gifts from her aspiring rapist of a street pharmacist, on again/off again, erstwhile pseudo-boyfriend Jimmy James.

In front of her on an immaculate porcelain and marble countertop lay a pearl-handled straight razor marked "Tuesday". Yet it was Sunday. She filled her "World's Sexiest Secretary" coffee mug with tap water, smelled it, and grimaced. Ordinarily, she couldn't stomach chlorine.

The tub was filling with piping hot water. She knew enough. She'd once seen a porn, "The Devil in Ms. Jones", that artfully depicted such a suicide. Take the pills, get numb, then get into the bath. She learned from Usenet that you should cut your arms lengthwise, not across the wrists, for maximum effectiveness. Thanks, Spooge.

Paige lifted the first two pills, Rohypnols - small, blue-flecked tranquilizers, to her lips and swallowed them down. The water didn't seem so bad, now. So far, so good, she thought. Suicide really is easy, just like the M.A.S.H. theme song said.

There was, just then, a knock at the door that interrupted this most private moment of solemn reverie.

"Pee?" a voice asked.

It was the indomitable Mr. James. She didn't expect him today, and certainly not this early. He did, however, have a key, and free and open access to her. It was part of their arrangement.

She really didn't like the abbreviated nickname. and had told him never to use it in public.

"P.T. Boat", "P.T. Cruiser", "P.T. Barnum", "Petey Wheatstraw" and others, thankfully, were used even less frequently. Usually when he was high (always) and in a light-hearted mood, which varied with the wind and stars, it seemed.

She was sure the door was locked! She jerked at the sound of her name, clumsily dumping several pills into the sink and onto the cabinet and floor.  Worse yet, she knocked the razor off, where it bounced and clattered on the tile, shattering the handle.

Before she could react, the door opened.

"You okay?" he asked.

He scanned the room. Clearly she was not. The tub was now near overflowing and the mirror had begun to mist over with steam. Paige, officially a failure at suicide, moved to turn the faucet off.

Jimbo took the opportunity to enter. He fully looked the part of caveman lawyer, as usual, but held a bouquet of carnations, roses, baby's breath and fern. The effects of the flowers was mesmerizing.

Such beauty, she thought.

"If I had known you'd react this badly to a marriage proposal, I'd have slept in," he said with a grin.

In his other hand, he held a small box.

"Here," he said with graceless intonation, "Ms. Paige S. Burner, would you please consider legal bondage to me?"

Ever the wordsmith, his turn of phrase was not without charm.

She accepted the token, and her eyes met his in what felt like the first time in a long while. She let the box lay on her flat, open palm, as if weighing it. She really didn't know what to say.

"Yes," she finally gurgled.

"Great! Let's go to Huddle House to celebrate. The sky's the limit."

He was pretty mirthful, considering the morbidity of the situation. He led her by the hand out of the bathroom, closed the door behind them, and kissed her. Hard and rough, at first. He was an animal, after all, but then tenderly and gently. She required both, herself.

"Don't ever do that again," he said, with just the tiniest bit of menace in his voice. "It would void our marriage contract."

He couldn't help but let a broad smile cross his visage.

"I won't", she said breathlessly.

"Now open it," he directed her. "I gotta pee, Pee."

He made far too many pee jokes. Paige opened the jewelry box. Inside was an ornate diamond and platinum setting, very classy and elegant looking. Quite unlike our Mr. James, she decided.

"Oh, it's real," he said as he opened the door. He had turned the light off, but she knew all the same he had cleaned up her mess. When she checked later, the pills and razor were both gone.

"I got an advance on a screenplay!" he enthused. "And I couldn't think of anything else I wanted aside from you. You know I'm not a car guy."

"H-How much?" she stammered.

"Enough. But never mind that, love. As my wife, I expect silent obedience."

He winked at her, and his eyes twinkled. The pills were kicking in. She was buzzed, but no longer lethargic.

"Let's go get that coffee," he suggested.

"I'm a little fucked-up."

"Twas ever thus," he said. "Nothing that a hard fucking later won't fix."

He grinned again.

"You think that's the final solution to everything, you sex Nazi."

She was starting to get her bearings back.

"Oh, it pretty much is. That and laughter," he said, rather seriously.

With an uncharacteristic suddenness, he snatched the box from her loose grip and dropped to one knee.

"Paige, I reiterate. Will you please do me the honor of being my wife #1?"

Her eyebrows raised, intrigued by this new wrinkle. Polyamory was a subject they had discussed often.

"I already said yes once, you dick. Don't make me repeat myself."

And with that, they walked arm-in-arm to face the rising sun. Together.


Friday, June 29, 2012

Halloween 2000

(A write-up about me, Brian Magar of Guntgrutcher/Pyroclastix, and Brad of The Black Method in New Orleans.)

Halloween 2000. Brad (Chemical) and I are scheduled to be in New Orleans. I made plans to meet the infamous JASON GORTICIAN a month in advance. So the whole time before "the day" we were waiting in anticipation. Wondering what this guy was actually gonna be like. To give some background. I have been corresponding with Jason Christie for about 5 years via email. He's always been down with what I've been doing and vice versa. Not familiar with GORTICIAN? Poke around on a search engine for a few minutes. I'm sure you'll be able to find some kind of press on Gortician.

So anyway. It comes down to "the day" we are supposed to meet. Brad and I are conjuring up all these scenario's of what this guy will actually be like. Laughing and bonding away on Bourbon Street until he calls. "He's on his way." We meet Jason in the lobby of the Marriot right off the French Quarter. He comes strolling in with a beat up leather jacket. Leather top hat, and a GUNTGRUTCHER shirt. FUCK YES!!!. We get his wife and kids squared away in our hotel room and go hit the streets. Halloween in New Orleans is surreal. Big floats and shit. Everyone is dressed up, drunk, naked and crazy as fuck. This definitely added to the insanity.

First stop was a craphole strip joint. We go in and I buy Jason 2 beers, a shot of jagermeister and a long island iced tea. He kills these in 5 minutes. We hang out and watch some big breasted stripper dance for 3 seconds. Then some crackhead broad comes out and dances. The whole time Jason is talking about virtual reality and concepts for DOT COM companies. To be honest I am not a tech guy, so I didn't understand a lot of the technical lingo. Later on Brad confirmed that Jason was no joke in the tech department. The strippers and belligerent hillbillies weren't giving us a good vibe at this place, so we left.

On to the next strip club. On the way there. Jason says, "Hey man, you know how you can tell it's not Mardi Gras?" I say. "No?". He says "Watch this." Jason proceeds in pinching this really hot girl's ass who was walking down the street. She turns around and says "Get the fuck off of me you sick-o." All three of us were laughing. It was about at this point that I realized that Jason's online persona is actually quite tame compared to the real deal.

So we all go to this other strip club. Once again. I take care of a large round of drinks for Jason. All in all. I think I spent about 60 bucks on Jasons drinks. So we're sittin there, Shootin' the shit about all things death metal and gore. Just chillin. Watching a few HOT strippers in action. Jason says "Man, I need to go smoke some weed. I'll be back." He goes in the back of the club and fires it up in the bathroom.

5 minutes later he's back in action. "Oooo..Ok man..You don't know me." This is what Jason said and moved to the back of the stripper wheel. I had no idea what he was talking about. Just then Brad bumps my shoulder and says "Hey man, Check out the wheel." I look up and see this stripper perched on a spinning wheel with GUNTGRUTCHER, GORTICIAN and 3 pentagrams slapped on the side. Turns out that Jason was sitting back there tagging the shit up as the stripper was dancing. I hear the bathroom has some nice tags as well.

Jason moves back and Brad goes in the VIP for some Lap dance action. Jason and I are shooting the shit some more. All the while I'm tipping this chick. Just then Jason stands up and says "Here, you want my fuckin' money? Here..Take it." He crumbles dollar bills up into little balls and proceeds to throw them as hard as he could at the womans ass. "'s your fuckin' money!!!" It was pretty insane. Only because it isn't everyday that you see someone literally throwing money at someone's ass.

So we all get bored of that shit and decide to go out and try and find us a show. The Misfits where playing at the House of Blues that night. But It didn't really seem like the thing to do. So we walked around into uncharted territory. Jason fires up a joint like 5 feet away from a cop. Then he blows it in someones face. Walking around like the mad hatter. It was surreal in a way that I cannot really describe. Then we came across a huge group of hippies burning shit in the street around a drum circle. This wasn't our scene. We end up sitting in front of some store for a few hours just shootin the shit. It's like 6 am at this point and I'm tired.

We go back to the hotel and Jason hooks Brad and I up with some GORTICIAN CD's and a FESTERING SORE (Jason's other deal. Kind of reminds me of Bathory mixed with Venom) promo. ROCK!!!

I remember reading a short clip on the BRUTAL TRUTH newsletter a while back about Jason. It said something like "Special thanks to Jason Christie for the shirts and the killer time in Louisiana." That stuck in my head all night for some reason. Now I know why they felt the need to thank him for the good time. A few words come to mind when thinking about Jason. CULT is one of them. Jason is total CULT. A one man army fueled by insanity. Words cannot describe it. Jason is a man truly living the underground.

Thursday, June 28, 2012

Google Analytics - Obsess In Style

How do indie writers get any work done, checking their sales stats all day long? I have it easy. I don't have any sales stats. Still, I manage to not write on most days.


Want some stats that will keep you interested, and are actually somewhat useful? Google Analytics will keep you mesmerized for days. Sign up, plug a tiny bit of code into your page, and you're off. Blogspot has a place to put your GA number in their preferences, I believe. So you don't even have to mess with HTML. Like that's something scary.

So, activate your account, plug in the code, and...nothing. It takes a day for stats to start coming in. But when they do?

Wow. I just added it here for the heck of it. I learned a lot about the behavior of visitors to my site. For instance, I used to get fifty hits, I thought that meant fifty people. Nope. More like six or so, clicking on eight pages each.

See? That's useful to know.

You can follow the trail through the pages they visit, from the landing page to the jump page when then leave your site again. Simply put, there is a wealth of information to be had here. If you have an author's website, you really should be running Google Analytics.

You just need to know what to do with it after that, I guess.

A Hierarchical List of Ways I Shall Love Thee

A Hierarchical List Of Ways I Shall Love Thee
Missionary Position
            Knees to Your Head
Doggy to Froggy and Back Again           
            Reverse Cowgirl Toe Shrimping
Your Ass – Don’t Even Get Me Started
Your Incredible Delicious Precious Little Pussy
            My Fist
I want to dress and undress you in a thousand outfits of my choice
Bound and gagged, yet you render me immobile, foaming at the mouth
            Did my involuntary growling alarm you?
And yet, all of that considerable delight aside, my love, it is the fact that
            We have touched souls, and found we were perfectly suited for one another
For not only are you a vision to behold
Your touch is light, your heart sincere
I’m yours forever more


Exploring undiscovered lands
In your valleys and your hills
Each mounting ridge, I stake my claim
Each dewy pool I sup
My oasis
You are the country of my heart
Forever am I stained
Until the day you’re at my side
My agony remains
My wife, my wife, I cannot wait
To dine our nightly feast
To see the joy upon your face
And press you close to me

Use Images to Get More Traffic

Here's a quick and dirty tip:

Your blog is boring. No, the writing's great. It's visually boring. I wrote a few style articles with photos, and I'm already getting a lot of hits off of it. If you can use a few photos to illustrate your points, you will get more traffic, from Google Image Search.

I promise. Maybe not the traffic you want...

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

40th Anniversary of Atari Poem


Atari! It means "I attack you!"
A battle cry from a game named Gomaku
I'm coming to hack you
That's why I'm called Vorhees
Friday the 13th
You'll be down on your knees
My active vision means a demon attack
The man from Atlantis
And you know I ain't goin' back
Constant adventure
From my megalomania
Perpetual combat
Straight to Terebithia
Like General Grevous
I'm devious like Xevious
Bonghits and pong
My controllers are the greasiest
I'm riding the joyboard
Spinning potentiometers
Worshipping the woodgrain
I am the VG chronicler
Now the switches I flip
Means I'm changing banks
From 2k to 4k, ascending the high score ranks
Commanding the missiles full stop like a psy-op
Secret messages, I stay hidden like Rob Fulop
26, 52, and 7800
The 4 and the 8 and even the Falcon

2600 - the tone
You know I give megahertz
Phone phreakin', I'm tweakin
Rhyming in bursts and spurts
I pack a punch like your mom packs a bag lunch
Blowing the whistle
Communicating with Captain Crunch
Like Whifield Diffie, never iffy on the flow
Or Rawston Stovall
You gotta write what you know
Information exchange
But wait for the handshake
Logic trees
And so many branches to take
2400 - the baud rate
But don't laugh at my speed
Rappers I crush - centipede or millipede
A snowcrasher, in this cryptonomicon
A relic iconic
Mainstay like Comicon
By my functions are private
In a virtual prison
For all the warez that I pirate
Turning tables - go look up
I'm trigonometric
I am the cursor recursive
My Kool-aid be electric
I mix case in white space as bugs get erased
You can't decrypt my source?
Shouldn't have tried in the first place...

2600 - I'm goin back to the future
Mind, body & soul stuck together like sutures
I also kick it in B.C., smuggling the new tek
Getting netcopped, for all the timelines I wreck
I beg, steal and borrow the past through tomorrow
Robbing emotions
The harvester of sorrow
Time bandit, I planned
In the course of my travels
I spin tales and weave sails
From the threads that I unravel
No lie, I'm McFly, I Fargo like H.G. Wells
Unstuck in time, Slaughterhouse Five
This is the bard's tale
Yankee clipper from hell
I'm Jack Tripper
Chronometers spin
In my hunt for the ripper
Future historian
With time enough for love
The powermonger
I game with hawk and dove
Archon 3D
I am the light and the dark
Cosmic commuter
Beamriding the spark
In this videodrome
My BFG's the looker
I'm outta here
Time for some caveman hookers

Tuesday, June 26, 2012

Quantum Love

A trillion miles is nothing to a player
The dragon
Pussy wagon slayer
We endure, persistent
The changes consistent
Throughout existence
Against useless resistence



If you, Johnnie, are my mirror
I am a pretty motherfucker
Staring at you, I am entranced
But perhaps I am your mirror
Two mirrors
Reflecting infinity



Glittering Loc-Nar
Valkyrie warrior
Jewel of the Nile
A fable, to many
True love
You are worth fighting for
And foolish to fight against


Love is Confusion

If I love you so much
Why can't I let you go?
Go back to your parents
Your children
Your sisters
There's no virtue
In selfishness
No matter what Ayn Rand said
It is my punishment in life
(don't talk to me about life)
To be a destroyer
I create worlds
But the one I reside in
Is too lonely
Without you
I'd give a limb
Preferably someone else's
To make you happy
And save
The only person
Who makes me feel the same
I guess I hate me, too
A game without rules?

Never Falls

You are my paradise
And I'm in rapture
You make grown men grovel
Cities crumble at your feet
Children grow to meet you
Flowers die
For the privilege of being yours
My moon goddess
Keeper of secrets
I can't wait to open your box

High Dive

My bird of paradise
Little wing
Meet me at the waterfall
In outer space
Hold me forever
As we fall


Doomsday Device

Superlove supremacy uber alles
Weaveworld potentialities
Riding the shockwave
Of eternal devastation
With an unfair advantage
Evil genius reveals his scheme
My secret weapon
Is you

National Pastime

For today's ring
I give you a baseball diamond
My pitch?
Free agent in a ballcap and bobby sox
Batgirl and general manager
Three strikes to my heart
...I punt

Sweet, Sweet, Sweet

My honeydew nectar
Ambrosia be thy name
Sweeter than any substitute
Saccharine, Nutra, Splenda
And other black baby names
You are my sugar moon
Drawing me to you
Like a moth to a flame
I could be sweeter, I do admit
Let me learn by example
And taste you yet again

Monday, June 25, 2012

Last Roundup

We were so fucking stupid, thinking we were clever.

The legalization movement had reached critical mass. Society could no longer resist the onslaught of popular opinion. Conventional wisdom was prevailing: give the people what they want. So eager were we to have peace, we rushed headlong into compromise.

Marijuana would be legal across the entire U.S. Growers and users would simply have to register with the federal government and accept a small, unobtrusive tracking chip subdermally. To protect the children, that ancient device.

The bill was signed into law, and we all jockeyed for position, eager to sign on for our implants. Low serial numbers became status. Badges of honor. Finally, we could cultivate and commune in peace.

For two years, liberty and prosperity ruled the land. Then they came for us. We were complacent and defenseless. Collectively, we had traded fear and paranoia for the eternal bliss of pot smoking.

Conveniently located by the chips that had enabled the most free period in American history, we were herded into camps and forced at gunpoint to eradicate our own plants with machetes and broadleaf weed killers. But even in the camps, we were allowed to smoke. Naturally, we stockpiled more that we pilfered during our day jobs.

We were determined to make the most of it and ride it out, convinced that the country would return to its senses in due time.

Eventually, we were released without fanfare. We still had weed in our pockets as we streamed back out of our prison gates. Like lemmings to the slaughter.

Great celebrations were held. The first American smoke-out began in earnest and lasted two days. Afterwards, we slept it off, our stashes now burnt offerings.

There was no more pot to be found after that. Clever bastards that we were, we only smoked sensimilla. Seedless dope. We had no way to grow more, legally or illegally.

But somewhere, deep in the forest, a sprout pushed its head out of the earth, hungry for sunlight...

Fear the Coming Used Ebook Market

"Changes aren't permanent - but change is" - Rush, "Tom Sawyer"

Did you know there is absolutely nothing preventing you from reselling ebooks? As the ebook movement gains steam, I can imagine someone knocking together a good used ebook retail site.

Think about it. It happens with books. How are ebooks different?

That's right. They're digital. Which means a single copy can be sold again and again. But I guess you already know that.

How would you feel if some site had an endless supply of your ebooks to sell, and you didn't get $.01 in royalties? There are ways to try and combat this, of course. DRM, for example. But no one likes DRM except pirates. Because they like to defeat it.

So a used ebook site is one thing. An honest used ebook site is quite another. Afterall, can you prove you bought this ebook you wish to resell?

I don't even want to think about this. I'll leave it to the lawyers. But, mark my words, this will happen. We didn't move from a static paper model to a static digital model. The shake-ups will keep coming for some time. You might want to send the kids to law school with all that book money you're making.

A GalleyCat article from six months ago kinda agrees with me. So there....

How To Get Busted Selling Dope

Jails are full of idiots. Remember that.

1. Stay high. All the time. Smell like weed constantly. Adopt the heavy-lidded stance of someone who clearly doesn't give a fuck.
2. Be high profile. You make big money, flaunt it. Nice cars, expensive clothes, advanced electronics. You're a baller. Rub their noses in it.
3. Get lots of tattoos, primarily gang affiliations and pot leaves. Commitment to a bit. Bonus points for white kids with "Member of Bloods" tattoos on them.
4. Talk loudly about your operation to anyone and everyone who will listen. Conduct deals in public on a cell phone registered in your name.
5. Sell from your home. What good is all of your wealth if you can't make others envious?
6. Screw a different girl every week. If she doesn't like it, throw her ass out and get a new one. Feelings are for punks.
7. Money uber alles. It's all about dead presidents. No slack, no breaks, no discounts, no family, no "friend prices". Cash on the barrelhead.

8. Keep lots of money for lawyers, bail and commissary. You'll need it...

A Scanner Darkly

Fetid stench of paranoia (who do you trust?)
Robber cops and nazi lawyers (powerlust)
Stare into the camera's eye (smile wide)
Now your life is not your own (slaves to the satellites)

Wallow in your drug of choice (slow death)
Silencing your only voice (gasp for breath)
Speaking out is heresy (hold your tongue)
Serving the conspiracy (craft the rope from which you're hung)


This was a story idea snippet. I wrote it about a year ago, and my girlfriend and I both said it was too heavy to write back then. It's one of the most brutal serial killer type books since American Psycho. I have a lot of other stuff to write, but I did write the introductory chapter.  Angel is not the actual title, of course, but I learned to keep my titles secret until I publish. Call it superstition.

She traveled between two worlds, never knowing which was which. Heaven? Hell? By the time she got there, she had forgotten.

But in the meantime, while traveling, she was aware. Mostly aware. She didn't have all the answers, making full consciousness impossible.

How could the devil love her more than her own family, she wondered. Wouldn't that mean they were the real devils, here? She tried to think in other terms, but, no, she wasn't human. She was Angel.

Why, then, did she have human memories?

It was her understanding that humans died and became angels like her. Except for the ones that don't. She didn't want to think about them. But that should rightly leave her with a single himan life to remember, at best.

She remembered many.

Parts of many. They were occluded, hazy. It was like watching a movie through a pane of frosted glass.

Sunday, June 24, 2012


The flame that warms my soul
You, the candle
I, the wind
Together, we burn

The Endless Forest

The path of the beam
Always leads to you
My sacred heart
And keeper of the flame
Lady libertine
The owl
In my Bohemian Grove
Never long enough
I need an extension


Saturday, June 23, 2012

6 Kick-Ass Video Games You *Will* Get To Play

I read an article on Cracked not long ago about the 6 Greatest Video Games We'll Never Get To Play, and I was a little pissed off. Not that I really want to play Duke Nukem Forever or whatever. So I gave it a moment's thought, and here are six kick-ass video games you will get to play, and they're better than the ones you won't get to play.

The game changer? Augmented reality. I've been an AR researcher  for more than twenty years now, and the time is finally almost here. Welcome to Japan fifteen years ago. Get your Google Goggles and roll your own.

1. Star Wars Holographic Chess - What geek of the past thirty years hasn't wanted to play this? It could even come with a little round chess board to put on the coffee table. Statistically, 68% of Star Wars fans would choose this over Slave Leia. Which is understandable, as she's like 62, now. Plus, I don't recall seeing any new releases of Battle Chess in a while. Not that I look.
2. Little Green Army Men - If you're old enough to have seen Star Wars the first time around, and had undescended testicles, you ordered a GIANT FOOTLOCKER of little green army men. And then you were really fucking disappointed. You could see through them, they were so thin. At least they melted easily. Still, you played with them all over the living room, and it was fun. This time around, they'll be running around on the floor in 3D, climbing up onto the coffee table, cigar stub in mouth: "Come on you fucking dogfaces! Do you want to live forever?" Which is only amusing the first twenty times they say it.
3. Traci, I Love You - A little tip to you about Traci Lords: she's a financial genius. She made a ton of hot underage porn by using a fake ID and birth certificate, made a ton of money, and is probably still the most famous porn star in the world. Plus she might be doing a song with Lords of Acid. Or already did. I didn't check. After her eighteenth birthday, she produced her only legal porn, which she owns the rights to. That really has nothing to do with this: Virtual/Augmented Reality will let you bang a porn star while you have sex with your significant other. Okay, maybe not a sixteen year old Traci, but the possibilities are endless, here. Make a game out of it? Sasha Grey in "Custer's Revenge".

4. Gunshot or Cumshot - My first piece of software uses facial recognition and iris tracking to let you walk around the mall and shoot bullets or semen. MINDBULLETS and MINDSEMEN! Cum on a dude's face, then blow his head off. Shoot some chick, then cum on her neckhole. Expect a small amount of social controversy to follow this game. I've been beta testing it for years, now.
5. Halo/Doom/Crysis 10 - I have to admit, I don't play games like this, but they're undeniably huge. Plus they feed babies to the war machine, so that's always a good thing. But imagine you and your jock buddies running around campus sniping each other, the spray of blood from their arm as you deliver a flesh wound before delivering your Deer Hunter headshot. Imagine getting shot for real by the campus pigs. It'll happen to someone, somewhere. And you read it here and could have prevented it. Fuckhead.

6. Pretty much anything - Very soon, our only limitations will be touch and gravity. Within ten years, people will have the ability to be viewed as their avatars in the real world. Cameron Diaz won't look fat, but she'll still feel fat. Assuming you're Jack Black. Was she in that? Other than flying and making fat girls skinny, this is panacea

It's going to be hell. The world is going to look like fucking Myspace, and you'll have to carry custom CSS just so your eyes don't melt. It'll be more anachronistic and fucked up than when Star Trek nerds go to RenFest. Virtual sex, virtual drugs and virtual violence, an uncrossable gulf for the poor, major social upheaval.

I can't wait.

Army of You

My universal soldier of love
Fighting the good fight
Against impossible odds
Prail Abraxis
Riding in a Sherman Oakes tank
All the way
To Fantasy Island
and tattoos


Friday, June 22, 2012


Poems are rarely served up regularly
Like Jimmy Dean breakfast sausage
Removed from a mold by automated design
Instead, they should be assembled
Like omelettes
Using whatever ingredients are close at hand
The truth is
If men knew how poems and sausages were created
They'd have no taste for either


Thursday, June 21, 2012


        I wish
            I could
   Write  you  poetry
 That  meandered
      and  flowed
     Never rhyming
  Or  making  any  sense
Yet    still beautiful
    Like  a    waterfall

Your New Role Model: Pandora Poikilos

Are you an aspiring author? Want to succeed in the writer game?

No? I don't know what to say to that.

Yes? Meet your new role model, Pandora Poikilos. She is talented, sweet, helpful, and sells tons of books. I submit to you that she is your model for achieving your aspirations.

Observe her tasteful homepage:

Her very active blog:

Her very upbeat Facebook page: (~12,000 likes)

Her very active Twitter account:!/pandorapoikilos (~135,000 followers)

She's even somewhat active on Google+:

Fourteen books, fiction and non, on Amazon:

But it's not the fact that she's on top of the social media that makes her a success. Pandora is constantly arranging blog tours, giveaways and promotional packages that help out tons of other authors, as well.

My point is if you want to sell books and live an interesting life, you would do well to emulate her actions and attitude. Cheers, Dora. You're an inspiration to us all.

Monday, June 11, 2012

Preview My New Fantasy Title

Two years ago, my girlfriend moved in with me. Well, she had already moved in with me, but her books moved in with us sometime after that.

I had already written my first book for her, or was in the process of finishing it, as well as finishing Pageburner and Hurricane Regina at her behest. They became her books as well. Actually, I had written Pageburner about her and wasn't even aware of it at the time.

This is how sweet she is. She asked me to write a book for her, and I did. Radar Love stands as one of the all-time great romance novels of all time. I don't like to brag. Anyway, when she unpacked her books, they were all fantasy titles. She asked me to write a book for her, but never let me know what her favorite sort of book was. Silly me, I never asked.

This is an effort to make up for that. It is "Discworld" to Perfect Me's "Hitchhiker's Guide". I think I do better at imitating Douglas Adams than Terry Pratchett, personally.

The character Moog, I realized later, was lifted from Tom Robbins' "Jitterbug Perfume". In that story, the necromancer is named Noog. Close enough. Let's call it an homage instead of outright theft. It's only fair, as Queen Diamond is also a thinly-disguised Queen Tilly from "Still Life With Woodpecker"...

At any rate, it's about two-thirds completed or so, and I'm about to finish up and publish the sequel to Perfect Me, so this will be my next finished novel after that. It was originally called Princess Academy, until I learned there was already a book by that title...


"The perfect king and his wife, the perfect queen, lived in their perfect castle with their twelve perfect children..."

"Wait a minute," the queen said. "If I'm commissioning a story from you, I have to be the voice of dissent already. None of us meet the impossible standard of 'perfect'."

"Look, I'm I'm a necromancer and an alchemist. If you want me to be your court scrivner as well, you're simply going to have to grant me some concessions and leeway."

"Blah, blah, blah," the queen said. "You use a lot of big, anachronistic words."

"I should point out that you just used the word 'anachronistic'."


"Look, nice lady. I have a story to write, if you don't mind."

"Fine, fine," she said. "Although I feel compelled to point out that you haven't even produced silver, much less gold."

"Right. And now you want me to write full time, as well. Great. No pressure."

"Well, hows about you combine the two acts? Turn the writing into gold."

"Well, that's so crazy it just might work. It's at least as plausible as turning lead into gold."

"Maybe if you wrote in pencil?"

"That's graphite, actually."

"No one likes a smart-ass, dear."

"It beats the alternative. Usually"

The necromancer, Moog being his name, pulled out his pocketwatch thingie, which always confounded the queen.

"Why are you always fiddling with that thing?"

"Passes the time. But I have neither bars nor minutes. And my charger ran away."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Oh, nothing. It's a necromancer thing. You wouldn't understand."

"Okay. I'm going take a nappy-nap. Wake me if you produce gold in the interim."

"I'll get right on that," he said. Moog was a bit sarcastic and caustic.

Instead, he went to his bungalow and whipped up a batch of ground unicorn horn, which he loved and snorted regularly. It certainly enhanced the writing, at times.


Sunday, June 10, 2012


He opened his eyes, and he was alone. What just happened, he wondered, and how long was I down for this time?

He remembered the car wrecks. The shootings. The stabbings. Burning alive. The drowning. His own rape. Do unto others, he thought, questioningly.

So far, he'd hurt everyone he'd ever loved. Did he love?

Ultimately, yes. If he loved nothing else, he loved her. They had a mission, no matter how vague and ill-defined it seemed, at times. A destiny. He only hoped it was a shared destiny.

How ironic, to come back from the dead. Again. Forever. And find yourself a lonely ghost haunting an empty world.

It couldn't be, he reasoned. She was promised to him by the man himself. God the liar? It did not compute.

So while he was convinced, how could he convince her?

Her beliefs got in the way of her faith. Self-doubt translated into real doubt. Why don't you share your knowledge with others, she had asked him in another life.

Because even she didn't believe him. How could anyone else?

It was lonely at the top and bottom.

He told her there was no such thing as hell and the devil. She was his proof. He was her counter-proof.

If he was the chosen one, or at the very least one of the chosen ones, why would existence continue to thwart them both?

Why did he keep waking up?

Because he loved her. And only her. And she loved him.

He only hoped that was enough. He was out of ideas.


Guest Poet: Stephen King

Lighting the rehab pic on fire?
That was me, I think
But I lack total recall
That was Philip K. Dick
Take it up with him

Austin City Limits

I would gladly crawl
On my knees
Over burning shards of broken glass
All the way to Austin
Just to wipe a single tear from your eye
Time and distance
Are meaningless
When we are apart

Per Diem

Every day is Christmas
And our birthdays, too
The date never matters
As long as it's with you
Stuck together like glue
Like DNA, intertwined
My love, you are a track star
Running through my mind