From Creative Pieces

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Written to You, Achronotic Locus

Where does one begin when they’ve yet to decide what constitutes a “beginning?” Is there a way to break free from the shackles of the inner critic? How does a writer decide what they write about? Is it possible to become great by writing from cold-starts? My father Bryan once told me that nothing is worse than someone who does the same old shit yet expects different results. “Asinine; It’s asinine,” he’d say. My father John once told me that all great writers became great not by meticulously picking at their works, but rather by churning out content. Loads upon…

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What Strange Times We Live In

  where “fuck you” is synonymous with “fuck me,”   when “you” is a reflection of the self and “me” is lost, rarely seen or mentioned – being too informal or perhaps not fashionable enough.   So “me” is used when necessary and never indulgently, (we do enough of that as it is) – indulgence, I mean – oh yes. Oh, yes…   yet “ego” fra(mes)(&)(its)elf, hiding between prefix and suffix, rooting a canopy of an idea in your mind.   It’s not really applicable, or compatible or even, odd, et al – and you realize that “me” is kind…

In this Vacant Room

The setting of the sun, The rising of the moon; How I want to hold you in my arms             And look upon you as you swoon.

Life as System: the Macro represented in the Micro

On the corner of Panola and Burdette there lies a quaint cafe by the name of Riccobono’s. Charging 8 bucks for a meager “two, two, three,” they run a steep risk and what’s more interesting, I’ve yet to ever see a black person working in the front of house. Upon entering I was met by the cold eyes of a murderous grip of elderly waitresses. As they peered into me over their wireframe spectacles, I greeted them with a hearty, somewhat biding “Hel-looo” and let it ring out across the dining hall. I strolled up to the register, proceeded to…

Names to Nicknames (Respectively Ordered)

First, I was Cole then I became Cher, Her little sack ‘a puhtaytuhs.   First I was Cole, then I became Cola, my Father’s Bubba.   First I was Cole then I became Coley Oley Oley, Mama’s infinitely expanding Roley Poley Oley.   First I was Cole, then I became Mole, Mecca’s best mate, (Halo at Brandon’s).   First I was Cole, then I became Chaos,  Darcie’s Umbral Knight; her tween scion… of her battle, for her husband, that Aidan be her memory. (I grieve)   First I was Cole, then I became Lil Moco,  (Bats in the Cave), blurred line between…

Reflections at Two

Reflections at 2 usually consist of reflections on “you” the subject of the self – the unlaced shoe –   I smack my little soldier of death hard on the rim-lip of the ash tray and lock it’s smoke into limerick   stealing the key away as if to say “Goodnight Gorilla” a subtle trick, child’s play   and I hope this dread ceases to curl up into my face, its wispy kisses stinking,   the cat whiskers fresh in my mind, the old memory uncorked to breathe   and though it was just this morning, I can’t shake this…

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I Lurk Late, Futon Dreams

And so the raven peers perched atop my head into my perception, bores with its beak a bolt– hole through my eyes   and the hands descend fanning out behind my skull, each enladen with an eye in the palm   and it all fell into place when I traversed the hallway of consciousness, looking down that corridor of books, realizing just how much I’d gotten myself into.   So now I recount this dream on the backs of poems while my three black cats sit idly by– one of them now jumping for the paper hanging from the nail…

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When the Pretentious are Confused

the people sit in circles eating small meals while recounting what came before   when they open their mouths they speak as if they’ve got “it” all figured out and direct their limbs so elegantly one might mistake them for some prominent conductor or maybe even an old Greek statue — how they hold their arms outstretched — their fingertips extensions of their minds   but then the moment passes and they’re no longer paused because they don’t know anymore than anyone else does, lost just the same, mesmerized by freedom’s haunt

strengths weaknesses opportunities threats

this expiration date not yet decided. this system not yet subverted.   this lover not yet acclimated. this tension not yet resolved…   …twenty one years ignorant …twenty one years liberated   I struggle with accountability. I free myself through language.   I push through silence, I’d carry your cross…