At the Behest of Others

Nobody likes a copycat. Except the copyman.

Who copy, can. And copy, does. That man

Without a plan, copying with his sordid hands

Clearly coordinated paths. Insinuated can'ts lost

When the little devil on his shoulder in the body

Of a ram says listen copier, you can...you can!

They won't notice. They won't see,

You'll go down in history. A lovely little melody,

A tale of caution for the meek. The one that's been told,

On the whole,

A thousand times
Before.

Writing jokes

I think all profession jokes are lame, but these got a chuckle out of me.

How many mystery writers does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Two. One to screw it almost all the way in, and the other to give it a surprising twist at the end.

How many screenwriters does it take to screw in a light bulb?

Why does it have to be changed?

How many cover blurb writers does it take to screw in a light bulb?

A VAST AND TEEMING HORDE STRETCHING FROM SEA TO SHINING SEA!!!!

Sterno- Burn

There is a dark-haired girl on the train

this morning reading and rambling off words

like sternocleidomastoid. I try and try

to remember the corresponding structure,

but all I can see is the yellow tinged skin

beneath the mandible. Your full nape always

so warm, so inviting. And when I marched

my lips up to yours, the uncontrollable shivers

you released always cornered my thoughts

in unprecedented displays of loving remorse.

Sterno cleido mastoid,

the unwavering truth of science's etymology ringing

in my mind, turning my head from left to right,

full circle understanding that we never said goodbye

and it is that paired muscle, a chiefly mammalian

feature of anatomy, that flexes my heart.

Jupiter for the Strange

Most days I stumble through this city trying to hold up a little semblance of myself to show off to the rest of the world that I am still here with my ten toes on this planet while I dream of rocketing off to Jupiter. It's impossible, there is no Jupiter. Just an orb you hear of every now and again. Jupiter, oh yeah, the big one. Sterile and brown I believe. Share's the same star as us. That has to count for something. Now the sun, that's a sight for sore eyes. It literally makes your eyes sore. And it's the light behind all religion. Don't believe me? I have a documentary for you to watch. But it doesn't matter. Before the credits roll you'll have decided to agree or disagree or be like me and think there's some place in the middle of all the cantankerous thought that plagues our day to day quests for propagation. You should just be happy you get to ride your bike in this city with all its exotic restaurants and never-ending distractions in the middle of October when the sun is lower and Jupiter, round and sound, is nowhere, not anywhere to be found.

Unless you take a trip to the observatory, in which case good on you you cheeky little monkey.

Ah geez. It's come to my attention that I'm more of a scribbler than a writer. I just scribble, scribble, scribble all day. Nibbling away at pieces of paper but never really filling up on anything. There's a word for it in Spanish that someone very special and very pretty told me once, but I can't remember it. I think it started with a 'p'. I remember her mother confirming that I did in fact eat as if I had been born with feathers and wings. I would argue, however, that my mouth has much more to offer than any beak. The lips alone are too much too handle. Especially when I first come out of dreaming. Swollen with all of my sleep, they usually just sag until I've had my first inspiration to scribble.

No more. Time to feast.

I listen to "The Manifold Curiosity" much too much. It is a sublime collaboration of music and lyric that always inspires this overwhelming sense of wonder and, for lack of a better word, curiosity inside of me.

6-word Stories

- inspired by Sherman Alexie

1. She was my dream girl. Gone.

2. If you hear two gunshots, goodbye.

3. Forget about it, you're still Generalissimo.

Stardate, The Saturn Opposition, Part 1

(In which our lovely hero realizes he can calculate neither stardates nor the end of the world.)

I find myself riding a strange wave

of unfinished business. Nothing

I start will come to completion

though I beckon it from the shores

of my motivation. Food I now eat

without the luxury of flavor.

Something is simply missing,

and so missing something simply

my credit only grows, monstrously.

He speaks from under the couch

next to my bedless head,

says hey, you got an ok thing

going on here. keep at it.

But the thing is I don't listen

to monsters even if they do

sound sweet justifying

their pedagogical arguments.

Would rather just stay on floor

(because I can't stay in bed)

contemplating whether Che

was really more like me

or you.