UFO

Just published a new short story bundle to Amazon, a short little homeage to Carl Sagan called "UFO".  It also includes two other short stories "When The Comet Came" and "The Us And The Not Us".  There's a lot of alien goodness here with some caveman thrown in.  Enjoy!

Link is here.

Citizen Bane And Other Tales on Oyster

One of my e-books is now on Oyster, Citizen Bane Other Tales. I'm fond of the stories in this book, especially First Born, which is kind of a nod towards Neil Gaiman's American Gods.  Kind of.  You know, it's a thought-form thing that I decided to take in my own completely different direction. As for Citizen Bane himself, yeah, I'd like to do a few more stories about him, but I'm gonna have to have to bone up on my Lovecraft first. Arthur was actually my own spin on the true story of a real life chimpanzee named Oliver that I completely fictionalized. It was also based on that other real life chimp, Travis, you know the one who made the news. I guess a full grown chimp is bad news even with a little human DNA thrown in. Five Finger Discount is a brief excursion into what I like to think of as the petty crime genre with a dash of sharia thrown in for spice. Sorry, I couldn't help myself. The last story A Strange Walk In The Woods was very loosely inspired by Eric Brown's Bigfoot Wars with some real life experience thrown in. Eric Brown wasn't even on my radar until he kept showing up in copies of Wal-Mart World at work. They leave it laying around in the break room. His story is the only thing that makes it worth reading. If you read these stories I hope you enjoy them. I know I enjoyed writing them.

Here's the link.

Hear Me, My Gods

Hear me, my gods, for I have walked
the lonely mile.
The mile is long.
See me, my gods, for I have seen
the fabled summit.
It is far away.

Pity me, my gods, your wayward son
for I have murdered sleep.
By forcedark I have climbed alone
the airy hill of sound and days
where noise of silence reigns.

I, who was arrogant,
I, who have mocked
the magnificence of moment,
and I, who can never know peace,
have passed the halls of stone and shame
where my final moment waits,
where I, the aging child of lost repentance,
twist and wail.

    10/12/14

LINES 10/12/14

I am the voice of graves. Listen.
I am the book of fate. Behold.
I am the flesh that crawls. Touch me
and know that none escape
for I am legion everwhere.
Know now that all shall know
the slow turn of my single page
all have written
and none shall read.

    10/12/14

Wine And Crows

Where is the strange wine that we were promised?

Where is our dream glow of sun?

Where is the heart for those who have waited,

the vibrant rest of motion when rest is done

and the long decay of decay.

Where is the force to be gathered

that through the green fuse of the soul

would drive the soul flower in the blood's ray

to linger in eternal shine

and never ending sun?

When here there is only silence

and the dark heart of dark darkness.

When here there are only faces,

mute and murdered by days,

with gaping, slack holes where mouths should be,

pale and lifeless,

the empty sockets of their eyes

limp and hung like rags of skin

on poles of skull and bone.

When here there is only the promise of pain,

mute desire

and wrongful annihilation.

The strange black crow is calling.

The strange black crow that flaps its wings

is dancing on our thirsty grave

as he turns to face us once again

and caw.

-- September 19, 2014

Ballad For Chet

for Chet Atkins (June 20, 1924 - June 30, 2001). Rest in peace.

 

I checked the headlines just the other day.
They told me you had put down your guitar.
They said that you had gone and passed away.
The sun that rose is now a falling star.
And as I sit here strumming my guitar
I realize that pain is now a lay.
The music that once healed now leaves a scar.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.

Like myself you hailed from Tennessee.
Who knew where that glad guitar would lead?
Your laughing lute was clearly filled with glee
when you played "Summertime" with Jerry Reed.
And everyone that knew you just agreed
that your humility would find the way.
Your picking style was all that you would need.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.

Will anybody ever really know
why we were blessed with such a genius?
On every fret where your deft hands would go
you always made it look the easiest.
The music that you made was always blessed,
but now your magic hands have turned to clay.
The music's over. You have gone to rest.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.

I'm just too sad. The music is no comfort.
I wish that yesterday was still today.
The music that I play just makes me hurt.
I put down my guitar. I can not play.

 

The Gods Themselves

I have met the gods. I have made table with the gods themselves.

I drank their honey mead in a starry dynamo of night

with the moon on our faces like second hand sunbeams made anew.

I saw their best minds destroyed by madness

and I crossed oceans of time to find them.

I saw mending walls,

five kings and good nights marred by ungentleness.

I sang of the gods.

I gave praise to the gods:

the gods who planted real toads in their imaginary garden trips,

who broke on through to the other side,

who were both sung and unsung,

who died forgotten in flop houses and gutters

and drank too much while the sun went down and came up again,

who burned their wounds like old dry garbage

while murdering men and owning wives,

who made the blackbirds rough today,

who sang for their countrymen and died with their countrymen,

who circled Hell and told the tale,

who glowed the frozen waters with their rainy raindew

and made mad magic in the middle of this song's lament,

who sacrificed their sense of self for a sense of self and a song of self,

and who asked the hard questions to which no one knows the answers,

not even the gods themselves:

for them and only them I sing this my heart's hearty libation

for which the gods themselves give praise.

- 2/24/2014

Sonnet, July 1, 2014

Art is life. All the artists know it.
It is our language at its highest pitch.
It is the heart of each and every poet
elevated somehow by the stitch

of every breath. Who knew the day would come
when everything we thought we knew was wrong
is made more clear by each and every strum
and every truth is somehow swelled with song?

So time must pass, each writ must play its part,
each line, each poem and every day that strays.
Wisdom flourishes with skillful art.
Old age and art are fused in some strange way.

With every year that's passed we seek the glow
we have not suffered long enough to know.

            7/1/2014

For Katie #1

Your mind is like the wind, mine like the star
of constant north, you blow from east to west
while I am ever distant, never far.
This is the union that displays the best
of what we do not seek but somehow are.
Our families are passing like the days,
We love them even more once passed away.
This does not calm the passion or the will
to seek a cure for all that leads astray
our heart's desire to be content and still.
Why is it that our hearts must struggle so?
Why do we toss and turn, why to and fro
when paradise is just mere words away?

Lines

I have seen wonder in its purest form.
I have seen the essence of all things.
I have gazed inside the hidden drawer

and fled the magic light in fear and shame.
I have seen my face etched on the glass
of light and I have heard the hidden name.

I have felt the ocean moment pass.
I have seen eternity in form
and purity in every blade of grass.

I have felt the joy to which all things must conform
afraid to even feel that state of grace
when all around are sleeping with the worm:

but I have believed in the human race.
I have seen the yard beyond the door
and honesty in every lying face.

I have drunk deep and only wanted more
of the water from light's ocean fountain.
I have found the joy in every chore

and I have made the heart into a mountain
that lump of earth that once was without form.
I have reckoned time is beyond counting

when what's profound exists within the norm
and happiness exists in every thing.
I have felt the sun that warms the worm.
I have seen wonder in its purest form.

Sonnet, June 7, 2014

The trees they hold the essence of the soul,
the soil, the earth, the fire in the sky.
They are the wellspring of a great unknown,
the joy of birth and the truth of all that dies.

From every passing grief they spread their leaves
and give each tiny death back to the soil.
They are the truth that toils and loves and grieves.
They are the life of each and every spoil.

What brought them here? Why do they bring us rest?
Why do they sink their roots into the earth?
From flesh that's cursed to branches that are blessed
they sing of joyful death and joyless birth.

It's not the first time I have asked them why.
I still don't know. The trees will not reply.

        June 7, 2014

Conan The Barbarian

Conan walks beneath the jeweled stars.
He stops to rest. He does not stop to rest.
He wears the Sword of Gloaming on his arm.

He kills the serpent monster in its nest.
He puts the Sword of Gloaming where it sticks.
He stops to rest. He does not stop to rest.

He wears the wizard's head, the larynx,
about his waist. The blood rolls down his arm.
He walks the naked kingdoms near and far.
Conan walks beneath the jeweled stars.

-- 2/19/2014

The Little Death

When we sleep it is the little death
a dress rehearsal for the one to come
for in both states what dreams may come
linger in the life to come
come come come become
beneath the moon and sun
as one.

-- 2/17/2014