Apr 23

Stop being afraid of dialects.
They are just the product of communities
with a new way to frame language,
the stuff of inside jokes
between siblings and inner circles,

the way we get a little wavy
when the current events
get too choppy,

because you see
a dialect
is to language as
a cult
is to religion

and the product of the connotation
is just a manifestation
of that which you hold
sacred, but divinity
has always served to keep the
caste system in operation,

and of course followers always
get lost eventually so I
can’t necessarily
blame you for
wanting a standard

direction for all outer forms of
when you’re making corrections
on another improperly placed
modifier, and when you
get misguided because u c

some text speak,
or phrases like I be,

but remember that changes
in the language reflect changes
in civilizations
and in the way a day moves
according to the earth’s

and so being afraid of dialects
is like being afraid of change itself,
which is like being afraid of self, 

or at least the one in the mirror
putting on the tie,

practicing the speech 
intended later for the board of


It could never sound
any better.

Apr 16

When the breaking point was hit
like Charlie Brown standing on
a pitcher’s mound, we laughed like
our problems were mere Peanuts
being broken and shedding their skin
beneath the bleacher seats as a
miniature black raincloud circled
up above.  And then the absurd
boiled over into body heat, and
you and me exorcising demons
with holy incantations written
by the prophets we never bothered
to believe in even though we still
see sin as a birthright that teaches
us to love each others’ imperfections.
Because misdirection is just the way,
banging out into a wide open
nothingness, becoming more
condensed until it finds itself being
something that matters.  Like you
and me bobbing along like survivors
on a flimsy plastic raft, perhaps
we never will find the shore again,
but if we can dive bomb like
Red Barons, then maybe Linus
will share with us half of his
baby blue security blanket.

Apr 14

The specimen was crestfallen like a Ronan warrior
feeling like he should take off his own head,

feeling unusual like Beetlejuice
largely unnoticed
living in a tiny plastic model of a small town,
we said his name with a confused frown,
three whole times

not knowing we were about to unloose a monster
or a demon
with the sense of humor of
a lost little twelve-year old boy.

The rim of the toilet bowl we try not to observe
until the cleaning wills itself
through annoyance 

even as the task feels like

and the lemon scent doesn’t work as a

it just adds to the miasma like an exponential
on a number line trying to become

How many digits can we touch or feel,
how many fingerprints can we stain with ink,
how many sinks will it take to hold

all the empty glasses
drained of parachuted alcoholic drinks?

Are we somehow safer now?
And is the aperture letting in sufficient light
for the optimal viewing?

Fight for the right to watch a party
like a created word
that justifies a behavior
and confounds all the philosophers

until the examined life
can easily be referenced in
an unabridged dictionary.


Hey everyone!  Just a friendly reminder that Gauche is still accepting submissions for the inaugural issue.  Any and all journalism, poetry, photography, fiction, drawings and any other forms of art work.  The first issue is themed “first times” so please have the submission related to something to do with new experiences.  Send your submissions to gauchezine@gmail.com!  And check us out on Facebook too!

Apr 05

Soporific like the lulling whisper of a CBS commentator
talking long games and short games and which club and
how many strokes under the target it will take to win.  The
Masters wear Green Jackets like Black Jack table felt.  How
many dreams have died under those calloused finger tips
pounding the places where stacks once sat like the
gavels of the men who call the meetings according to
Robert’s Rules of Order?  On the border between sleep
and the first cup of morning coffee, the alarms have to snooze
like Minutemen on the other side of a concrete wall trying
not to think of all the things that could make it fall like
a sledgehammer or TNT or a firing brigade or even a simple
political debate.  We only hate that which we will ourselves to.
Where there’s the combination of environment and DNA
giving and taking like lungs and atmospheric gasses, all feelings
will eventually pass like kidney stones.  The morphine will
help—don’t worry, it’s technically morally okay just so long
as you suffer from the right kind of pain. The kind that can
be drained from a knee or from an already drained bank account.
Sometimes, we only amount to bankruptcy like the memories
of former corporate giants.  U.S. Steel built the pyramids 
of our age, and then vanished like Atlantis and now all that’s left
is the man on stage playing a tiny violin as we yawn and gasp
for oxygen trying not to let the heavy lids fall over our eyes like
coffins housing exquisite corpses housing exquisite corpus-callosums.

Apr 01

So, now that I got this spiffy new top hat, I’ll reblog this post again.  Some friends of mine and I are starting a spiffy new little DIY zine called Gauche.  You should submit!  We are already receiving some excellent work, and are excited about what the first issue may hold!


GAUCHE is currently seeking journalism, essays, short stories, poetry, photography, drawings, paintings, and any other such cultural revelations for our inaugural issue—an 8 x 5 DIY zine founded in the spirit of the punk rock culture of the mid to late 90’s. We like a certain brashness of style, a certain unforgiving tone, a certain aversion to the rules, a certain desire to just speak your fucking mind—even if that mind is an utterly inept wasteland.

The inaugural issue will be themed “First Times” so get to being all artsy fartsy and send us your best work about new experiences.

Email submissions to gauchezine@gmail.com.  We don’t like rules here at GAUCHE so there is no deadline (the issue will be done when it’s good and ready), length requirements (it is an 8 x 5 use your best judgment), or file formats (do make sure we can open it on most normal programs on a pc or mac).  Also, since it is a paper zine, it would be good to include your mailing address when you submit so we can send you a copy if we decide to publish your work.

Source: gauchezine

Mar 27


Hey everyone early warning, but Gauche is a hardcopy zine I’m starting with some friends and we are currently seeking submissions for our first issue.  For more info, visit our facebook page.  We’ll have a tumblr coming soon!

Mar 11

For Leslie

You’re so beautiful
that it makes me
want to write
the kind of
sappy sentimental
hacky Hallmark card
poetry that starts with
phrases like
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that it makes me
want to further my
sentimental crimes
with goo goo ga ga guns
that rat-a-tat repeat
each stanza’s
beginning and end
with refrains like
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that I don’t think I
could possibly calculate
a limit to the magnitude
in which your
soul sparkles
in the reflection of light
in your deep brown eyes
when you stare at me
wanting me
to say more
things to you like
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that you are beautiful—
like the word beautiful,
or at least the image
that the sound of the
word beautiful creates
when I look at the symbol,
beautiful, on the page,
is an image of you
that makes me
want to tell you
You’re so beautiful.

You’re so beautiful
that I’ve used the word
beautiful 14 times now,
including just now,
if you’re counting
like I am,
because as the time
that we’ve spent together
grows like the word count
in a novel in progress,
that moves like
a struggle between
wanting to know the ending
and enjoying the wordplay
of the present page,
and always worth the
eye-straining late night effort,
I’ve found a way to fuse
my two passions
because when I say
beautiful out loud
and see my internal picture
of your face, it’s
semiotics like sex,
and the release is
getting to tell you
one more time
how much
You’re so beautiful.

Mar 07

It’s cool like a generation gap
between the window and the sill—
we keep it ever so slightly open
so the bedroom won’t smell like
stale cigarette smoke tomorrow—
when the cold wind acupunctures
itchy skin, where goosebumps
look like needlemarks and blood
still races away from deeper wounds,

we knew it would happen soon
enough, but enough was always
so elusive like speaking the same
language learned in a different
region, how we don’t understand
each other’s intonations and can’t
come to terms with the time zones
between us—now is always an hour
away, and I always get so into
whatever I’m doing that I always
miss the turning over of hands when

standing at attention doesn’t lead
to surrender the same way that
all roads lead to a way to get
somewhere, to a place where we
can prove motion or a continuum—
I wish I could continue on, but
I slept through Calc 1 because the
class met so early in the morning,
and my coffee was still too hot
to drink—in those sorts of abstract
sequences that don’t use universal
codes of symbolism, it isn’t the

math that’s the problem, it’s the
way a memory is like re-reading
your favorite book, how the deeper
themes get uncovered in the
revisiting, but the familiar lines
of dialogue comfort your loss
of the first time about as well as
sleeping on an air mattress during
the winter time brings feelings

of being well-rested, especially
if the blanket you’re nested in
has too many holes from falling
asleep with a cigarette still tucked
between your fingers—fire safety’s
important so never close your eyes
even to stop the burning in a smoky
room—and if the window’s still
opened ever so slightly to bring
in the needed relief, remember

it gets cold like a generation gap
between the window and the sill
when the fall makes you feel
like it’s been too cool for too long.

Jan 31

On those nights when thoughts of dying
swarm like cicadas—hissing, flapping,
bumping and pelting against the pane
(pain cloaked  in old dented dusty
venetian blinds) failing to keep out
the percolated sunshine burning
eyes like dried grass in the summertime—

I search for the cooler side
of an already twice-flipped pillow
wheezing from the smoke billow
recently ingested, still smoldering
in the cheap plastic Budweiser ashtray.

Led astray, somewhere along the line,
there were decisions that became actions
that produced results,
and some of those results formed habits
and hung out in boys rooms like
youth gang members wearing
bandanas like old west bandits
trying to act like the image
they had collected from the societal collage
of what it means to be a man. 

And now I am left reading the
clipped out letters from magazines,
multicolored torture sentences arranged
in judgments like super glue
to form ransom letters,
and now I am left deciding what
is worth keeping even though the universe
will find in the end that I am not.

I guess maybe love really is all I got,
and why can’t that be enough? Why not?

Nov 06

I’ve got dyslexia like that kid in The Shining
riding his big wheels on the big screen
through the giant oligarch era of late night television.
Asking who the fuck is Ed Sullivan?  And why
is Johnny here, and what has he done with
daddy issues?  Don’t pass me a tissue. 
I’m not sad, I’m doomed like Oedipus Rex. 
I’m haunted like different versions of
the same ghost story.  I’m spooked by realizations
that all stories are ghost stories.  Spirits of former lives
with forward trajectories.  Captured thoughts bound
in super glue.  Hegemony came with a binary
zero and one, but forgot about two while I forgot
about shivering on hot nights when television
and movies hadn’t yet told me how to feel.
And yet there were always books, and romantic
crooks undressing me like a banana peel
that never even hid the bruises or the yellow
belly.  Because it’s not the image so much that’s
important, but the reaction to a sensation.  Like
starvation, art ceases to cause hunger pain when the
body goes into shock like therapy.  Like the
heresy I feel when I refuse to participate in
a fixed game plotted like a word deliberately
spelled backwards.  Distilled, and packed with
sugar.  Poured over ice, melting frozen
intentions. I sat back and listened to the booms
of Dolby digital inventions, and still there must
have been a point when it went the other way. 

The other side is alright, not great, but
alright like right turns versus left turns.
The simple pleasure of getting to go when
you’re supposed to stop.  Of breaking rules.
Of reminiscing about the old school.  Tradition
is so hard to break because it’s made out of
polypropylene, out of manmade dreams
that stink like dead bodies when they burn.
That stink like speaking out of turn when you
know you’re just supposed to listen.
We could be friends but the distance between
our experience doesn’t shift like magnets.
Like polar opposites.  It’s too similar
for me to tell you you’ll have to go through
hell.  A place designed for us by books,
but look, some of us weren’t meant to live
life.  Only to survive it.  To multiply it
with an exponential that is nondescript.  Ineffable
sadness that isn’t so ineffable when you
just sit down and write (ride) it out.

Months of impassivity.  Creativity
has to come again like a porn star.
It’s contractually obligated that you
stay hard like life.  Like strife.  Like

five minutes that can change your
whole life.  Accident prone except
when it’s done on purpose to hurt us,
and three hundred sixty degrees still

doesn’t bring more pleasure than a
single slice.  Pepperoni paradise
where the smoke is more a flavor
than an intoxicant, and still you get

hooked on it like a parasite hoping
deliverance doesn’t die.  Your life
depends on it like adult diapers.  It
gets shitty when you miss me.  When

you forget that sometimes there is a key
that’s not metaphorical. Only shiny
metal that won’t rust if it doesn’t get
rained on like a parade.  The shade

came from a shadow.  It’s not callow
to point that out if it’s still a direction

worth following.

Jul 29

Hot fingers nimble down
a piece of color-changing glass—
black and scorched now—
he ran out of green
sometime during
the last go round
and so he puffs
an empty bowl slowly
trying to put the leftovers
in a brown doggie bag. 
Smoke.  Smoke? 
Where’s the Smoke?

Dried up resin in a reservoir
ceasing its burn,
and now all that’s left are
the thoughts in a butter churn.
Heady thoughts
round and round, or
side-to-side like the sizzle
sound of  inhaled butane.
Reasons that answer why
his throat is the only
thing burning—

exhaling nothingness,
gas again, an expression like
where there’s smoke,
there’s fire
keeping his hot fingers
nimbling always down
a piece of color-changing glass—
in only one direction.

Smoke.  Smoke?
Where’s the Smoke?

Jun 29

This is a staff piece I wrote for the new lit mag/blog project I’m working on with Noelle and Dylan.  Check out the story, and check out Edge and Void Fiction! 


Staff Note:  Just a little primer story to get the blog going!  Submissions open July 10th for our first issue.  Also, anyone interested in writing a single story or serial for the blog (separate from the issues), email edgeandvoidfic@icloud.com with your idea.  Do not submit to this address.  This is simply a point of contact.  Submissions to this email will not be responded to.


Creepy Willis sat on all fours wearing a creepy cream stained wife-beater and otherwise remained naked from the waist down leaning ever the more slightly forward, towards the Macbook screen on the floor displaying the creepy photos—cleavage shots and upskirts—he’d taken at grocery stores and bars and the Laundromat across the street from his creepy apartment complex in the creepiest part of town—creepy photos taken from the creepy extra high definition extra digital extra high-strength zoom lens on his extra expensive camera.  Next to the computer sat the source of the trackpad’s sticky sheen coating—a bottle of extra long lasting lubricant—purchased at the extra creepy adult bookstore with the extra jumping midnight parking lot full of other creeps like Creepy Fred and Creepy Joe and Creepy Larry.  Creepy Willis’ face was turning blue just above the belt wrapped around his neck and tied to his bedroom door’s knob. 

Bluer and bluer it turned as each beat of his fist grew faster and faster, and then it morphed again into a deep purple when Creepy Willis’ release happened.  It was as if a year old golf-ball sized cyst in his soul had been punctured, and finally all the fluid was pouring out in droves and taking the pain with it.  It was as if he had spent years obsessing on the perfect singular feeling, and then he found it, what he’d been waiting his whole life for.  The completion of that life’s work.  His opus.  The perfect orgasm.  Body, Mind, and Soul all combining and blending into a potency of paralysis and drool. 

And then, well there’s no other way to describe it than floating on a cloud of double-D titties, bouncing up and down gently as if he were lying on an otherwise dormant trampoline.  Up and Down, Up and down, up and down, each bounce growing shorter as he began to hear a train whistle in perfect C major, a sweeping sound that—along with the room emitting the smell of fresh garlic—left joyful tears running down his bloated cheeks.  His jaw clenched, his teeth began to grit, and then he became blind as if he had just opened the exit doors to the movie theatre just after a matinee showing. 

With the blindness came the realization that only pain could produce a pleasure so great.  He knew it when he started to feel the stabbing in his gut—the pleasurable stabbing—the glimpse at femininity—what he’d never understood before. And then there was no more understanding. 

Just the end of shame—caked into the carpet fibers with his last human creation.

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