Making gods out dust
I like my favorite food , like my favorite humans , I will consume over and again , addict to euphoria , idolizing the flavor , I will share it joys with everyone , but never a piece from my plate … over time It will disappoint me and their is no joy in consuming so much of something only to be let down … I have made a god out of peach O’s and watched it humble me … I have made thrones out of dirt and flesh … and only to be disappointed their is no altar fitting for humans and fleeting circumstances , that show me too much of how they are flesh and dirt , their is no gold in their bones , they will weather like iron in the means of storms .. rust showing all character and nothing becoming …
My body becomes a jungle gym
You climb on me
Knead yourself into
I am placid and jello
The kitchen calls me
My mouth leaves itself open like a fly trap
I wonder if this is what being underground feels like… or sitting on a pedastal and watching mortals .. chose a god … and finding their is no heaven in between legs .. after the light goes out , we are all shadows and gaping mouths .. making gods out of dust ..
I hope this reaches the right audience.
I may not be able to save you all, but please know that I'm cheering you from afar.
I may not be able to fix your problems, but I'm able to listen to you, within a shallow column.
I may not be able to help you, but I'm able to cry with you.
I may not be able to stitch your scars, but I'm able to appreciate the beauty of your scars from afar.
I may not be able to give helpful advice, but I might be able to guide you towards the light.
I may not be able to hold your hands, but I'll be able to gaze at you.
And cry with you.
And simply just...
listen. to you.
I may not be able to save you. In fact, I've failed to save multiple people.
But I hope my words reach you. Anyone. Even just one person. Even if I impact at least one person, that's already more than enough for me.
I know I can't do much. I know it's not possible to make everyone happy. I know it's not possible to turn everyone's frown into a smile. But you know what's possible? Taking things one step at a time. Even when things get difficult.
I know it may seem like nothing's ever going to get better. I know it may seem like you're alone in this, but you're not. And if you ever feel like the world is better without you, you're wrong. You're absolutely wrong.
The world is a better place because you're in it. And I know it's hard to believe it, because it also took me such a long time to believe it. You are so much more important for this world than you realize. In one way or another, you made such a huge impact in this world, significant or not. I know my words may seem like nothing to you right now, but ever since you appeared in this community, you only made me feel even more inspired by your words. And I'm grateful because you're here. All of us are grateful because you're here. Alive.
I know we may not know each other. I know my words may seem odd at the moment. But you. You are one magnificent person. You are way more powerful, and strong, and braver, and more important than you think. I don't know what we would be able to do without you.
I don't know how you'll take my words. I don't know if my words will pierce you instead of comfort you. I don't know how you'll react to my words. But just know that I'm here for you.
I know I can't save you. It's not possible for a person on the other side of the screen, typing this out, being able to save you just because of my words. I know I can't physically go out of my way to hug you or comfort you every day because to an extent, it drains me if I comfort others too much, knowing damn well that no one would ever do the same to me back.
But no matter what, as long as I'm alive, I'll always be here by your side.
If a peeling streak of lightning
came rippling towards the crown
of some great and ancient oak tree
rooted to a grassy mound
and if with sublime majesty
that tree came toppling down
would it even let a whisper out
if no one was around?
And would the after rumbles
echo through some sleepy town
where crying little children
huddled from the hellish pounds
of a Heaven flushed with anger
and a spite that knows no bounds
that a tree which lived 300 years
could fall without a sound.
I imagine getting into gardening at the age of 71. Tending to your garden whilst breathing in the warm, fragrant summer air with all the flowers in bloom has a very relaxing and satisfying feel to it. Turn this into a metaphor and it could signify watching your kids and their kids bud and blossom with the passage of time. I also imagine I'd be spending a lot of time in parks. There's this one near my home, it's called Hilal Park and it's beautiful. It's always buzzing with people laughing and chattering away with their loved ones yet it's something about the infrastructure, the way that the park itself is built on layers of rock that makes one feel peaceful and connected to nature. So yeah I think I see myself sitting there with a bunch of old ladies, chatting away about life and what it's become.
interviewing unpublished writers
he did have a dream
of becoming a
in his youth
but youth doesn’t last
One day he grew up
and had to pick
job. He studied journalism
and became a reporter
It was today’s task
the old dream. He had to
interview unpublished writers
A lot of them
and the general
“Why do you write?”
The answers he
“I don’t know,” said one
writer. “I’m just trying to
recapture the feeling I had in
my mother used to beat me
until I fell unconscious
and dreamed that
she loved me.”
And another said, “I’m not
sure. I just write
because I can’t
do anything else in life.”
Another said, “I’m still trying
to write the perfect
suicide note to leave
behind. I swear to God, I will
not kill myself
until I write it! That’s
what makes me a writer.
“Me? Oh, I’m not a writer. I just
jot down elaborate
torture scenes involving
my ex-husband. If you’ve
read ‘The Room’ by Hubert Selby Jr
you know what I’m
talking about. But nah, I’m not
a writer. It’s just my… way of…
yeah, I’m not a writer.”
“I keep trying to put my dreams
into words. That’s the
kind of writer
I am. Not much of a writer. I
mostly dream about being
raped by my little sister while
our parents are
watching TV in the living room.”
“Who told you I’m a writer?
Well, I mean,
I write stuff, but honestly it all started
because I wanted to impress
some girl. It didn’t work,
of course, she went with another guy.
Since then I discovered that
I’ve a cuckold fetish and all my stories
portray it. I’m not
proud of my work.”
“I’ve seen a man die
before my eyes
when I was a kid. So logically
I started writing
stories about soap carving. I don’t
wanna talk about it. Thanks.”
"I suffer from quite
case of claustrophobia. Every time
I come out of
a closed space I get this
inexplicable urge to write. But yeah,
it happens only when my issue gets
of me. I've only written about
six thousand pages or so."
“I killed eight men.
I gotta say. Thanks.”
“Well, I guess it all started with
little animals. I loved
to place them in extremely small
cages and then just
watch them day after day
as they grow thirsty and hungry
and desperate. I started writing down
the evolution of their
misery. I grew out of it
when my mother had an accident that
left her paralyzed.
I watched her then. And I learned
a lot. Now I can create
fictional characters that go through
the same. I’m quite good at it.”
“My neighbor has a mentally
She’s quite cute and… you know,
writing fiction is the only
way I can live
my fantasies with her. Oh, I’ve written
so many thousands of
“I’m a porn addict. It’s gotten so
bad that I can’t get
hard with real women
anymore. The only thing that gets me
hard now is
imagination. I write about
the times when I heard
having sex in her bedroom
when I was a child. The fact that she
wasn’t doing it
with my dad… somehow gets
me hard. So that’s why I
“I have… restriction orders. The only
way I can reach
the people I want to
reach is through
writing. I’m not happy about it.”
“Why do I write? Well, how else
can I explain
what it feels like to be buried
alive? I mean literally.”
“I am The Holy Spirit.”
“I’ve been abducted by
times. It’s going to happen again.
I know it. I’ve nothing
against it. They
are working on my
brain. This is a blessing. I am
the chosen one. Have you
read my writings? You
should, before I get
published and they censor me."
“Are you kidding me? Why do I write?
Hey, you really don’t know
who I am? I am the woman
who died and came back to life. If
someone has something to
say… that’ll be me. Have
you read my books? They're all online!”
“Huh, why do I write?
Because fuck you, that’s why!”
“Honestly, man, I don’t
“I actually don’t
At the end of the
remembered why he never
made it as a writer
and the next day
he interviewed more
Sonnet for Erato
Erato my muse, my love, my quiet sorrow,
you sing your sweetest song like dreams to me,
and when the evening stars foretell tomorrow,
your artful words set thoughts and verses free,
and as the shadows fall and darkness grows,
I see your shining eyes in morning’s sun;
the sunrise fills the world with color’s glow
and as the daylight spreads, the shadows run.
I hear your song in birdsong, chirps and tweets;
I see your light as flowers’ colors gleam,
and sense your power through the mountain peaks.
I hear your secrets rumbling through the streams,
and when I close my eyes you whisper clear
in thoughts and memories, smiles and tears.
On the Horizon
It’s getting dark later
as the sun spreads gold
across the sinking evening
and I feel a big one coming;
I sense a birth looming on the horizon,
an explosion of word pictures,
a night with Erato
and a morning and a day,
and the stars sparkling in the night
are the sequins in her dress,
and the moon is her spotlight
as she dances around me
like a fire spirit,
and I slowly open my mouth
to see what sort of lightning prophecy
seeps out with quiet thunder.
The Title Wouldn’t Be Mine, Either
All those pretty horses gallop away, running from the cities of the plain and into the expanse where I cannot see. Before they broke my hold I shepherded them as far as I could, or drove them—whatever the term is for horses. They want a land my borrowed words cannot paint.
I’m abandoned and flatfooted beside my faceless cowboy...
This story had been kicking around in my files for several months before it found the right home: https://lespritliteraryreview.org/2022/06/15/the-title-wouldnt-be-mine-either/ My thanks to L'Esprit Literary Review for publishing my odd little flash fiction.
On isle alone
tan shores gorge
sky blue seas…
Tides travel on
slain beaches, obsidian ridden…
Obscene flames persist
freeing foam roams
grains rife with volcanic relics,
Lava lush as emerald
shards brushed by swooping gales…
Palm trees shredded of
hair-like bark, leaves fallen
cabin fever in Satan's hand…
Death frolics past my lips
carried by journals and dusty books…
Often pioneers patrol dense fields
for artifacts of decades past, some nights
they riot through nuclear winter inland,
Concrete debris, steel demon's
felled, bodies disintegrate,
Where Hellish fruits preside,
germinating in a sporadic pattern,
flames warm polar desert rubble…
I awoke afraid to look out past
vast pardisial landscapes,
Bullets holes and fragile brass
swarmed my watchtower, canvas
tents below flicker, poachers it seems…
Fatal July approaches, June
a phoenix spewing summer solstice
Across alienated rock, I punch
Reinforced walls at times breaching
It's judgmental exterior,
I paint like Picasso,
I bleed like Van Gogh…
Bed sores multiply, I lay down until
I'm ready to eat, sleep fades as I
scroll, invaders below speak
Up every evening threatening to
assassinate me, they throw frags
On my deck hoping to weaken
my war weary fortress, I tell them
not even every nuke left on this
Brutal globe could bring this
concrete monstrosity down,
This is Devil's Den,
A place to dwell, not purgatory,
Barely a means of defense
Whoever was worth saving is
What remains is me.
You look at me
and see a father of four,
good job, somewhat talented writer,
likes to read and drink coffee,
teaches Sunday school at church,
but don’t be fooled;
I’m the one your mother warned you about,
staying up through the wee hours
scraping the outer reaches of my mind
searching for purpose, for meaning
in a world that chews us up and spits us out
like mangled chicken bones,
fighting that urge
for one more drink, one more shot, one more hit,
one more bullet to the head,
with white knuckles bleeding,
howling at the moon and cursing God,
horny as hell,
looking for love in women half my age,
hookers and alcoholics
filling in the cracks in the walls at the bars,
living like a rat
scurrying through the garbage,
looking for any scraps I can find,
like a black hole
that sucks everyone and everything,
all life, all happiness, all goodness
into itself and destroys it,
shattering everything into oblivion and darkness.
But I put my nice clothes on,
stretch my fake smile across my face,
turn my analytical mind away from itself
and towards algorithms and complex problems,
go to my job, go to church on Sundays,
and hope that maybe some of that wholeness
will rub off on me
and not vice versa.