Who put this crown upon our heads?

Us.

in failing to receive the recognition, the french-kissing of models and the chortles of bearded pipe-smoking ship captains we believe we rightly deserve, we’ve turned our hunt for verification to elsewhere, from the virtual world of poorly-paid casting couch porn stars and neckbearded glass-pipe smoking insomniacs. Note that we said verification. Our crowns are self made, we wear them so that our heads may sag and our necks break, we wear them to remind ourselves that being part of a generation of wanna-be’s and posers is nothing to be proud of, indeed is something to attempt to escape from as fast as possible. We wear them so that our bodies break long before our flimsy ego’s built upon years of being told “you can be whatever you want” do.

Every artistic compilation project must have some goal, some nirvana to reach towards. Ours is simple, submit, for your approval or loathing, our creations, so that you may judge/enjoy. Anyone can wear the crown of a Peachy King, anyone can submit to our oligarchic asses their magnum opus or works of lesser opus, All we ask is that you read, you write, you play, you create and you be some version of our cult’s ideal member.

Namaste.

Entry #14

Ann Marie laid on the bed and browsed Facebook as the warm sonic tones of Maggie singing “All That Jazz” drifted down the hallway. It was a month before the end of summer and most of the pictures on Ann Marie’s newsfeed showed various acquaintances on vacation in sandy places or laying in the sun at the Quentin’s Lake Reservoir, so named for frontiersman Nathaniel Quentin who founded the first trading post in Deercliff in the early 1800s.  Ann Marie scrolled through the newsfeed absentmindedly and then rapidly flipped back up to the top of the page to check her notifications. She had posted a picture of her and Big Mac about three miles up Harris Creek Road at one of the many waterfalls that ran alongside the road where they had stopped to drop a fishing line and enjoy a picnic. She saw that only four people had liked the photo and decided to turn off her phone’s screen and to drop it gracelessly onto her chest. Continue reading

Asking for a Friend

What is one to do when

Their insides, their kosmos,

Their chakra, boils over, leaking

Essential nutrients onto the hot

Coiled salamander of the post

Modern world, what is one to

Do when science and spirituality,

Who were about to kiss

And create alchemy, turn face

Last minute and leave the room

Empty, what is one to do

When every snare, line, and

Plan only bears old boots

And heavy clouds, what is one to

Do when the tide becomes too

Clingy and the moon decides to go

Find itself another planet?

 

 

Status Update

Captains log, star date 5/31/17… Hello Diane, it’s agent Cooper… extra extra, read all about… ladies and gentlemen of the court… in the red corner… hold onto your butts… LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE. I don’t post to social media much anymore, here’s some of my thoughts to explain why.

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May Day

Grab your maypole and let’s protest,

Crown a spring queen and drench her

In chains, the masters treasure chest

Is full of gold and spider whispers.

 

Grab your maypole and lets dig

Butcher a spring fowl and drench it

In butter, the people deserve to jig

While blind men sing holy writ.

 

Grab your maypole and let’s stay,

Plant a picket fence and drink liqueur

Each morning. We need to decay

As proper mademoiselle and monsieur.

 

Grab your maypole and let’s protest,

Take the nepotist’s boat to the seaway

And swim in tropical waters, all soaked Sunday’s best

And sunken stolen pay.

 

Round and round,

We must be faster,

Hands in the ground

Digging graves for the master.

 

 

Now it has been x weeks since I did that really bad thing

I started keeping track of time

When I was in fourth grade

And I hurried home

With the bright

Idea to stuff

Tissues

Into my

Shirt.

 

So,

The bus rolled up to the four way intersection

And I hurried home along Point Caution Drive,

And I opened the secret

Door in our driftwood fence and nervously sprinted

Down the pathway to my front door through the

Blips of sunlight serenely placed in the spring weather.

 

There was a vividness to spring at that age and it

Might only be because this was when I

Started keeping track of the seasons.

 

I opened the front door and my mom cooed to me that she was

Busy napping so I climbed up the staircase to our rooms and

Nervously, courageously pushed open my sister’s door

Knowing she wouldn’t be home for a bit

And I collected a wad of tissues from

Her dresser and stuffed them into

My shirt and then I walked over

To the mirror and with this

Strange foresight that

It mattered to

Genuinely

Want

To

Be a girl I

Said to myself…
“I like this!”

And I smiled,

It was not solemn at all.

 

And that’s when I started keeping track of time,

Because until the fourth grade,

Until that day my life had

More or less been a blur

Without much suffering

But then my life changed a bit,

Like the lives of many other human beings…

 

My life became, “Now, it has been x weeks since

I did that really bad thing.”

 

OK

OK

Two homeless men were awoken by me

Today

OK

I’ve discovered the real reason that

One of them sleeps on the ramp…

OH NO…

There’s a poweroutlet concealed by the bushes,

So he plugs in a powerstrip and charges his

Devices all night long…

OH YES!

OH NO…

 

OH YES!!!

Honey, Seattle’s very different from San Juan

(bats comically long eyelashes, flashes black fingernails)

 

 

There’s something humiliating about realizing the only reason I feel good is because…

I do miss the trees,

I do miss the air and quiet walks through the woods…

Entry #13

Howdy folks, one of your friendly narrators here. Hope you are enjoying our little tale so far. I’ve always enjoyed a good “previously on…” segment, so let’s get caught up real quick, shall we?

 

Deercliff, a Northwest mountain town, has been hit by tragedy. Maggie Nice, a high school senior, was assaulted following a Halloween party, her unconscious body dumped outside a quaint diner. Found the next morning by the diner’s owner and a fellow high school student (the three-fingered, extra tall Todd Sizemore) Maggie was rushed to the nearby city for medical treatment. The last group to see Maggie was her core group of friends, a set of popular boys and girls, lead by Jimmy “Big Mac” Halvert whose open house had been the base for a costume party. At the party, Maggie had been seen kissing Ethan Largo, who was really just trying to get Big Mac’s on-again off-again girlfriend Ann Marie to look at him as a potential romantic entanglement. Ethan is now the primary suspect of the investigation into Maggie’s assault, due to a beer run which coincides with the suspected time of the attack. While the group of friends set out to find out what happen to Maggie and prove Ethan’s innocence, multiple other wheels have begun to spin in Deercliff. Sheriff Essie Boyer is chasing a lead from a distraught young teacher, who claims to have seen Maggie the night of the assault in some sort of BDSM room at an elite party. Todd Sizemore, having found and kept Maggie’s phone, is trying to find his cousin Delia, who has been sending numerous texts to Maggie’s number. Maggie’s brother Trevor is speeding across the flat, snow-covered stretches of North Dakota and Eastern Montana to see his sister and family, a strange hitchhiker in tow. The Largo’s have taken their son to the city, and they all sit awkwardly in the cramped law office of Chas German, a slew of square-jawed football trophies looking down on them from the walls. In the same city, at a little hipster coffee shop, a gaggle of young girls are painting signs and trying to figure out how to split the gas bill to get up to Deercliff, desperate to not let this girl become another faceless victim.

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Entry #12

“So this is where you’ll spend most of your shift, probably,” said Kate, holding the door open so that Todd could step into the borderline miniature kitchen. Todd slouched into the room and bumped up against the brushed steel stove top and Kate followed.  There was scarcely room to turn around with both of them in there. Continue reading

Three Year Anniversary Poetry Dump

This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.

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