Skip to content

As Cruel as Candy

oh sweet waste of time

how
i want to pop your fizzle
as i wizard through
the middle of your
springdamp leaves
leave your garden unguarded & fill me
with your wishes
your
dreams &
your dishes
all washed & dried with your spoons & knives

monkey in the middle
the cat & the fiddle
the meddle & the muddle
the mud in the puddle

reflected
in your muddy gaze
my sweet
fleet waste of time
i’m
oh so dazed & drenched
in sizzle
in a tizzy in your
tangles tasting
the tang of trees

smack in the middle
flat on the griddle
the fat & the gristle
the wolf & the whistle

& oh how
i wish i was a concentrate
of sugarlime attentive to
your
bells & chimes
sucking sweet
the lolly time
& true
to chew your
gums
your teeth your tongue
your top your tip your tappedout cup
your pie
your crust

the proof in the pudding
the coulding & the woulding
the messing & the mudding
the flowers all budding

& i blossom oh so
well as
i swell with the tide
a’wash with light & your fingers
in my mouth & your teeth
in my mouth & my bones
& my blood
jammed into your jars

a smack on the bottom
the fresh & the rotten
the wool & the cotton
the fool not forgotten

beguiled by the pool whirling
into your seas sailing down
the stream
to your steams
& your screams
& i’m oh all so here
inside
insinuated

i want to puncture you
i want to puncture you
i want to punctuate my love with a mark across your back

Frozen

this space a timebomb popsicle a toychest
incognito & frozen glass a corridor
for you to fall for you to stumble
ball & chain
ball & chain a million years
of rain

this town a tiny dancing
sea a buzzing humbug bundle of
joy a little lost & lovely for
you to fall for
you to crumble ball & chain ball
& chain a million
nights of sleep

this life
a frozen spanglebox an owl afternoon of penguin
tophat dance & drain
for you to
fall for you to fumble ball
& chain
ball & chain a million days of
arabesques ball & chain
ball & chain a million
days of masques

If You Were the Pope

if i were the king
of your pumpkinheaded land
i’d cross the burning deserts
just to kiss your velvet hand
i’d paint my hair the color of your eyes
& tell you stupid things
& do my best to impress you
if i were the king

& we all find ourselves on the express bus of destiny sometimes…

if you were the queen
of my imaginary home
i’d wash your feet in soda pop
& dust your mother’s bones
i’d wrap you up in cellophane
& keep you squeaky clean
i’d do my best to impress you
if you were the queen

& we all find ourselves in the crosshairs of destiny sometimes…

if you were the pope
of the holy roman church
i’d find you little boys to grope
& help you in your search
to find the head of baphomet
& raise the minimum wage
i’d serve you snacks & mix you drinks
& dance inside your cage

i’d laugh for you!
i’d cry for you!
i’d run & skip & lope!
i’d go on & on & on & on & on & on for hours
doing my best to impress you
if you were the pope

& we all find ourselves in the backstreets of destiny sometimes…

All She Wrote

with a sense of garlic & a little something-something
i am the well-heeled monarch of tin montage

–ready? okay!
watch this spot for future monologues
as i dance like an elephant in my pajamas
all shotgun sapphires & cobalt crooning
damned to the cough of dungeons

do you see what i mean when i speak of freckles & nerves?

& so…
it must be tuesday
it must be belgium
it must be a bottled-up plunge into dream
when i pulled my teeth
& did my little dance
so free…so free…so free…
i mean–
no finals, no obviouslies, no stick to the stack of sound

get it? do you not get it?

okay, here it comes–
no matter
no mind
no more paint for the punt
no sneak
no snatch
& all just a snip-snip-snip to the head
cos the puppet will keep on going & going
until the clocks run down

& that, my friends, is all she wrote!

Exeunt, Pursued by a Bear

I said I was going to be sharing something every day in my prepping for the novel I’ve had bouncing around in my head, the one I intended to write this past National Novel Writing Month. And yet, I haven’t posted anything in four weeks.

“What happened?” you may be asking, unless you actually have things in your life that are occupying your mind and time.

What’s happened is this: I ran out of one of my psych meds earlier this month and spent a week with very off-kilter brain chemistry. I missed some work, I couldn’t focus on much of anything, and I could brain well enough to put words on paper–or even make notes for putting words on paper. After I got back on my meds and got my back on track, I continued to put off doing much prep and avoided posting anything here. Last week, I realized that the pressure I was putting on myself to prove to everyone that I could be and was a goddamn novelist, forcing myself to hold myself publicly accountable, was making me loathe writing at all. I had a list of novels and short stories I absolutely had to read and TV shows and movies I absolutely had to watch as prep for this novel, regardless of whether or not I felt like reading or watching them. Every minute I wasn’t reading or watching from the required list or making notes for the novel was time I was wasting. And every day I didn’t post something on this blog was another reminder of what a failure I am. Giving myself the label “Writer” was depressing me. This blog was starting to feel like a stone weight around my neck.

I’m 44 years old and I’m tired of thinking of myself as a failure. The real waste of time is not doing what gives me joy and beating myself up for failing to live up to imaginary expectations. If I never get to be a published author, so fucking what? If I’m never considered a “real writer” by myself or anyone else, so fucking what? When I’m lying in my death bed and looking back over my life, I want to be happy about the time I spent doing things that bring me real joy. I want to read whatever the hell I feel like reading at the time. I want to watch whatever the hell I feel like watching at the time. I want to daydream, plan, plot, scheme, write, sketch, doodle, and play as the whim hits me. If I want to share these things with other people, that’s cool. If I want to keep them to myself, that’s cool, too. As much as I’ve wanted to be a Writer, a Novelist, a Poet, what I really, really want to be is Happy.

I don’t know what this means for this site. I’ve had the goblin-cartoons domain for over 10 years. I love the term “goblin cartoons” and still think it’s the best name for the kinds of things I like to create. But right now, I don’t particularly feel up to sharing my writing with the public or pressuring myself to produce more than I feel capable of producing. I think a Real Writer is someone who writes whether they feel inspired or not. At this point, I’m not sure I care about being a Real Writer. If being a Real Writer is showing up and doing the work, well, I’d rather wander around and play.

And I’m more than OK with that.

Begin the Begin

When I was a college undergrad, this is how I wrote the majority of papers for my liberal arts classes (which I took a lot of, being a liberal arts kind of guy):

1) get up at the crack of dawn (or just before the dawn had begun to crack) of the day my paper was due and walk to the main computer cluster on campus (because I didn’t own a computer of my own);

2) sit down at a computer with a general idea in my head of what I wanted to write about;

3) write down the words and images that were currently stuck in my head, regardless of how directly they applied to the topic of the paper (if at all), write down synonyms and homonyms of the words, come up with puns and associations that played off of the words and images;

4) skip the introduction and start writing the meat of the essay, making it up as I go based on my general topic, dancing the prose around the words and images I’d sketched out;

5) go back and write the introduction, then write the conclusion of the essay;

6) print that sucker out, run to class, turn it in. (For the record, I usually got Bs and As on those papers.)

For my fellow tabletop RPG nerds out there, here’s how I generally prepare to run a role-playing game:

1) pick the setting and game mechanic bits I like the most;

2) write down words and images that are floating around in my head, things I’d like to throw into the game;

3) write up a bunch of NPCs with strong emotions and dire needs and goals, people who will want to either try to enlist the PCs or do their best to oppose the PCs;

4) tie in the setting and NPCs into the words, images, and general themes I have in mind;

5) get the players together to make characters;

6) throw conflict at the PCs and improvise wildly.

No, I’m not a plotter, I’m a pantser. My brain just doesn’t work well with planning. When I tried planning out essays in college (or even writing them well before they were due), I got bored to the point where I couldn’t motivate myself to write them. When I tried planning and plotting role-playing games I was going to run, they turned out to be not much fun for myself or the players (while the games where I’ve improvised wildly have usually turned out to be the most fun for everyone involved). No, not everything I’ve created by the seat of my pants has been brilliant–or even pretty good–but it’s the only way I know how to create and maintain my enthusiasm.

So as I get ready to write a novel, I’m not doing much in the way of plotting it out in advance. I have a general idea of the overarching plot, an idea of where we’re going to end up, but not how we’ll get there. I’ve got a few characters broadly sketched out, but I need to develop them more and come up with a few more characters before I’ll feel ready to throw them into each other and let the story happen. I need to sketch out the setting some more, having only very vague ideas of what the setting is like. And just as important, I need to write out the words, images, and tropes I want to throw in. (I’m a huge fan of TVTropes and a big believer that Tropes Are Not Bad.) I will probably not start writing with the beginning of the story but jump in at some point in media res, then go back and write the opening of the story when I have a better feel for how I want it to begin. My brain rarely goes from point A to point B to point C and on and on to point Z in a linear fashion, so why should I try to make myself write fiction (and prep for writing fiction) in a linear way?