Hey people, I hope you're doing beautifully. I have been--
writing quite a bit more than I really ever have before,
for the past couple months, esp. the last couple weeks.
However, in the wake of this creative outburst, I've been sleeping on the polishing that goes into what comes out--a bit too much basking in the sunlight, if you will (I did). Also my computer and internet availability have been trying (and failing).
But, without further ado, I bring to you three new works on the 'Other Works' tab,
and this post--written at a Seattle Public Library computer as time is quickly expiring, but the poetic meat of which was written by candlelight on my back porch in San Antonio the early morning of New Years Evening (yes it has been a while indeed):

~I called; you stalled,
                                       then told me to come over--
for not too long—I played some songs by a band you didn't know,
and you with cards and some glass shards to shine a shadow show.
You made some tea for us and me as we filled your room with smoke
but I spilled mine. You couldn't divine the meaning of the tarot.
The sound was warped; the light, distort from finicky flames still burning
your incense. Insentience almost overshadowed my yearning
to hold you just in short, -in lust, -or maybe as I once did
when we were young. The feeling stung, but I('m) no longer (a) kid
myself—I'm grown; you I can't own,
                                                                  nor could you be my lover.~
Each time I see you with me it makes me wonder why
when you I leave I have to grieve so much I want to cry.
Maybe I miss whom I first kissed, that passionate primal affection;
but I know now that simply thou art that—emotive ‘n tangible defection.
And so I must stake hope and trust in that which really is,
thus extinguish fie’ry anguish that you won't be my mrs.

This is a scene, as explained, I wanted to do something with. I learned on the pertinent day that I'm no good with a paint brush; but to quote Sir Sean Connery, my "PENIS MIGHTIER." (I swapped the name for a DFW one.)

~I remember, like the second time we hung out, we went down to Woodlawn Lake with paint and a canvas and dipped it in water and came back and parked in your driveway and just talked. While discussing your sincere concern for Orin at one point--I recall this scene so vividly, I wanted to paint it: the blue of my stereo light lambently lining your facial features, brushing your bones smooth, softly silhouetting your profile a flowing contour framed by your fluidly falling hair--to hear your care, to see the softness, I felt in my cab's conditioned air a fragility of feeling that made me feel... empathy--not quite, no--sympathy- for you; and for me, that I didn't care about something that way, feel the way you did about anything at all.~
And here was my mortal error. I could not lend that feeling to anything else until I gave it to myself.

After reading "Pale Fire", a poem of 499.5 heroic couplets, and being unable to sleep my second night in Menninger, I wrote this:

{for SAW}
I'm prone on a mattress but not to sleep
Thoughts drift through my wake, no anchor to keep
My lids at harbor, nor ponders at bay
They float to the deep, then plunge to dismay
I'm currently lost; my treasure's at X
Buried up in a place where robins nest
I know the way there, the time to depart
The space in between's what troubles my heart
And mind, no matter; it's all in my head
Such weighting: my heart's as heavy as lead
This sinking feeling submerges me 'neath
Crashing waves of emotion. Deadly teeth
From sharks of desire bite my belly
Rust my resolve from iron to jelly
Fish sting me; I think: there's more in the sea
Not many, just one with whom you now be
Sinking this deeply's left me exhausted
A full night's rest is what's been accosted
I'll close my eyes and dream to escape this
Hydrogenous hell, aquatic abyss

Hey... you. I've decided since it's been a while since I've written anything new I'm just going to put up some of my unfinished stuff up here. So this is the beginning to a creative writing assignment that (SURPRISE!) I never did. The only way I passed that class is because I edited the entire 2010 anthology. Anywho. Here goes. It was written a couple days after the morning my dog, Kiwi, passed away. It was going to be called:

"Hair"
     A flap, flurry and ruffle of feathers alighted a hanging wooden house hand-crafted by a finger-painter. Schools of fish with scorched green scales drifted aimlessly to and from their trees in the summer's breeze, offering a chorus of hollow whispers to complement the cheerful chirping of the feathered flocks. As summer's song sang, they sat, smoked and occasionally petted their black furry friend that panted and played. The planks on which they sat stood a dozen years tall, a stationary existence that had stained them a shade unlike their own. White-hot sticks warmed their lips; their signals danced, became one and were gone with a wind that came in shrill gusts ringing in my ears--shrill and still, shrill and still, shrill and still.
     There we were. "Were," not "we're." We are no longer. We had been; relegated to the past tense. But times passed don't necessarily pass with time. I still dream of her and remember the time we had, or maybe that's the other way around.
     The wind that woke me was a wind of change. A cruel clock, time winds endlessly. Except for me, everything is always coming and going. And now our black little furry friend had come and gone, too. That must be it--for her, alas, I still can't cry. Though, judging by the elephant bugling coming from across the house, my mother has that covered for the both of us. I take a seat on my ivory throne: shit, even it comes and goes.