Tag Archives: Literature

Magical Thinking in the Atheist Community

Do you know what magic feels like?

I’m not speaking of magic tricks, or Magic: the Gathering, or Wiccan magic.

I’m talking about real magic.

“Books are a uniquely portable magic.”
-Stephen King

When I was growing up, my father encouraged reading. It was kind of a thing with me. Every day I was reading books. The books could be educational, religious, young adult, and on and on and on. I read so much that I developed a love for reading. Continue reading Magical Thinking in the Atheist Community


How to Destroy the World in 140 Characters

You scream into the void

this how it goes:
war, war, war, you

Continue reading How to Destroy the World in 140 Characters

The Pneumatic Nature of Laughter

Image by Forsaken Fotos
Image by Forsaken Fotos

Have you ever missed someone
who did not exist?

Have you ever considered the strings
from which stars are suspended

throughout the emptiness of your own being?
Have you ever wondered at the pneumatic

nature of laughter or traced the curvature
of a swan’s neck through the spaces between

a shuddering whimper
and that stone shattering the delirium

of your glass house? Have you ever
witnessed the rationing of an idea

so that the waves just beneath the lake’s surface
would not be moved to dance back into yesterday?

Have you ever dreamed of lavatating
in pools of too uniform tears

beneath that terrible forge
that touches the sky with its blue mockery?

Have you ever found yourself
denoted by your mask, that one

that denies the precision
of the cut that revealed the nakedness of your heart?


In response to MindLoveMisery Menagerie’s Wordle #125.


The Apostate, Fall

Jasper Francis Cropsey (1823–1900)
Jasper Francis Cropsey (1823–1900)


Fall would follow summer,
a too affectionate and whimpering dog, through ages

of excited apostasy–the apostate, Fall–
and we would ooooh and aaaah

through the beauty of dying so slowly,
voyeurs to all manner of unashamed flora

exposing to us their seed-bare glory
as they heralded that true death (you know that

death that hurries over the backs
of scentless winds).

But summer, tired of being followed,
filed for a restraining order.


What the Jones Have in Their Garage

Photograph by Thomas Nugent
Photograph by Thomas Nugent


We are swept away
in this blue light
and it isn’t the vast infinity
of impenetrable day.

What is satisfaction
if it isn’t a commodity
or what the Jones’ have
in their garage or living room?

I tried to murder a cricket
with a can of Olde Spice
body spray because it
interrupted the noise

banging on the drums
inside my ears.
And as I drown the world
and its people in a bathtub

built from my intentional
disassociation from life,
I do it with the realization
that it isn’t God,

but Apple
who tells me
I could save their souls
with an upgrade.


The Lily on Rumi’s Lips

You were the mantra of a billion
fading heartbeats

blooming beneath the sea.
We were submerged,
walking on fire, flying on the fumes of bones

beating drums behind a curtain of dreams
and we soared, our sore ecstasy

the lily on Rumi’s lips–
all along I was

buried in a forest,

the whole of forever

was spring,
and all along the soil

would find itself

enriched by the amnesty

of your pulse.


Turkey Baster

The doctor needs to stick a turkey baster between her legs
to photograph a collection of bad memories
of a night when home was no longer home and was,
instead, a thin veneer of civilization,
mascara lining the eyes of a culture
bruised by daddy.
They want to take off her clothes
and make sure her honor isn’t stolen in the bathroom,
because the only thing that can stop a rapist
in the lady’s restroom
is a potential rapist in the lady’s restroom.
They want to take off her clothes
because terrorists wear burkinis. Not like civilized people,
with their boxers and mustaches
and penises and wont to be the love child
of bin Laden and Chris Kyle.
The doctor needs to stick a turkey baster between her legs
to photograph a collection of bad memories
because what is sanctity
if it isn’t forced?

Gabriel Opted for a Didgeridoo

You wake, and you can’t wait
to see her,
whatever dreamt dusted in sun dance radiance,
but you see her, her eyes
beneath her eyelids
overcome by the practiced choreography

of sleep, and there is crust at the corners
and maybe a little snot or saliva.
Her hair…
You had thought her hair a starburst
all those days ago,
but it is more

the brambles of untouched woods
struggling with the undergrowth
kicking at the roots in a vain effort
at stealing the light.
You thought her

once, but this is reality. Gabriel
opted for a didgeridoo to sign the end of time,
you think, and there are no more
dreams left to dream,
no more poetry to write,
no more silly odes,

just you,
her, Gabriel, and your shattered illusions.
And still, somehow, she is
more perfect in the exquisite mess
of morning beneath a chiding sun.
You imagine that is love…


A Cake

What you see in the mirror
is a cake. You eat that cake and get

and you blame it on the Mexicans.

A cake. You sleep at night
swaddled in your delusions.

Who hurts you? Is it the maid? Is it
the brothers who cut your lawn?

Or is it the chicks
who clean the shit from the lip of your toilet?

I’m betting it was the Arabs.
The trouble with other gods

is that they’re as real for the infidels
as they are for you.

I bet it was that Indian
who took your IT job.

He eats what he can find.
It isn’t cake, and he isn’t fat.


Toes In a Vain Sky

We could always fuck.
We could always dip our toes in a vain sky

and make love of paper and graphite, and the moment
could always be the womb.

We could always dance.
We could always tempt the flowers growing from the walls

and watch the fits of brave men
roar through the excitement of red and smoke and black dust

the same moment we find God.
We could always sleep, but sleep is for the weak

and the early bird wants us to know
it exists.

We could always sing.
We could always lose our keys somewhere beyond the edge

of 4 AM tungsten,
something like touching the bottom of the bottle with our feet.

We could always fuck.
We could always close our eyes to a rising sun.