Wednesday, February 16, 2011


remembering in scrawl

We’re on a road to nowhere.
We’re on a ride.
How could we lose Worcester
With New Hampshire behind?
There’s gas in the van
And we’re both big fans
Of watching worlds collide.
Pitch the map out the window, baby
As we swallow our pride.
We’ll end up somewhere
(ended up somewhere)
Agendas aside.
We’ll arrive somewhere
(guess this is somewhere)
We’ll let our dreams decide.

for Robyn

Saturday, February 12, 2011


the grizzling of a fanboy

Unexpectedly the Way-back Machine delivered me to a convention three years in the past. It was a sweet feeling, a giddy feeling, until the inevitable comparisons began to take place.

It was a time and a place of unrequited desire – not unusual for me, I assure you – but a time and a place of desire nonetheless and that is the sticking point. It was one of the up to now last such times… at least in the con context. Yes, I initiated a lame-legged chase of a certain publisher this last Arisia but prior to that…? Let us just say that since Gaylaxicon ’05, L. A. Con IV and Arisia ’08 there has really been no sexual intrigue on the adventures in nerdopolis front. Not such a heartbreak if these tribal gatherings hadn’t become my last best hope. Obviously, or maybe not so, there were intrigues outside of that sphere but none but one came to fruition and that sole scion of hope was undone by life and intractable logistics.

Given the failures of the mundane world I still find myself approaching each convention, including the two I likely will not be able to afford attending this year, with an unbridled sense of hope and expectation. This is not simply the hormone-fueled dreaming of a biological or psychological adolescent anticipating some endless sea of nookie. No, this is more the desperate grasping of a man trying not to admit the inevitability of middle age, or should I say middle age alone. When one has been waiting one’s whole life not so much for a knight on a steed, but for the rapscallion he alone could redeem or for the sidekick he could rightly elevate to hero realizing that the quest has dragged on long enough to make his role no longer that of the virile heartthrob but that of the cuddly curmudgeon… well… it sucks. Thus he doesn’t want to face it, and every chance to believe that the world is still full of possibility will be seized with near manic voracity. Yet as we all know enthusiasm rarely correlates to success.

Finding more silver in my hair and less fire in my loins as I approach each of these last best hopes of meeting my fan-tastic soul mate I am thankful for anything that stokes the fires. Follow-through, physical fulfillment, whether stolen moments in a stairwell or a long night in a four star hotel bed, these things would needless to say be welcomed with more than open arms, but even feeling the rush of hormones and optimism that the chase provides can be in the short term its own blessing.

I’m hoping that this outlook is a passing thing; that either my mood or my prospects… or both, will improve. There is always possibility and in fact adventure to be found if one is open to hearing them beckon and to following their call. For all my militant innocence that is the hardest part – remaining open. At some point the weight of history can lay its finger on the scales of belief and it is a wise man, perhaps wiser than me, who can not only spot that guilty finger but swat it away to let the heart swing and bounce until it finds its own balance. I am now out of balance, but hope to be swinging and bouncing again soon.

Monday, February 07, 2011


Super Bowl Sunday Scrawl

I sought possibility
As impossible
As that may be
In a place exhausted
Of destiny.
Where must I look
To hook what I seek?
Exploration strains me
Expatriation pains me
The narrative fails me
Again and again
And again.

Friday, February 04, 2011


2 bits of scrawl

Poke and peek
Peel me alive
Kill a joke
And choke me
Kill a dream
Break a mirror
Snort a blizzard
Avoid the lizard
He’s got blood
In his eyes.
Kill and crawl
The glass won’t hurt
Break and brawl
The ball is over
The era ended
Slippers slide
Into surrender.


Kisses lost in
Someone else’s memory
Inform the dream
That fades
In the face
Of this moment’s tedium
Trials are lost
Found and discarded
In the evidence
Of this

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