and What They Do When No One Else is Around.


The Ehrdic Wizard poised on the edge of excitement, though his countenance did little to show it. He was dressed in his usual, simple attire: a dirt-brown, ankle-length robe, cinched at the waist with a matching sash and a rope belt. He wore a cowl over his shoulders, but the hood hung at his back, leaving his head bare. He was inside, after all.

From the outside, his home appeared as a modest stone fortress built into a mountainside, which happened to float freely among the clouds. An astute observer might notice a peak far off in the distance that hadn’t been there before, and which seemed gradually to move across the horizon over time. Such were the cloaking abilities of the Wizard, however, that most folks never gave his mountain in the sky a second moment of consideration, whether they thought they saw something or not. He rarely lingered on any horizon for more than a day or two, anyway, so even the astute observer was likely to forget the mysterious mobile mountain after a while.

The Meeting was at his lofty abode, this evening. The other wizards were due to arrive within the hour. He fingered his mandolin and strummed aimlessly to fill the silence of his halls as he waited. Yes, it had been quite a while since he’d seen his friends. The Ehrdic Wizard was looking forward to the night.

He didn’t normally live alone, but today his fortress was one of solitude. He placed his instrument gingerly in a corner, and stood up, stretching a bit as he did so. Then he grabbed his mantle and threw it over his shoulders. He’d decided to wait on the arrival of the others from the dock.

His mantle was spun from a rough and heavy material, deep, drab, earthy-green in color. In a certain light, his cloak over his robes gave the illusion of moss or lichen growing on a log. From one of its many cavernous folds, the Wizard produced a small briar pipe and a leather pouch. He packed the pipe full of leaves from the pouch with his thumb as he walked. When he reached the outer-most door, he put the pipe to his lips and drew his hood. It was a fine day outside, but the altitude of his fortress required him to bundle up any time he left its walls.

Once outside, the Ehrdic Wizard meandered down a winding path towards his dock, leaning on a smooth, weathered staff that reached the height of his shoulders as he walked.

The Wizard didn’t need to strike a match to light it, but his Fire magic was not advanced enough at this point to forego the match altogether. And so he lit has pipe as he reached his dock, which was situated on the edge of a startling cliff. The Wizard sat on the end of the dock, his feet dangling carelessly in the open air, and puffed thoughtfully on his pipe. His mind seemed to melt away as he gazed at the clouds below him, and the blue earth far below them. In this way, half an hour passed by in a moment, and the Wizard became aware of a Skyboat approaching him from a distance. He smiled.



In Bruges: A Drinking Game

The following rules are transcribed exactly as they were originally written on a little yellow notepad (with horrendous penmanship courtesy of MPK). Rules 1 through 12 were decided upon prior to watching the movie, while rules 13 through 16 were added during.

  1. Alcove – 1 drink
  2. Dwarf called a midget – 1 drink
  3. Gay beer – 1 drink
  4. Drink beer/coke – 1 drink
  5. Mention USA – 1 drink
  6. Curse – 1 drink (this rule was crossed off the list after a minute or so into the movie)
  7. Title drop – 1 drink
  8. weapon – 1 drink
  9. Colin Ferrel cryin like a bitch – 1 drink
  10. Bruges a fucking fairy tale – 1 drink
  11. (totally illegible and apparently crossed off the list)
  12. Every death – 2 drinks

  13. Sightseeing – 1 drink
  14. Christmas lives – 1 drink
  15. Insult Belgium the fucking bitchass fucks – 1 drink
  16. Extreme Irony! – 1 drink



I have a grasp on things that don’t matter And a Vague understanding

Of the things that do. 
I have learned how to make different foods

From all different people.

I rolled my first burrito

Under the eyes of a short Honduran man

Who loved strip clubs and Wendy’s.

He was the first one to tell me

I started to get a bit of a belly

I received a blade and an old recipe

On the same day, from my grandmother

Which is one of those storybook moments

That rarely happens in real life

I cut lawns

When I was 15

And I was very 

Bad at it

There have been many teachers 

I have looked up to

And others 

I have greatly disliked

I model after both equally

I have fallen in love

More times than I can count

Most of them came to nothing

I have seen a Buddhist monk 

Using a Chainsaw

I have driven a pickup truck

While blasting 

“Girls Just Wanna Have Fun”

I have sung on stages

And talked competitively

But my first love was acting. 

I have forced myself to learn instruments

When I have a tin ear

And clumsy hands

I used to drink Budweiser all the time

Because it was cheap and convenient. 

I have tried all the drugs I wanted to

And the only one I am addicted to

Is nicotine. 

When I was little

I was obsessed with loops

On the backs of people’s shoes

I have read Harry Potter more times

Than I can count.

I make a mean margarita

And a meaner guacamole

I wish I could speak Spanish.

I wish I had spent more time with my grandfathers.

I wish I had met my moms mother. 

But I have her music. 

The first time I heard it 

I openly wept. 

Can you miss someone you’ve never met?

I prefer cold weather

But I love wearing shorts and flip flops.

Oh, Red Memories!

It hasn’t been a year yet,
Although it has been a long time.
It seems even longer
When I realize that I no longer think about you
Every day.
It has been a while
Since I dreamt of your face
And your body
And your voice
And awoke on the verge of tears.
It didn’t matter if the dream was bad
Or good.
In fact,
I’ve lost the ability to make tears anymore, it seems,
Although I often find myself wishing
I could just let them out.
But that’s not really your fault,
At least, no more than it is my own.
I don’t wish things were different,
Not anymore, anyway.
Not even those painful moments
When I accidentally
Uncover the pictures of you
That I’d thrown away
Under heaps of forgetfulness
Deep in my closet.
Thank goodness
My phone died
And I lost all of my contacts inside.
I don’t think
I would have had
The heart
To remove you on my own.
I still remember your number, though.

I Won’t Be Here When You Wake

I want to break
something fragile,
something like your heart.
So, what say you?
I can show you much,
but not for long.
I will be gone
when the morning comes,
before your tears
wet the pillow
you’re cradling.
You won’t notice me leave.
You’ll be asleep,
I’ll be silent.
I’ll move with the sureness
of experience,
untangle myself from your arms
as if we were lifetime lovers.
I’ve been here before,
I know what to do.
You should loathe me,
but you won’t.
I will linger in your mind
somewhere between
dream and reality.
You will have trouble
forgetting me,
and even more trouble
finding me a second time.


I am a madman
an ages old dark
deck of playing cards
black backed
with a slick sheen
so goddam comfortable
to the touch

I am the great beast
Of the Americas
I am the Large
I am the hunt

I am the furry-toothed
Many clawed-sharply
stalking the night

king and god
of the universe
in which it presides
the forest
ally to all
enemy of everynothing

there is a pain
In my chest
The poison-
tipped spear
through my ribcage
slipping right in between
finding my heart beat
beat beat burst

Convulsing on the floor
The great
twitches like
a beaten dog despondent

great beast
lumber forward
On e
more step
to prove
y our humanity
exist sentence
why not
if you are
yo u have nothing
To worry about
for ward
safety promises
pin cushions.

I mean everybody

Silence spend
Hours with thought and voices
Formed by electricity
compressing sound in waves
or some shit
I don’t quite understand
but learned once

I remember
the porch scenes
spring Summer
drenched in expansion
of literary
concepts rule bent
gears turn
remember remember
the porch
and what was said
but who
gives a fuck

you give a fuck?
gives a fuck anymore
can afford it?

they call me
my enemies
the ones I make up
I feel lonely
but don’t
want the hassles
of “friendship”
real or imaginary.
Jus t solitude
lonely righteousness

They call me
harsher names
as well
but I turn them
no more ear
than I turn tide the ocean.

What do they have
but broken
pieces of hate
on the sandy beach
spilled out treasure
spoils galore
to those pirates
clever enough
to read between
the lines of
a very well-drawn