are we all losers here, collectively collecting at the industrial drain catch, catch- all for an economic sink hole, wholly here for a pay- check checking a disheartened screen screen- ing another offer offering another plateau of work week weakened doing dust collecting while i write poetry in front of an oil fryer
April 3, 2023
My best friend Elijah Newton and I are an odd pair. He’s a Millennial malcontent, I’m a Gen X spinster. He’s obsessed with horror movies, true crime, and the antics of serial killers. I’m scared of my own shadow. So what’s the obvious thing to do?
Host a podcast, of course.
And thus was born Deliver Us Some Evil: a show where dark humor meets the macabre and reveals the absurdity of human nature. Urban legends, cryptids, hauntings, murders, unsolved mysteries, little green men, nothing is sacred. Like a jaded coroner straight out of an 80’s detective drama, Eli peels back the white sheet to reveal the horror on the slab. I gasp and groan. I cover my eyes. He chuckles as he points out some gruesome detail, some blackly comical bit of trivia. And before I know it, I’m peeking between my fingers.
You will too.
Join us every Monday for a brand new episode of Deliver Us Some Evil. Available on Spotify or wherever you find your podcasts.
always bring your best self to the table and you will never go hungry
October 22, 2022
The little golden door has let me through. It was too small at first, but I knelt to touch the handle and I am on the other side now.
March 14, 2020
i am an orphan an alien full of homelessness on this strange sound stage called Earth. ~ anonymous
February 1, 2020
life is a flywheel life is a perpetual motion machine life is a charger I need electricity bitch!
October 14, 2022
When your skull rattles on the hamster wheel and You can't tell your feet from your shoes and they Have you down for A sign on the dotted line to feed your Family a hand-me-down meal, 'cause if you're Going to survive you're going To have to make it Work, make a home, make a life when work Is home, work is life, when An honest day is honestly an Act, a head long follow through Of just enough until some fragile moment pulls you off the manic round about and you forget why and remember for whom, forget the whine of the wheel and remember a shared meal, remember that it's not the hanging of the hat but the hand in the hand, that the tunnel is only a vision and the check the means to the end of the day, that nothing we build will last beyond the graveyard shift, when you remember what it's all about, when you remember Love.
September 3, 2022
i need air to live so does that mean air is a part of who i am a sort of periodic relationship with symbiotic elements of stylistic sub luminous human consciousness still wet behind the amniotic when time's up! a fluid creek without a cause way out across the surface of a high tension wire drawn to this fish bowl soup of a life or is it all in my head?
September 3, 2022
Start with: maybe it's not about me. quiet morning ritual, open to possibility. contemplation. stillness. a deep breath, diving in to: maybe it's not about me. open palms letting go softly considering without judgement without shame radiating outward into other moments another time in a place not yet known resurfacing to breathe with you in awe and wonder maybe maybe it's not about me.
June 8, 2022
There are spirits in the world that have nothing and give everything. They’re the caretakers of the fallen, the lost, the wanderers that don’t inhabit their lives, but only haunt them. They’re doors that open inward, arms that lift to embrace.
They have names. Signposts on the pathways of want. But we don’t remember them. They live on only in the eye that doesn’t turn away.
I met one such many years ago. I didn’t recognize them, and only thought how lucky I was that I’d slipped through a hole in the fabric of the universe and missed hell by the width of a lifted finger.
That was how she summoned me. In the rain, the smell of sulfur, the rippling heat of a city paved in light, the thoughts of a thousand passers-by cascading like liquid fire through my veins. “Come,” she had said (and didn’t say). “I’m here.”
I went. I followed the shimmering edge of her presence as it drifted over wet streets, through banks of cellular fog, into and out of illuminated passageways bound by gates of darkness. I couldn’t see her. I only knew she was there by a tremulous rhythm that described all sensation in one moment. Fear. Anticipation. Regret. Satisfaction. Enlightenment. Grief.
I sank down when she sank down, into the murky fastness that elevates all great places by being beneath them. Down into desire, hunger, meanness. A narrow, compressed place. I lost her then and couldn’t turn back. I found no trail, no sign that I’d ever been. I closed my eyes. The world constricted, like a heart that would never beat again.
I took a breath — and let go. I yielded to the end of time, to the end of the future, to the end of myself. I didn’t exist in that place. I became that place. I held nothing and could not be held. I became every moment lost and forgotten, all the moments that would never be. All futures. All possibilities. All that diverged only to reunite in a final moment of dissolution.
And that’s where I found her. As if it were she who’d been seeking me. As if it were I who had led her to where she’d always wanted to be, a singular moment of salvation, an eclipse of the self that remade the whole world in a new image.
She and I. I and she.
We were one, as all things become one. And in that instance of release, I left behind what had once defined me and passed through the flesh and was born anew. In fire. In pain. In an obliteration of grief that left stains and scars and whole new planes of thought in its wake, striations that can be read like a language, a message to the imprisoned soul from the liberated future.
“Come,” it says (and doesn’t say). “I’m here.”
July 26, 2015
Air is free, sound is free, words are free. To believe otherwise is to be enslaved.