Time Machine

That glitter,
That gleam-
A plot,
A scheme
To mend
What was broken

A token
A thought
A bundle of words
Left unspoken,
For now.
But how?
Oh how?
Does one go back?

Words not forgot,
But two
Can go forward
(One hopes)


Subway Name Days

Woe would be me,
Between Asians so sleepy,
On anniversary
Of falling into this world

Woe would be,
You see,
If it were not me
Mr. Lucky
(If such a thing could even be)
As I, despite deserved justice
Have not been discarded
In fact, rewarded!
For the fool I am
But better,
The fool I try to be

Boldly attempting
To balance glee,
Or its subsidiaries
Against the ache
And pain
And breaking of heart
I have made

So cheers to me
Twenty years plus three
For having something
People seem to redeem
Or at least to thee
Who matters most

So to you,
I give this toast

Bad Jokes that Make Laughter

in white rooms,
And old Sammy’s writing tomb
Thoughts that loom,
Of days once blooming
Before losing.

Perchance the silence
Will turn to talking
And walking,
For the sake of stalking
A few hours more alone,
Yet together.

Canine physicians,
Those living musicians,
We danced a night away to
Like Marvey made those Irish do
With lives so sad
Yet inspiring-
The urge to retire,
In someone’s arms,
Or someone in mine.

That bastard,
Cast so far away
Decided not to stay,
This fool, named I
Made beauty cry
To try,
In vain,
As was known,
To romanticize loneliness
And pain.
To what gain?

To remember
Hammock rides,
And the passing tides
Of pages
We young sages had shared.

But one in particular,
Still drunk on rage
At no one,
For nothing,
But the self
Cries for help
And gets still,
Beyond his fill,
Of what is deserved.

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.20.14

  This, right now, was once the future. Isn’t that wild? And, what used to be happening is now all behind us. Guessing games and wishing for time machines won’t get us any where though, will they?

That’s what I was afraid of.

Oh, us humans and our struggles in the forth dimension! It’s interesting, almost complete madness, how my former fear of the future makes me ache to have the past back again. And how my past unhappiness of my own fabrication made my disdain for the present and my hope, fool’s hope though it may be, to get a better future. I don’t know if you all struggle with it, but hindsight has certainly provided me with a plethora of grief and guilt and regret. Of course I’m not counting my many accomplishments and successes in all that. Why? Because I don’t think about those as much. I am consumed much more by my failures but then again, I always have been. Then again, who among us isn’t?

There’s a guy who wrote song involving something like that. The line in reference was something like-

I’ve never learned to count my blessings,

I choose instead to dwell in my disasters.

Great song, if you don’t know it. Some bloke out of New Hampshire penned it. You can find it if you like. If you’re reading this, you clearly have access to the interwebs.

I could bore you all for ages by vaguely describing the specific regrets that plaguemy heart. I could, but I won’t. I won’t because it’s probably most definitely inappropriate and, more importantly, there is nothing that me telling any of you about it is going to do to make it go away. It doesn’t apply to you, unless it does, in which case, you’re already very well aware.

See? There’s progress!

I think I’ll count some blessings instead.

To start, and I don’t mean this to be insensitive, at least I don’t live in the Middle East. If I did, there would most likely be a lot more bombs happening in my life. Everyone and there sister over here in the West has their two cents or fifty billion dollars about how to fix the problems in Syria, Iraq, Gaza, Afghanistan and so on but I can tell you for certain what won’t work. I can tell you this because if you look at the history of the human race it becomes tremendously clear. What won’t work is violence. It never has and I can prove that it has never worked because there are still people, a good number of times children and other innocents included, who are being killed by someone else’s bad intentions. If violence worked to end wars, I would have to imagine we would be done with that business by now. Yet here we are, more violent than ever.

Alright, well I’m doing real grand with this counting the blessings things since my first attempt was to say, “well at least I’m not some dead Palestinian kid.” Let’s try to move on.

So, I finished the first draft of my first novel. It’s incredibly messy and needs a good bit of revision but I’m working with my editor on that one. Some day, I’ll figure out a method of payment for her.

Anywho, I have now created a story that begins and ends and that people who have read it seem to like. There is still a long journey ahead to get it out to all these strangers in the world, and possibly even longer until it inspires folks to try and save our planet but it’s been written. Sure, it was heartbreak and pain and guilt and anger and the sort that made me pump out the last fifteen-hundred words in a week, but I’ve heard myself say that pain can truly make some beautiful things. At times. Not all the time. Sometimes pain makes bombs.

Was that better? I thought so. It’s like I said right off the bat, I’ve never been very good at counting my blessings. I also hate the word blessings. I don’t like fortunes either but that might only be because I have been very fortunate in my life. In fact, aside from a a small few traumas, most of my misfortunes are self-inflicted. I’d stop it but my younger self always seems to have it out for future Brian. Every since elementary school, the Ghost of Brian Past has really been making sure that Future Brian has a lot of work to do. The Brian of Christmas Present only does so much to help either of them out. His problem, like when in school, was staring out the window too often. He is a creature of fantasy worship which has gotten us (by us, I mean me) into many of our current predicaments.

But like I told my editor, we’re making progress. Those damn creative types though, always trying to milk their misgivings and misfortunes. If only they would have let themselves be happy way back when. Time is tricky like that. Around this time last year, I was in the writing room of my greatest inspiration’s, greatest inspiration. My idol’s idol, if you will. That was a very good day. I’ve had a lot of those. I hope to have them again.



Oh, how they scheme

To remind this mind

Of a rash decision,

Of rationalized madness

That made sadness

Out of joy

Just to toy

A soul employed to loneliness.


A short age,

Regretful rage

And page,

After page,

After page,

Of literary therapy

To inspire thee

To give a chance,

A second chance

To break the trance

Of memory,

Sweet memories,

That were once such grand realities.


Selfish, I know,

To have shelved this

Just as it was to spare

A heart ensnared and bitter

For with her,

He was free,

And now without, he can see

The fool that used to be 

Sunday Morning Thoughts 7.13.14: On Attempting Impossibilities

 Another week gone and here I am again. True, I don’t feel as dreadful as I had this time last week, especially regarding physical aspects, but I’m still misaligned. Terribly so, I might say, but I might be a liar. But this isn’t new. The only part that was truly new in almost half a year, or much longer really, is understanding the root. The cause, or what have you.

If there is a such thing as tragedy, it would have to be that it took this long. For you see, as much abuse as I’ve tossed my own way the past seven days, and many before that (although I know I promised that I would try to fix that, and I am, I’m just a slow learner), an admission was made that should have been made a very, very long time ago. Oh! To be in a galaxy far, far away. But since I am without a time machine, or any kind of sonically driven tool, or a British accent for that matter- I will have to make do. So stuck in time, in gym shorts, in America, I will do what I can.

It’s a tricky thing, wanting to a be a writer, especially of good fiction. I can only speak for myself here, but a story without struggle and hurt, is no story worth reading. And although I only speak for myself, I figure a few of you might agree. Now to understand good storytelling, you must live an interesting story, or so I have decided to go about it. However, there is a limit and there are lines that should be watched. To be a sadist regarding your fictional characters is one thing, but to be that way with someone you love in this real world of ours, is something totally different. Those lines and limits I was talking about? Yes, well, I’ve crossed them and am none to proud of it. Most recently especially.


If there is something that could be pulled from that, it would be the thousands of words I’ve added to the made up tale of a soon to be not so young man named Mitch. Some of you may have even met him. Now Mitch and I, we have our similarities, some would even say that we are one in the same and we almost are. The difference, I hope, is that Mitch is of fiction, whilst I am not. Also, I hope, that only Mitch realized where he had been going wrong, romantically specifically, far too late. I might be too late as well, but I can only say what’s going to happen to Mitch. I am, in a way, his god after all. But, to make the two of us the same again, even when faced with impossibilities, we shall try and try just the same. Be it in vain or achieve the aim, we shall try.

Before this day is done, Mitch will be thousands of words further. His story may even finish, in which case, if you’re are interested, let me know. You could give it a read and let me know what you think, if you’ve got the time. It will be rough and sloppy, much like having to date me, but I think it will be worth it in the end.

Oh! And poetry. I’ve written a good bit of poetry this week. It’s an interesting thing, poetry. I have been without it for too long and what a shame that is. I’m glad to have it back but less than glad that my verse and prose is grim, where it used to be the opposite. The last time so much poetry was produced, the circumstance were much more grand. I also got some written for me, to me, which I must confess my friends, there isn’t a thing more wonderful in the world. I still have some of them, though such things can only prove to make me sad now. I hope to change that, but again, I can only speak to the future of Mitch.

But a week can be long, as this one had been. A lot can happen in a week, as happened for me during this one. I don’t know what the next one will bring, but I know what I’ll try to do with it. Failure is, as it almost always, the worst thing that could happen. And since I’m already there in a good few senses, what is there to be afraid of? I’m not a total failure, of course. I just want to be a more total success. I used to be closer to that but hindsight, much like insomnia, is a bitch.  

What’s One More?

‘Twas I

(cue sad sigh)

who had that

for which most

don’t even get to try.

But why?

Oh! Why?

Would one ever let her go?

Supra-man himself could not know,

could not show,

the bastard fantasy

for its fallacy.


While reality,


all grand and dressed with passion,


abandoned in a fashion

no true knight ever would.

Yet dreadful hindsight all included

I refuse to stay secluded

for just a chance,

a single chance,

for one more dance

or lazy morning

with all the glory

of skin so soft

and eyes so longing

to get inside a soul

some poor coward

would not let in.