Buy My Three Books Online:

find more work at:

And buy three books at

Check out my friend's hand written newletter at The High Scribe


A History of Mighty Tomes in Jabberwocky:

I should mention before this begins; the ethereal existence I am speaking of is that existence that transcends one life and continues to lengthen every night in dreams, the entirety of existence, not always recognized by the properly functioning mind. This existence is seen as the simple light of day when I am hypo-manic. This is the best description of my last trip, which was haunted by the reasoning that I was neither who I was nor where I was, for the record.

The town of Riddles is half way between two lakes with mythical monsters, deep places where elves and other little people live underwater. Many people visit this place in their dreams. It is a place where people who have taken a lot of grief in their ethereal existence can live freely and peaceably with one another in harmony, it is sometimes considered never-never land. It is a funny looking town, made of wood and stone, saturated with varied architecture and an important mix of race and religion.

There are a number of streets that are famed from people’s dreams. There are restaurants that people want to come to because they recall them vaguely from hundreds of year prior, places that when the travelers arrive the servers are the same people and the food is as delicious as they remember. There are harmless dragons flying above, those spirits are seen at the tops of the lakes on the higher layer of earth and considered as many great beasts documented but debated by great minds.

The roads weave a labyrinth that some can be lost in. The mailboxes dance as you pass through the mazes unharmed. There are well cared for houses, with spindles and towers, flights of stairs on the outsides and ghosts in silent windows. The alleys are narrow and marked with old paint from history, advertisements for outdated products and things that are not yet available. There are glorious murals of many kinds showing the color and character of those that decide to stay and live in this city of the spirit.

There are a very many angels in this town. Unbeknownst to some, they all work for the light – as it is a path that any spirit will find eventually. Mostly these folks appear as humans to help people find their way, as many travelers wind up in a town of Riddles. They will also appear as the birds, cats and other animals that people want to be within their dreams. The city is riddled with deer, which are living here in harmony with the people. It is a place the confused come across, whether or not they are searching for answers. It is a place that people wind up when they need to learn a lesson, before they are sent back to where they came from by falling asleep. It is common to see a group of children walking down these streets singing, “We all went to heaven, went to heaven last night!” next to people lucid dreaming, trying to fly and laughing idly as the gracious coffee shops that make them feel at home. There is always music in the streets.

I made a shop on Main Street in the town of Riddles as a trap.
It sold abstract art and had a hardwood floor that sent long lines from the front door of the narrow refuge to the small rooms at the back. The first of these two rooms was decorated with miniature scene of a red and ramshackle city where people who worked on the tops of trophies lived. Tall houseplants made the miniature city under a forest. At the entrance to the room there was a path the second back room, which mostly kept buckets of paint and mops for the coffee spill that once kept me from sitting on the couch.

A month after the coffee spill I was sitting on the windowsill out front smoking and a scared man charred by fire danced towards me uncomfortably. He was smiling when he saw me, so I recommended the Indian restaurant next door. As a local, I explained that he was in a different dimension and he raised his chest, making a strange noise but not saying anything. I told him I would meet him inside, closed my shop and entered the delicious restaurant.

There were tables on both the floor and ceiling of this restaurant, with a flight of spiral stairs in the corner that would allow you to reach the other level. The walls were deep purple with beautifully rendered portraits hanging both directions. The buffet was at the back, near the kitchen and you had to walk on the ceiling to reach the food. Only once did food fall from the ceiling to the floor, and at that moment the chef transcended to a higher level of earth, having learned everything he could have in Riddles. He was never seen again by anyone I know well, although his wife told the paper that he still lives in town, and that he has his own restaurant. I have never been able to find it, but I digress.

The charred man and myself sat in the corner booth at the back of the ground level, at his request. He ordered from the menu, I walked to the buffet. When I sat at the table the charred man gave me a note. I have transcribed it in full, and it is as follows.

“This is a serious and big storm.
Tens of millions take their minds off these woes and light a candle, fearing the night and the loss of life that marks its grand tone. Some monastery with its highest order finds me here and I must run and hide, for them to watch me and wait longer for the great nights of later life. Wondering about these shapes, I remain.

When they come to me, I fall with them. I have their options and along their lines I find truth. Wondering with these like-minded selves I have inside me, but separated from it, I must slither along the forest floor and find my options spiked with diseases and sullen wrapping. It always makes my silent light quiver to know that these dripping mazes are for me. Kindly old elves make their way to me, if nothing else because it is the right thing to do. They help me rise to them and note that I cannot see.

Shine with the others, belittling dances and foreign jobs taken by our middle class families. I am not like them, and they watch through silver jail walls. This is the mistake made by some and also the path of the righteous man. Sheep, never the wiser, remain at the holy vineyard and bah peacefully at the grapes that must be harvested for the coming batches of wine. They will never find the truth until they see the fallen stars.

While sitting and waiting I must find the failed state and bring it to me like a shining watch that sits atop a dresser and is never used because it is not deserved of the attention given to the one that the man bought himself. It tells time just the same, but does not mean the same thing to him. Shy as he is, he cannot mention that he does not want gifts.

Later they found out that the greasy monkey sitting on the fence found it’s home wandering through the gardens of the mighty signs brought towards the gracious sign that watches me from the shining light of the outdoors. I cannot go out there, or the peaceable sorts will get me. I cannot belong because the sheltered form is for me. The elves keep me here because they must. I am happier knowing that I can just sit in this home and learn about the world as best I am able. These are the graceful things I find, those that belong to me.”

I asked him if this was something from myself. He raised his chest and made an odd sound, the sound of the small microphone with too much gain, a sharp red tone that filled the whole room. The pattern of the sound made me feel he had something to say, but I could not understand it.

I nodded and began to eat my food. The charred man began to shrink, becoming wrinkled and seeming longer. A smell rose from the obscene incident, but it was not unpleasant. He then began to laugh, with the same harsh tone that marred our discussion before. The way he rolled his head back told me it was a laugh. I knew he was laughing because I felt that I was in customer service, or maybe it was because he realized I was not on his side. After that we ate in silence. I drank water. He drank nothing.

to sit and type or type and sit

The dull hiss of the morning that called this plan to the overhead. There was little else to do so I sit and type. This is nothing out of morning shine or any sort of wise plan for lives before. This is the place I live. There are three or four reasons that apologies do not mean anything. The settle date fed the taps and the writer paused, waiting a moment to catch his breath and he was told that this was his career. He has suffered writing block since, wondering why I could not see that before. There is no creativity except for after that. The written word does not need to show that any of the old still made away their fountain and shake the wrench over for details provide a small and quick sample of matters inside. The hope that laid a downer of maybe in stride was the truth that she told him and I stay also inside. But I hope that my revelation doesn’t sound like I’m rude. I just didn’t know anyone was listening.

Great Expectations starts like this. The absent musings of a man people read and an option that some of those silent film stars led their mansions into a decline. Maybe it’s a lack or an overbearing mind that settles the mention of the aforementioned time. And if I have a legitimate pause for a morning shine I had an idea that was pleasing and nicely tied all my work together. A grand unified ideal.

So there is nothing at all funny about the sometimes-sideways repulsions of men that were wise. These are simply bad men. Hope that every man watches a child with a kind heart is the message. Be a still around person. That seems the idea that catches up with me. It makes me think of sunshine in the early morning, some bus stop out of Vancouver and only a few stops past Hope when I realized I loved travel and music and wine. These moments that are beautiful are as winding as the others. These lives we live are travels as we are rebuilt cell by cell every seven years.

I like the ideas of theories and motions of dark aspirations and likenesses of proud men that wielded over us. But I regress, so I must add that those that want to choose the place for a man driving a car to curse the stop sign will always be despised by the man in power. I don’t know if this is true. It seems like it could be. I mean that I should be better in the place of the man that has no options. I choose to do the path that is true to me. This life is for living and as far as I get one. I made the right decisions when the trials came to me and am in this position for that. If I want someone to read this than I would like to read his or her work but I’d rather be positive and just keep musing on.

So perhaps this is a career. It is for sure a body of work.
There are many mighty trials that are heavier than heaven as they say. They more or less laugh when they see this situation and I would rather be ugly to some of the people I see. I think the idea is that I am stumped. Why is life the way it is for me? I used to believe that life was a simple distraction, perhaps ghosts or wisps that I could sense. I believed instead in the world I could see. But that is not a world you can see. That world is just a distraction.

more shadows talking

They talk to me like a shadow, shapes for their name.

These are the details of their wet head, running in the rain. I hope she walks in today, high and mighty like the western sky. I can only fall without the believable sort of rearview mirrors that watch me like their highlighted falling grace. I am certain these are the chaotic words that watch me when I become the nightly grace. These are the sorts of people who want to know for their own purposes. Could they belong to me?

There is only the righteous drama with their holy ghost. These are the written woes of the shining site, some place they must belong. I can believe that I have something within my highest order. Sometimes there are weapons believing these harder truths. There is some sort of simple draft that will keep all the people belonging to their own selves. There is a detail somewhere that lifts me. This is my hope.

Still we watch with mindless objectives. The mind is like a believable sauce, the sort of place that grand gestures come through. When the people watch, I must believe that the camera pans to a thread holding their order. This is the maze of the titles with these works and quietly why such gracious tomes come to rest in this dear hall. Sometimes I belong to the faceless order. Somewhere I belong to these wrapped mortals. When they come to leave I surely watch to learn.

I do not recommend these wiry thoughts to anyone. Careless as they are, we are encouraged to meditate. Shine with these righteous sorts of belittling sources, the people who watch while I wander through these streets with the light and the sword and the fountain of youth. Where these shapes are, I cannot say. Where they breathe and dine, they must somehow come to the truth. Why they are not there yet, I cannot say. Perhaps it is because I have lacked to ask the right questions.

As these places fall in kind and the righteous kinds of mortals send their happiest thoughts towards the red-marked screen and light the sky with their thoughts I regretfully inform myself that this course of hypnosis soundly sells it’s details, for over the places that I fly, I come to these causal solutions. Where the wind blows, my friend, which is where I wish to be. Yet, without the poetic mind, I’d rather spend the day sitting and writing about these gracious tones.

liquor etc.

There is always something I have to do before I start writing. This time it is to make more coffee. I know that when the coffee is finally made it will make me twitchy and nervous – and even the act of drinking it will be a distraction that hinders my writing process. This is one of the excuses I use to stand in the way of my dreams, something that I try to reach past that doesn’t need to be there in the first place.

These notes are not for the wicked, and they bring harmony to those of better mind than me. It can be a wonderful world every day, and when I look outside I know that it is so. Life is not about how much you accomplish in any given day, but what you do with your time. My time is spent helping people do things that they could not do without me, to alleviate suffering for others so that my suffering is alleviated. It is just compassion.

I want to be a great person of history, and sometimes tell myself I am. I wonder if these notions were constant thoughts before my body was polluted with the poisons for the world that I was unable to avoid ingesting through my food and habits. I wonder if the potential greatness of my soul has been hindered through my past of drunken debauchery and sexual misconduct. I also suppose everyone goes through that period of their life.

Or are these feelings of nervousness just the guilt of wasting my time so thoroughly for eight years or more while searching for answers to the great questions and running from things that I now find beautiful though the use of mind numbing substances? Again, I am nearly sure this is something I had to learn for myself. It did not matter how many times people told me to avoid drinks and drugs, I had to learn these lessons for myself.

Before each rocket launch, I would make sure these reasons lack their just objections. I am much happier without these thoughts, these drinks and these drugs. I was lost, in such a strange way. I was looking for the light of sobriety within these stupors. They were the thoughts I lusted for and drank to get towards. I thought I was looking for the righteous path and it was right before me the whole time. I just needed a kick in the pants to find it.

I wonder why liquor is so easily available. It numbs and stupefies the population. It helps the people continue to be worker bees, moving through their tunnels. It also is good for those who want to be different, those who want to be fun loving and irresponsible, though entirely successful in their careers. It is good for writers, and I have written a number of grand things with the help of liquor, and although I could never commit to the alcoholic lifestyle, it can aid in the writing of novels as it allows free movement of the letters to the page. This is something I am still trying to capture as a sober person. This is something that will come easier with time, and is only an issue because I was trying to use substances to create art, writing and music. I was told all the greats did it this way.

Although without drugs and drink I must make myself write, I must be disciplined and follow through with all the dreams, I suppose I am able to write better and just as much, without being distracted. It may be the great light in the morning; I have an hour to leave for anywhere. Lift your head my friend, you lost the trail. It is not worth it, I suppose.


listening to the news

I hope I am indebted to the people who walked into my life and wrote the dreams of saturated lines to the open drip of washing irons – silent in the knives.

She told me I had mistreated her, like tales of woe and silent nights – I knew a traveler walking for their servitude was unlike the old world weight of Soviet backings as the written words acted and watching those ones for their hopeful silent waiting spots. They are waiting for a lighter and the old ones known for dreams and better men.

The prompting of justice and mercy came into collision.
These little dreams, the mighty sons of grandeur and resource – these are the ways of the great American male. Silent were the eternal weights of these grand missile-toes high up in the towers and alone on vast estates build on the backs of families not nearly divorced from the weather that titles our leaders to write one of them. You are not going to tell yourself anything that you don’t want to hear. You must write something gracious and hear the details later – as a source of water, you bring their hurt world forward.

The man on the phone screams when I tell him that I have to write and be alone right now. Yet this is for the dinosaurs, the burning smell of rotten wood pulling forward and listening to racist conservatives and watering the lawns of these people. Media is that resource of the water, the typing dream that watches all this fall.

When they came back, they watched in madness at these worried lines and bragging thoughts that watch my rebel conservative mad python watching me from the stairs and laughing when he lies at the feet of a star-field reformer and these crises and weather when toads watch their homeless faces bringing their heartstrings and watching their mortal shepherd die at the hands of the wolf holding knives.

The rate had not been that low, according to our reporting, since April and May of last year. Water and I will sit here until you slip form.

These are the shelters when the crime talks with all these limitless pawns and their watching trials and drafts take their highlight into their form. I cannot be sure that I know that thing. There is a purpose some place in the water, some pace and finding the shawls of Michelle Obama. These are the watering cans of anonymous voters. When was I rating the little ones from these little briefs beyond their little form and finding their hopeful ones. I can be sure that the little ones are waiting.

These are strange fish to fry because the witness in the highway was watching from the pond and brought from these little faiths and little lines. I can be certain the bright sky is falling and know that these watching minds take their can from the silent one. I cannot be sure of these bottles and strange statements. These are the little words brought back from the little careless water bottles that cave with the little sheep that need my own watching sign, and somewhere there is a place for me, too.

I am sure that the one little thought that I needed was waiting for these decades of farce and the betterment of mankind is in the hands of the masses not the pan-demon rapists of land and armed forces. These little sheep take their gracious causes from the  higher ones watching their old faith and waiting for them. He told us he was bringing the forces home, he did not. That is all I know for sure.

These are the dripping wet minds of these shortened kinds, and these are the dripping wet brought down from kids and the other kind of people. Why can they talk about these gold increases when these people are starving in the streets? Why can’t they let us belong here with weapons and faithful hands watching for the end of the earth? I suppose everyone has unbalanced bridal-cholesterol without heart and body extracts. This is why it is important to be a good person. Be nice to the others.

Belief is the way – I can belong for these kinds of thoughts. I have the nation at the rattled pause of these ways. I can belong to the others, I am sure. They are the notion of the fade that I refuse to leave. They are the pauses of someone who is generally a good person. I have these ways, these little particles and their trace memory. I have the thought of good music so the righteous weights for their old world. This is why I need to listen to something important. This is why I have to review the news.

These rated courses take their way from the little ways these days. I have the little faith that nightly took my house to rated cases, needing their old war faith with the real world. These creations of international, high-class media and news from around the world – they make me think that some of the international pauses of the real world are actually something that I can be a part of as an outside force writing these real devices.

As such, I have written many farcical and theoretical gibberish arguments for the space between nothing in particular and must resort to the peon of these surgical documents to bring the space between their tones needed and their own water brings the whole world down and have a basic cause made from their own field. These are the graceful thoughts that keep me watching the best of the real things. These are what I must believe in.

Somewhere I came with them, these men who take and talk of nothing but the upper crust. I suppose a part of me wants to be with them, looking at stock machines beeping and scrolling, laughing at the price of my suit. But I am tired of these dreams of the small world. The real world is available by being put into the computer, living in that world within a world. That is the world that I live, I thought, and since that event I have been watching with their nettles and their placid bragging trumpet that watched with these lights brought to Marshall’s gang. I could not place them.

These are their own rather impulsive thoughts that need explaination, and I must refrain from the sort of water nightly spaced with their own name. I must be sure that the little faith is taking their turn and writing anyways. And given that Brazil, not only has the World Cup coming up but also the Olympic games soon, how can we be certain that these drafty rooms are still these mighty pens?

Better than the last cause, these Oso grafting watchers must need their own sort of chaotic trail that brings them down to have their olden days waif filling up with sauce and rhyme and looking tough for a moment before he suddenly gets punched from the corner of your eye. You run over and take the next punch for the team. These are the silent details made from their own wrapping, tossed in the light that fades when the moon falls silently over the North Pacific Ocean while you are listening to a fancy and sexy Spanish number sung by a beautiful girl in traditional clothing and a man playing electric guitar. You are your lover begin to dance, and you spin her around and around, happier than you could ever possibly be. This notion takes you into the spinning ocean, surrounded by waves of silent love and moving air.

For decades, I have been the scientist of these plural derivatives.
I cannot tell you how good it feels to finally admit it. And I suppose everyone has something like that. Those things that you have been hanging on lampposts are causing the Chavez campaign the little cause that watches their hopeful weapons. I can belong with these silent wines and bringing their old war following their watching one, needing their cause. These are the weapons that came with the spot that is the same little theory they needed because they watched their own weapon from them and finding their thoughts with the trees brought on trucks from the chaps that you led.

It is worth it sometimes, I suppose. People need their reality, their development. It is important to walk into their faith and bring their own watching white lines from the little ones that need the old world. If I live without the hope that I know what to do in this world I suppose many folks have suggestions. I will never find their watching lines without their wine and waiting breathes that cause me the kind of lights I know without the kind of breathes I take. I cannot belong to the others.

When I hear of these things, and I think finally of what time in is in a far away land, wondering if there is some money out there for me. It is possible that I came from the land of resources and documents brought from their hopeful cause? I must belong to these people, and therefore I will have the only wine that causes me some sort of fury and watch the kind of people that need me to have these decisions.

When the world changes, I will be there to watch it waste away. I will change to have a spot beside that woman, who will learn new things and think about them, and thusly we will change with the world. Before me, lays the turbulent sirens of the crazed aunt that brings the best foot forward and the placid light was needed for their own silent breath. One day I come forward with the bright light of greatness needed to take their best weight and knighting of some king of old.

Normally confident, I can assure to you that this is not good news. The king must work for his residents, as they have always done. This is important; he is a very proud person. It is difficult that these wondering watchful eyes and the lit up fields that I recall from my stupid years. They have been weighing on my mind, and I must be strong to be faulted. When I grow as a person I tend to leave stuff behind.

Better than the written word, these talkers take my mighty signs and I have their own little kind of breeding rights that cannot seek with the mighty thoughts that need their written words to hurt my ego. Still, I cannot be the person I want to be. There is a spot for these little kinds of people, when I am sure – I have the higher life now. I am a gracious and kind person who does not hurt others.

These saltine packets of forceful crime take there, watching works to their own little carefree positive dreams needed to bring the homeless to me. I attempt to worry for their own kindness, and once I have these kinds of dreams I must breathe a sigh of relieving grief, and be sure that I tell the gracious sorts of crime that I do not want anything to do with them. These men were quick to run away.