Archive for literature

My Music

Posted in literature, music, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on March 27, 2017 by JC


It’s been a while since I’ve been here. I’m playing guitar and writing songs now and just made a SoundCloud page here:

Check it out if you’re into that kind of thing.



“No thanks, I’ll not.”

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2013 by JC

I was out tonight, and she was thirsty,

Her man right there, she came,

And offered me…a smoke so hot…

I said ”no thanks, I’ll not.”

I don’t engage in horn the fool–cuckold, that fool–that fool.

I don’t engage in horn the fool, let time set that fool free.

I Don’t Engage

Posted in Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on July 4, 2013 by JC

I was out tonight, and she was thirsty,

Her man right there, she came,

And offered me…a smoke so hot…

I said “no thanks, I’ll not,”

I don’t engage in horn the fool–cuckold, that fool–that fool.

I don’t engage in horn the fool, let time set that fool free.

This was not nice, you know,

No slice, you know, of pie.

But she stepped off, to stay,

Now all I say, is “k.”

Time to get a Dog

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 28, 2013 by JC

The building I’m in looks just like the city outside. It’s a library but it’s full of people, stone, glass, and metal, and the shelves are heighted and arranged just like the structures off the street.

This is my sandbox. I’m trying out a new self, and I want to keep the experiment contained, focused for now.

There is an architect named Rich Shepherd my age who looks just like me in the same city. I’ve always had a visual way of interacting and an appreciation for space. Good find.

“Hello, Maggie,” I said to the  the curly-haired, ginger, early-forties librarian behind the counter.

“Sih-r,” she broke during that single syllable like: sih-she took off her glasses and dipped her chin while keeping eye contact-r. Her shoulders jerked up and down a bit, along with her hips. This one’s sensitive, potentially attracted, and/or neurologically defective. Any case, she’s a find!

“First, I like your scarf—it looks breathable. Second, I’m an architect and I can’t help but be inspired by this place as such—or you.” I smile.

She dries up instantly—it’s obvious.

“Just saying.” I walk on to fiction.

There, I see a girl. I say she’s a girl because she looks about twenty. I’m twenty-seven at the time.

She’s reading Cat’s Cradle, which I don’t like at all—too “why did he write this,” for me. But I understand the need to taste overrated stink in order to recognize it, and that’s where she is at. She’s cracking up laughing.

“I’m reading The Da Vinci Code. So exhilarating.” I wasn’t, and it sucked; I just took a cynical, sixty-forty chance.

“Fuck off, bitch.” She says, never taking her eyes off the page.

“I’m an architect, you know…”

She’s not listening.

On to self-help; desperation can’t hurt.

There she is—reading Dr. Phil, around forty-six years old, no ring on her finger, once attractive but rendered underwhelming by excessive empathy. I’m gittin’ laid tonight!

“I love him. I love the suspense element of his show: ‘what you nied to do is…more Dr. Phil after words from our sponsors…Welch’s grape juice is now fortified with chia seed <lip smack>…what’s right for you!’  that bitterness of minor abandonment warms my heart and sweetens the inevitable sweetness every time.”

“You’re a sardonic dickhead. Dr. Phil is a genius. Why are your pants stuffed? Why are you wearing sunglasses? Why are you wearing a fake torso that makes you look forty pounds heavier than you are? Seriously, who does all that at the same time?”

Time to get a dog.


Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , on February 24, 2013 by JC

I think there’s a special place in hell, if it exists, for plagiarists, and I hope it involves incessant fountain pens up the ass and spitting-up of indelible black ink that tastes and feels like cheap vodka.

The Sea and Cake

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 22, 2013 by JC

They’re like a misty, partly sunny, sixty-seven-degree afternoon adorned with rainbows, cymbals, and a cloud-shrouded but beaming sun when you need it most.

I would say, if called upon to put my musical palate on a pedestal, that The Sea and Cake are artists’ artists, and they’ve made a career out of stacking albums with light, wistful, enlivening, complex, jazzy, and loungey tunes. Most of them fall into all those categories at once.

To get started, check out “The Colony Room,” “The Biz,” “Choice Blanket,” “Earth Star,” and “The Argument.”

The Cantina 2/22

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on February 22, 2013 by JC

After what seemed like no time I made it to the whistle-whetting spot, which can be conditionally modified that way depending on my intentions. My intention was to continue rhapsodizing upon the rhapsodies around and within me and there were likely to be some unmistakably living sources of music to reinforce the roll I was on at the Cantina, so I yessed while outside the door the notion that the Cantina was consistent with abstracting cadences and songs—which I was especially inclined to abstract now—and moving in space and moving above thought accordingly. I can think about it now because I really felt it and really drank it and really became it then—felt and drank and became the music abstracted, became the field capturing all the piping-hot, underappreciated delight around and within me.

Buttressed of course by my bright-green, orange-laced shoes I swagger-shuffled into the Cantina like FOOSH-FOOSH-SHICKA-NOW-HOOSH—THICKA-HOW and all eyes converged on me.

I was not that handsome, I was not that tall, I was not popping an obvious erection, I did not have a sweat-stain resembling a urine-stain on my pants; I was just the only one FOOSH-FOOSH-SHICKA-NOW-HOOSH—THICKA-HOWing and so the other patrons did not know how to respond—a single note of confusion was all I picked up for a moment. There was a band, and that propped up my momentum; their leader blasted his trumpet as if it was the world’s only recourse.

I stopped playing sounds mentally to allow for the trumpet solo, to be here, now, for the enlightened man’s contribution: he knew what he was doing, and my gratitude couldn’t wait. I danced all the time, though, “In the land of Mars…” I slithered up and down for the solo’s benefit and benefit it did because everyone started dancing along—electrified by my influence sure but ultimately by potential energy going active, kinetic, as it should when the context conduces; the context conduced so the moment arose and potential went actual and that’s how “should happen” became “did happen.”

I got a fez-tip from the enlightened hornist probably for catalyzing what he’d envisioned or at least progress toward what he envisioned when staring himself down in the green room, staring down those eyes, that face; the prayer “let me come to the fore tonight,” was answered with more than a little help from me. I’d helped him reach in and channel what was most deeply there—perhaps his make-up; perhaps his buried, primordial, metaphysical character; perhaps the pinnacle of his then-current self.

Part I (2/20)

Part II (2/21)