What I look like.

And now, a picture of me.

Whittemore.

If you haven't read Sinai Tapestry...might want to consider it. I really enjoy Whittemore's writing (but it isn't for everyone...so...keep that in mind). His writing is kinda out-there, but...well, it takes place in and around Jerusalem, and is really a fascinating look at the Levant as a historical-fictional....well...I can't really explain it, but it is wonderful.
http://www.fantasticmetropolis.com/i/whittemore/

Muse.

Muse muse muse muse muse.
Want to really follow me?
See what words I'm tossing into this oblivion like flower petals on a lake of non-Newtonian fluid and marveling at what bounces and what remains suspended in this devilish and new substance.
Go to victusinveritas.tumblr.com
and maybe create a tumblr account yourself. Still, as I like blogspot, and...every other blogging website out there...I'll keep posting here whenever I have anything of note to write about. Peace, my Comrades, peace.

culture keeper: Peter Beard

Peter Beard

Peter Beard may be the most adventurous man in the world.

Perhaps he is also the most stylish.

His photography and collage work are phenomenal.

Posted by Jonathan Randall Grant at 6:45 AM

The True Subject

This poem
is brief.
Though not so brief
as to avoid
mentioning
the true subject.
I'm sure
Hafez is happy
in his rose garden.

Brain, entirely vacated. Vanished.
Gone in the panic mode of the evening.
A fear of eviction, dereliction, unkempt disharmony,
Eris waiting beside my boots
as my feet bleed through now stained socks.

-----
My mind is in such a shit place right now--not depression wise or anything, either, just...in that panicked state it gets from time to time, something no amount of drugs can help with--and that is probably a good thing, really, because...well, just getting through your life by hopping from pill bottle to pill bottle whenever a problem pops up just...seems kind of unpleasant, I recognize that I write this as I have forty milligrams of serotonin-filled candy in my system along with some other tailored poisons to the beasts that slowly eat at my brain. Such is life. My dog is snuggling in at my feet and suggesting huffily that I turn off this devil box and sleep too, so I'm going to do that. Peace

A poem for Eugene.

I wrote this for a poetry class, so there were requirements to be met—namely, that I had only ten minutes to compose the piece, and had to put some form of the word ‘shiver’ in, as well the words ‘raft’ and ‘ambulance’… The result turned out to be a memoriam of sorts to my maternal grandfather, a man who always carried a sort of quiet mythic air about him. And the doughnut shop in question is Alie’s, in case you were wondering—if you live on the East Coast…stop by there and devour some for me, will ya?

Lake Cha(rgoggagoggmanchauggagoggchaubunagungam)augg and the Mournful Doughnut.


Roiling mists on Lake Chaugg hide a raft
a springboard for naked flips into the water

the sweet, high laugh of a friend’s lover,
later, the sound of an ambulance, a banshee’s wail

someone in the family has died, will die,
the sídhe keens, my aunt insists she shows up before each death.

Now, all that exists is that lake, cloaked in the colors of dawn,
another ambulance behind us on the road in Middlesex, Mass.

Shivering, I ride shotgun, a box of doughnuts, best in Rhode Island, at my feet.
Jelly with powdered sugar, cake with white frosting and sprinkles.

I can’t eat the jellied ones anymore, too much sorrow in them,
memories of a dead, mourned, and never-really-known grandfather
linger in strawberry-red smears on a white shirt every Friday morning.