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Utopia Was Real

Utopia was real
At one time
It was not new
Was not unlikely 
Was deserved
At one time 
Till then, again
Endure this hell

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Should Not Even Be A Word

What is not gradient?
What flow of time isn’t eventual memory loss?

What remembrance wasn’t each day feeling the real thing less and less and then transferring sensation into delusional perception—for the sake of not fading?

What isn’t gradient?
It should not even be a word.

What catatonic love wasn’t daily forgetting why anything was worth the efforts?

Who is born as man?
Who is born, skin already taught?
Flesh nearly ready to burst?
Ready to give up into deadly

nothing but still


Floating into air like interpretive dance and all muscles pulsing?
Who is born man?

What song isn’t transition from now until the end?

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“A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst”

( This piece was recently published the Hawaii Pacific Review. That enough was reason to open it & I was more than pleasantly surprised❕💬 )

by Hosho McCreesh (from A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst) At the chalet and you’re guzzling down bombers of Farmer beer, and the occasional measure of …

A Deep & Gorgeous Thirst
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Let It Not Be

The chosen ones made idols.

Statues of gold and genies right below the present, True and Living God.

Stay far from gold.

Whatever you should decide to arrive in, let it not be gold.

Too oft does gold stimulate hungry pupils readied with greedy hearts waiting to make of you a statue and symbol of meaning in their eyes.

A symbol of something foreboding. Coated completely in matte armor.

Turning shiny in the sunlight

Then back to its lusterless base.

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Fall Is…

Fall is a lanky hipster.

A lanky hipster with a Brooks seat on his bike and a fedora on his head.

A fedora on his head and an infinity scarf draped over a perfectly creased American Apparel collared shirt.

An American Apparel collared shirt not currently found on Amazon.

An original. Cared for and with pride.

Fall is that same hipster, gliding down the street made up of only bike lanes

Grateful for the social distance.

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A Thoughtful Way to Get Writing While Utilizing Your Stationery for Marketing

from “DIY. Postcards as a way to promote your literary works” — https://kadr.vip/alex-markovich-marketing-tips

What a lovely idea that captures the ephemeral nature and resilience of literature. Keeping this written word airy, kinetic, and also tangible!

Will give it a go!

“…literary postcards where I place abstracts from my stories.

Where do I send these literary postcards? To cafes, libraries, museums, and to my blog readers on their request.”

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To Six To

Some have never counted down, only
counted up


Counting up:
what is done when teasing tolerance
and testing patience
From one and three and twenty-nine
they, desperate to be stopped
Proven wrong


Relieved are those who depend
on counting down.
Basking in surety and an end.
Promised and provided.
From twelve to six to one.

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Mr. F. Ocean

The first time I got high

Mr. Ocean released an album

Someone smashed my bed and ceiling together

Just so I would be cozier

And on Pua Lane

The humidity was just right

Hugging me the way my teachers always did

At the end

When the high was over, the jokes stopped being so hilarious.

My classmates had to get back to their work; no one wanted to bring an assignment home if it could be done at their desks.

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key click?

Key click and key click
And decline with surety this and the next also
“Could these pieces be any more hollow?”
“These aren’t writers. These are twenty-something-aged children”
So the poems and the flash fiction and the creative nonfiction are sophomoric
So I begin hating my job as an editor
This publication is small so
Perhaps this explains the mediocre writing
Perhaps this is the “At least I tried” publication
Although, each of these ‘writers’ have given a more honest try than I have lately.
At least they cared to write something.
Will I?

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So so

I feel so very sad today
Like lakeside in a post-drowning exacerbated exhale
Today I am unwoven, unraveled, revealed, bare, raw
Sticky stuck itchy square centimeters of thick grime-coated, sweat-beading skin
Is giving up
So very sad?
I am pillow side reeking of dry salivary residue
And yet not willing to peel
To pull away
At all
At the dawning of eve,
I am still

Very sad