Literary Concept – Work Process

One of the things that you learn when you’re learning to write is that sometimes it’s better to write immediately, while the details are fresh in your head, every last turn and twitch and nervous voice of the girl and the exactest blue of her sea eyes. But sometimes it’s better to wait, because if you trust your memory it will act as a filter, and if you keep that filter in good shape you’ll be rewarded with a distillate that’s full of kick, nuance, flavor.

Story Ideas

Pick an album and write a short short story basend on or inspired by every song. OK Computer comes to mind.

Poetry Scrap

Every once in a while I wish that lazy old man would / get off his duff and / shake up his heavens like one of those Christmas snowflake domes and we’d all new groupings of stars; Sirius over there! Anteres there! Sagitarian and Cancer repuzzlement, zodiacal mythology begin-again! / but then I see a cluster I’ve never noticed before, double star, and all those constellations I don’t know, Cygnus and aries – oh and the southern hemisphere! Oh and look how the dipper does that around sunset, looks like that with one pot handle down – perfect black cold winter night sky / shivers, frost cicles and familiar twinkles, and I tip a beany to that old man, on his couch, smile curled round that pipe in his mouth.


Or eat beforehand, have some tuna tataki with fire sauce as a prelude to a little bong load – this is Sunday afternoon afterall, and if marijuana has a use it’s in throwing up a wall between you and the impending future. Pot forces the future on you, very useful on Sunday around 3PM when the rest of the western world is already thinking about meetings, to-do lists, unfinished business –

Bud, crème fraiche, watercress, aligote wine – root crop tang, heart, triple cream brie on Bread and Cie bread.

I am sitting on my couch on a Sunday afternoon gently stroking my cock and I am unimaginably happy. I have eaten well, I am watching our nations gladiators bang into each other, I have guzzled wine, I have smoked some weed. The room smells faintly of cheese, all that barnyard loveliness and then the wine, a falltime applewood sharpness, yum. As the sun sinks, it becomes time for a cigar and a glass of Norman calvados…

After an hour or so, more like two, the sun goes down and the entrance to the next meal begins with a bowl of Washington blueberries mixed with French Crème Fraiche and Ontario maple syrup, ah… each bite is a trip to heaven and my meager bowl lasts nearly an hour, no joke. Every bluet is tongued, appreciated, loved in its bath of cream and maple syrup –

Poetry Scrap

Jeff Tweedey and boys in guitarfar, wide-headed, 4 and 1 and 1 and 1 is 7, 4 and 1, and 1 and 1 and is 7, and 7 is 14 and 7 is 21 and 2 of those is 42 and two more is 84 and then 4 of 4s is 16 and 16 and 84 is 100, 100 is nothing special, like 64 and 81, those are magic numbers, magic numbers numbers magic numbers numbers numbers –

Poetry Scrap

Mom’s baking bacon in the Westinghouse convection oven with metal knobs and wood paneling outside; grandma’s at the table sipping her folgers and amaretto creamer; dad’s in his blue astronaut jumpsuit; kitchen window’s open on Montara sunmorning, Boots hops up in the window, lips curled, wants some bacon; hops on the green stepstool, knocks knick-a-knacks off the shelf; grandma’s tenderhearted cooing, dad’s laughing, mom’s yelling, I’m two years old and licking sugar off my spoon, milk-sugar sweet treat at the bottom of porcelain cereal bowl –

Poetry Scrap

Sunmorning on fresh skin,
world brightness, wakeness,
visibility again and I
feel sorry for all of those nocturnal
creepers; sorry rats, we won and you
can have the night.