Glittering Afterthoughts

a journal…



Yipping in the humming neon-night air of a conglomerated peoplescape built with dead artists and sweet-wine drinking mothers under the old reflected and heavy light of the moon, in the name of the moon.

A black-leopard Chariot striving and sweating and beautiful, they would have made it if Bacchus hadn’t been crying over spilt grapes and milk and honey.

We looked up and we saw God break and we broke him and it felt good and it kept us warm for a little while.

Broad-shouldered beautiful Aryan women struggling with their W’s and strangling rest while pounding the frosted ground for answers in green.

An already-dead poet labored over his last words in the back of a café smoking his first and only cigarette, they could have saved us.

I remember you against the window shuddering and what was that behind you?

Broken down cabins and unreal blinding Carné fireworks that could only be seen in murky lake-water reflections. A cold lake with no end or bottom (It hath no bottom!) forever twisting and then twisting more to destinations unfathomable. Like moths to a flame we peered over the deck and looked in.

Christ died with you and I— when the glitter finally settled we jumped in the lake and when we came up for air I saw how hollow your cheeks had become. It struck me and I slipped on your words before you could catch me.

Mein Vater, Mein Phantom, Mein Youth, where are you now? Where are you? Where? Instincts can’t help us. I’m underwater. The clouds gathered and cried “Wolf!” but we don’t fear wolves only starry-eyed jackals and the Ivory children of Angels or what we thought were Angels.

The homeless have finally died and are twitching and rattling.

I can feel you behind me.

Something incomprehensible like time, and nothing, and life from nothing, we are the treat-hungry, beaten medicated lap dogs of drunken forgers of galaxy.

“Tangerines are tangible” she whispered to me in an accent I had never heard and I took a bite or else.

We were snow-blind before we had made it to the top, but what we saw was so much worse.

We looked and we looked and we found it, and like so many before us it wasn’t what we were looking for.

She ran down the street grinning blood with hands full of rabbits. “Who killed the rabbits! The rabbits!”

Nothing, something.

I can feel you behind me.

Je Est Un Autre

The Flood


Big Sur, California


At the greatest meetings of land and water
At the confluence of dreams
In the bosom of cultures
In the seams,
In the cracks of time,
In the dry desert,
In the alcoves of your heart,
In the gray of god,
Suburbia is kicking and screaming and wants to go home,
After one last family picture.


Drunken prophets,
Cardboard signs,
Valor-ruined men.
Purple Violence.
Croaks, dirty beards, glassy eyes — I saw them scaring pedestrians with used needles on their way to the movies.


The last great walrus who ever lay bloated and sick on the shores of Big Sur,
Where hast thou gone with thy deliriums thou drunken hemorrhage?
You came to me pox-faced in a dream and we listened to waves and camera shutters.
Believe me boys, believe me, leave me. aye. aye. aye.


A hot crimson sun sets behind crystalline geysers.
A snake rubs its ribs against dry branches,
Thunder crumples.
Black leopards cringe in unison.
Storm clouds follow the sun.
I feel the first trickles of the flood
As streams of water glide over my bare feet.

If you liked this, buy me a cup of coffee

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40′s and Chocolate Bars


40’s and chocolate bars and butterfly wings
and whispers so soft you can feel them trickle like marmalade and hot water down your spine
and cold nights
That dripped in big fat spaced out rain drops and tangled our hair while we shouted at strangers out of the window of a moving car.

It hurts to walk in the mornings.

We laughed and fed pizza crusts to pigeons only because we thought they had finally made it home.

But what about the doves?
And about you?
And what about I?
And what about the millions of things we say/said/did and the things we forget?

The feeling comes in waves.

My toes are always wet but I’ll never get in,
I remember dreams that I can’t forget.

You’re always there in rain and in a look…

And what about snow and lilies and white sun-light and sun-burnt angels?
We scrambled over broken planks
And choked on saw dust.

I am pink.
A King of pigeons…

I cough and you cough back.



Something was nipping at our heels. The night was sticky-black and it dripped in big fat spaced-out rain drops and tangled our hair so all we could do was laugh in the back seat with our heads out the windows as somebody drove us to the next chapter while we looked for the stars. We howled and people howled back, we were both alone and had another larger man between us. We felt each other through the filler and I knew you were my reason for jumping into this stranger’s limousine– Chris Ball, he claimed he could get us into the Cosmos. Your blue hair matched the neon desert lights, your slender arms were speckled with crooked lines of tattoo poetry and on your forearm was a swallow– your skin was a high-strung canvas stretched across a skinny frame. You played with your lip-ring while you told me about how  you worked the black jack tables at one of the casinos, you told me you knew Chris Ball, you said you were friends, you asked me where I was from and I asked you back and you said “here?” and I didn’t understand. Chris offered us pills and we took two each. After a while my nose began to itch but I felt better. I looked over at you, sunken into a black leather armchair letting your head move with the little bumps in the road.

“Call me Chris.” He handed me a card from the front seat with his name on it and some official sounding title, he said he was a club rep, I didn’t really care, but he could be funny sometimes, even if he was only faking it. I was glad I left Jack and Mary and hoped I wouldn’t have to see them back at the hotel. She said she hated names because they never did anyone justice and I agreed and we decided not to ask each other’s names but I felt like I knew her name, and it was Delilah, I never knew anyone named Delilah, I wonder if she gave me a name? I think it’s better that way. We pulled up to the front of the casino and poured out of the stuffy car, we followed Chris Ball as he led the way to the club on the second floor. We went straight to the front. A bouncer put a hand on his chest and stopped him, Chris Ball said something and he came back with another bouncer and he was let in and we followed, the bouncers stopped me, Ball and I made eye contact, he kept going deeper into the club with Delilah trailing behind and I stood there for a second before turning around, thinking I’d get some free drinks out of sitting at a black jack table. I always met people at black jack tables and if I left at the right time I could more or less come out even with a few more drinks in me.

I lingered outside the front for what felt like fifteen seconds, Delilah came back and grabbed my hand, it was cold, all I wanted was to go to her art-decked studio apartment and listen to her inflection-free voice mixing with indie records. She pulled me towards the entrance “Hey Joe,” she said to the bouncer, smiling. “Hey Ashley. Is he with you?” What an ugly name, Ashley. I acted like I didn’t hear it and after dancing with her for a little while it went back to Delilah.

She was water in my hands. After we danced we went back to Chris’ table. I ordered a drink and paid the waitress. Delilah was on the couch next to Chris Ball with her head slung back like in the limousine. She was tired and breathing hard, I took sips from my drink and ignored the dancers behind me, Chris Ball would get up occasionally, or shake hands with someone, or pull a girl closer, or order more drinks—I stayed in my chair and took long sips from my drink pretending not to watch her chest heaving up and down. We sat like that for a while. I ordered a few more drinks and listened for them down inside me. We all got up and careened our way towards the entrance, we got back in the car and made our way to the front of the hotel through a whirring sea of faces and glittering purple chandeliers.

We got back in Chris’ limousine followed by another guy and a few of the girls that were around our table at the club. I was tired. The girls were anxious, so was Delilah, finally Chris opened a cabinet next to the mini-fridge and began parsing out blow. They circled the tiny limousine table like prudent well-mannered jackals. We had gone up and down the strip twice already– it was nice, everyone was too focused to talk so I looked out the window and counted all the fat Mexican girls with three-foot margaritas and listened to the music, I wish it was Mozart, everything would have been a lot less ugly if we had been listening to Mozart.

And just like that the group was ready for another club. We were headed to Ozone which was the club to go to on this particular night, at this particular hour. I was tired. I had another drink but that made things worse. I lit a cigarette and Chris told me to put it out– I laughed and threw it out the window. We all got out of the limousine, I lit another cigarette while everyone headed in, I didn’t really care that they would go without me, I was ready to walk off the alcohol and head back to my hotel, head up the elevator, sneak into the room, get into bed and hope I wouldn’t have to stay awake until the spinning stopped. I was positive Jack and Mary would be asleep after a night of drunken fights. Delilah came back and had a cigarette with me. She had her arms crossed and shoulders hunched as if she was cold. The wind was blowing her hair into her eyes; she closed them while she took a drag. The ash blew up into her hair. We were drunk, leaning on a wall next to a casino entrance watching people just like us pour in and out of limousines from the 80’s and 90’s. The thousand yellow light bulbs that hung over us left her features shadowless, I kept eyeing the taxis but avoided inviting myself over to her house. Finally, without saying anything, she grabbed my arm and walked to a cab and got in, I followed. She spouted out an address, I don’t remember much of the ride over to her house, I remember her hands being cold.

I paid and we got out in front of a small desert house on the outskirts of the suburbs. She opened the door and asked me to wait outside. After a while a Mexican woman came out and smiled at me and then left in a pale Dodge Neon. Maybe five minutes later Delilah was back and led me to her room, I bumped into what felt like a stroller, she turned the light on in her room and we sat on the bed. She put on the same shit we listened to in Chris Ball’s limousine. There was a half empty jewelry armoire with a film of white powder on the top. The room was empty. There was a box TV connected to a Wal-Mart DVD player across from her queen box-mattress bed. There were a few movies on top of the TV– The Expendables, 2 Fast 2 Furious, seasons upon seasons of Grey’s Anatomy. “So Delilah, whaddayou like to read?” She gave me a look like I was being sarcastic. “Who’s Delilah?” Oh fuck that’s right it’s Ashley. “Sorry, bad joke,” I laughed it off. Her skin was red and patched as she took off her shirt and exposed her back. She had more swallows on her back. She was facing the Armoire and asked if I wanted some, I hesitated but then got up and stood next to her. She went first and I copied her, it burned like I expected but then I felt sick. I sat down for a little bit and then got up to go to the bathroom. I asked her where it was. She said something, I’m not sure if she was mumbling or if I just wasn’t paying attention.

I opened the door to her living room and then opened the next door I saw, it was dark, I fumbled for a switch, it flickered on and I realized I was in a kids room, a beautiful little girl with blonde hair and blue eyes sat up in her bed “Mommy?” Fuck. I closed the door and turned off the light– I went to the bathroom and threw up from the blow. I rinsed my mouth with a bottle of mouthwash and went back to Delilah’s… Ashley’s room. I thought I saw a Bob Marley poster above the bed before she turned off the light and started unbuckling my pants. I could feel she was naked, she kissed me and grabbed me but I couldn’t concentrate. I gave one last effort by turning her around quickly and bending her over the armoire while she pressed her naked body into me. Nothing. The lights went on. She called me a cab without me asking and then got into her pajamas. I got up and put my clothes on and decided I’d wait outside for the cab. I opened the door, I looked back at her, I wanted to ask what her girls name was, but I just said “goodbye.” She didn’t say anything– I closed the door and watched a gecko flitter across the street while I waited outside.


Mists and Moonrocks


Kisses with the fittest is mists and moon rocks.
Lemon-tongued egrets
And angry lists with a palpable twist.
We cringed and hinged on the thought.

Seas that drifted and rattled like graveyards of white clover.

The critical liturgy has stuffed us again.
Ho! The white chapel’s malicious mirage is at our quarter.

“that’s not my bathwater!”

The ebb and flow of wanderlust hearts keeps rhythm like air over the outstretched hands of little girls in the back seats of cars.

There’s freedom in this, there’s freedom here, dig now! Dig!

I dreamt I could grab the sea’s mist,
I felt the dirt under my fingernails from when I was younger.

They followed me in white foamy masses towards those deep blue waters
and we broke ourselves on the rocks after the waves had had their fill.

I woke up clutching sweaty blankets.

Fate, what a word! If only I could grasp thee like the sea mists of my dreams!

Rabbits chuckled while a little girl played xylophone with such sporadic focus that I finally closed my eyes and let it all slip and shift like it always has.

’40’s and Chocolate Bars’ by Michael Schmidt (Writer) FreeSpace #3

Originally posted on ArtiPeeps:

Flock of Pigeons - Watercolor Painting of Birds


40’s and Chocolate Bars

by Michael Schmidt


40’s and chocolate bars and butterfly wings
and whispers so soft you can feel them trickle like marmalade and hot water down your spine
and cold nights
That dripped in big fat spaced out rain drops and tangled our hair while we shouted at strangers out of the window of a moving car.

It hurts to walk in the mornings.

We laughed and fed pizza crusts to pigeons only because we thought they had finally made it home.

But what about the doves?
And about you?
And what about I?
And what about the millions of things we say/said/did and the things we forget?

The feeling comes in waves.

My toes are always wet but I’ll never get in,
I remember dreams that I can’t forget.

You’re always there in rain and in a look…

View original 148 more words

‘Stella I’m Bleeding’ by Michael Schmidt (Writer) FreeSpace #2

Originally posted on ArtiPeeps:


Image by Justas Marcinkevicius


Stella, I’m Bleeding

by Michael Schmidt


Death Dances in broken down dreams thumbing my way through idlechatter/whitestatic alcohol-hallucinations wishing I could do something about the screeching quartet that has every intention of stopping just before the height of its crescendo.




Abyssinian monks descended from their holy-gray pedestalic mountains to drown me in mirrors— Air so quiet and cold we can hear the ice crystalline when we stab your lungs with new breath and smoke.

I wish I had the patience to keep company with a hunter’s moon and watch her sink behind black mountains  and thin iridescent clouds squinting and unable to turn away from a new sun.


I crushed a flaming-white butterfly in my hand by accident in a hazy green and yellow aspen grove when I was young— I’m scared to try now lest my…

View original 150 more words

The Fringe


Out of the Corners…

                                                 I hear cigarettes crackling under moonlight shadows

                                                 Firewood crackling on top of salt deserts

                                                 Sparrows crackling under-foot.

        In the Wake…

                                                  I feel glass splintering

                                                  Deep warmth

                                                  And washing-machine thoughts catatonic.

        On the tip of my Tongue…

                                                   I can taste ugly words


                                                   And stagnant air sticking to the roof of my mouth.

        In the forest…

                                                    I smell wolfish intention


                                                    And pine.

        In the Margins…

                                                     I see black and white sighs.

                                                    Glittering after-thoughts

                                                    Geometric auras.

The Fringe. A white desert, illuminated by starlight reflection. Rocks are scattered here and there, soaking up light. There’s music in the background, but it’s hard to tell where it comes from. A man and a woman lie flat on their back staring at the same blue and white constellation.


They face each other, speak, but their words are muffled.


How did it happen so fast? We can’t go back now, but then where will we go?


I can’t hear you–what is it you’re saying? You’re scared? This is what you wanted, but where will we go?

(The trumpets grow in volume)

They look at each other– and, as if they can hear each others thoughts, they lay back down flat until the trumpets fade away with the starlight. Darkness.




Guffaw! Guffaw! There’s rocks in my jaw!

Eagle-nosed men have clicked in these halls

The Halls! The Halls! And things that crawl! There are too many to count hidden in the depths of our walls.

There’ll be no Ka- Cackling when Sir Half-Hafferty bellows and wallows and swallows the eggs of three-hundred blind pigeons caught in traps on the Mall.

A jack o’ all lanterns was writ in red letters under his desk with all the secrets unbeknownst to his betters.

I’m Better! I’m Better than— we counted the spots on the blue and black heifer.

Cleaver (leave-her) no one believes her…………………………………………………………………………………………………..

Measures! Measures! Measures for Measures we must take all due measures to ensure that the rhetoric of Duke John the heretic malingers in the livers of the ladies of Kerouac.

Ke-rack, Ke-rack, the whips at my back — I see blue-haired angel of antitheses and jaded followers of Euripides.

Disembodied literati on the walls of her body and Psalms in black ink under shadows of the black-and-slack harrowing mists of Minsk.

In the Midst! In the Midst! We’re all in red mitht! Cried the old woman of back alleys with a cane and a lithp.

The Static! The Static! We’re all very static, leave me alone, I’ve had had had it!

We can read the runes scratched in granite, or wood, in the echoic halls of America’s ruin.


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