Archive for the Creative Writing Category


Posted in Creative Writing on December 10, 2014 by Verge

The boxes in my attic prove I’m somehow holding on.

Never for myself, I really don’t think. For someone else.

Someone not yet here.

Perhaps my imaginary grandson to discover one day and put up on a shelf

like I’ve done with a drum stick and the silver dollar that I’d found upstairs

when we cleaned out their house after my grand parents both passed away.

They were probably forgotten up there for longer that I’ve been alive.

I’m not sure what they mean to me, nor what I’ll mean to him.

I think words are worth more than actions anyway, so fuck the common wisdom.

I’d rather have been a writer than a drummer in the end.

The Mends (aka My Blood Will Thicken)

Posted in Creative Writing with tags on December 9, 2014 by Verge

I’ve started, and then unfinished a bunch of posts in the last few months.  A new job derailed me for a while, and I guess it forced me to reassess what really matters.  Oddly enough, that took me away from what I really wish I could do everyday…write.  So, here’s my latest fucking gem.


The pile of shirts with missing buttons was built in my closet over years.

They weren’t old, or broken, or worthless.

Just damaged.

I wouldn’t throw them away for a reason

or donate them;

there was nothing really wrong with them at all,

except that I couldn’t wear them any longer.

They needed mending.

Yesterday, I took out a needle and some thread

to fix the damage that was done

and tried my best to make things look like nothing ever happened.

I guess it looks all right.

I don’t think anyone will notice the stray threads

or my inexperienced hands,

but I will always know which buttons aren’t quite right.


Bullet Journal

Posted in Creative Writing on April 17, 2014 by Verge

oh, the weird things that turn me on!

Posted in Creative Writing with tags on March 19, 2014 by Verge

What a weird thing to be so excited about…Shelterwood.  Just released minutes ago.

<p><a href=”″>Field Notes Brand: The Shelterwood Edition</a> from <a href=””>Coudal Partners</a> on <a href=””>Vimeo</a&gt;.</p>

Carbon Dioxide

Posted in Creative Writing with tags on May 15, 2013 by Verge

These plants have grown on your quiet exhales

And though they’ve starved of you for quite a year now,

They, as I, can still taste your sweet breath on their lips.


Posted in Creative Writing with tags on August 9, 2012 by Verge

Patient ninefiveseven

Cardboard bum

With a gun

Nina bedford


In the head

A scientist just like you

How big is your house?

The drug works chemically.

A complete makeover

Toast fucking

Drain the pipe

Lights off asshole

We always win

Somebody came in the wrong door

Were the handcuffs totally necessary

Waiting at home

Thank you I guess

One of them tried to kiss me

Why would he do that

I was concerned that he might fall

You are one of them

The opposite of straight

It’s called denial

Psychiatric mumbo  jumbo

You’re a special case

Ski is on it

Animal pornography

A bat and a pig

It’s gonna be amazing

Horse tranquilizers

Fuck happy

The data can be interpreted in many ways

We’re no 1

Mr. November

Do you think that’s funny?

Who cares?

These are fakes

The inventor of the drug

They’re talking about us

There is no hope for me

His heart on the outside of his body

A little softer

In circles

A little bit more in circles


Land in Montana


Everyone should have access to it

Papers to sign

It was supposed to be fixed

Our new drug

The real party

She must be another scientist

I had this dog in my head

And I haven’t seen it yet

My cap is luke

Happiness freelance artists

Super super model!

Sometimes the Ice Cream Melts

Posted in Creative Writing, Reflections with tags on January 6, 2012 by Verge

I woke having remembered the last part of my dream.  It took place a while back, perhaps ten or 15 years.  I was younger, I knew that.  I was with friends, including one who was a police officer, I guess.  There was a small crew of us and we were hanging outside an Arcade.  It looked like the arcade from Smithville, which I saw two months ago, except it was at night.  The feeling was a lot like the boardwalk at night in The Lost Boys

I had an ice cream Sunday with me as we walked around.  Some one told us that a friend of ours had gotten into trouble.   This guy was just like a friend I used to have about ten years ago, so I assume I was thinking it was him.  I’m not sure why he was on my mind last night.  He had been busted by the police in a drug sting.  We headed to his house, which was basically further down the boardwalk.

He was being led out by police, but because he was friends with the cop in our crew, he was allowed to say goodbye to every one of us.  He hung his head low, and we all shook our heads.  It was saddening.  My ice cream melted in the cup.  As he was led away, I realized I like the sundae better after the ice cream had melted.

Then it was 10 years later.  Our friend still wasn’t around, we had all lost touch.  We were all back together, though, and were in a club.  There was a DJ in the center of the floor spinning records.  It was very nostalgic to have all of us together again.  I got the feeling that we had all lost touch to some degree in that decade, our lives diverging like they do.

I had another drink with me, and I said to my friend, “Sometimes it’s better when the ice cream melts, ya know?”  And he was confused.  He asked me what that meant.  I explained that sometimes things are only this good after all things fall apart, melt, fade away…and we can remember them again with a fondness we only feel from a distance and can appreciate how the past has shaped the present.

I don’t know how that all makes sense, but I really do feel that way.  There was a time in my life when I did fall apart.  And things wouldn’t be the way they are today if  my life hadn’t gone to shit at some point in the past.  And life is much sweeter today because of it.

Someone Else

Posted in Creative Writing on December 14, 2011 by Verge

I arrived at the station

having not seen you in a while

never expecting the orange in your hair

you were beautiful, I was happy to be there

For three weeks I crashed in your flat

in London while you still went to class

But at night we hung out with your room mates

over bottles of red wine and laughs

one evening, I remember, we walked on the river

and stopped now and then for a candid picture

but you were strangely not yourself

and the photo, later, proved your uncomfortablness

it was a few years later

in your apartment in Philadelphia

that you finally revealed to me

what had been bothering you all along

you had been with someone else that year

you never really had to tell me

and it was the beginning of the long tearful end

but I can’t blame anyone, I was happy to be there.

“Winter” Poem by Ronnie Mund (of The Howard Stern Show) Rewritten like a Poet (transcribed words lyrics)

Posted in Creative Writing with tags , on December 9, 2011 by Verge

(I wanted to see if I could rewrite the poem “Winter” by Ronnie Mund and make it into my own style.  I thought it would be a fun exercise.  It’s kind of like when, back in Creative Writing school, we were asked to emulate the style of a poet or writer, except this is the opposite.  I want to keep the meaning, but change the style…drastically.  After searching for the transcription online, I found none, and did it myself.  Here ya’ go, Stern fans.)


by Ronnie Mund

Winter is when there are no leaves on the trees

Winter is when we say good bye to the birds and the bees

Winter is when we get an extra hour of z’s

Winter is when a red-suited man brings us all lots of glee

Winter is when the snow falls and we yell “Happy New Year”

Winter is when you turn that special girl or guy’s heart bright red with love and cheer, until this time again next year

Winter goes away…

And the birds and the bees

and the leaves on the trees

and the extra hour of z’s

all go back to where they should be.



Obviously, formatting  mine.  Here is the original.  I’d like to get J.D. to recite my version when I’m done.  Stay tuned.

Okay, here’s my attempt, first try. Like I said, I’m not a published poet or anything.  I used this more as a funny exercise than anything else.  Hope  you like the new version.



by Ryan Walsh

Frigid Winter winds lick leaves from limbs as

wing-ed travelers make their perennial voyage

and the Sun and I set earlier in our days.

Gifts exchange and crystal clinks

over Valentines and holiday drinks.

Another year turns over.

All things end…

      then are reborn again.


Posted in Creative Writing with tags on July 12, 2010 by Verge

“At twelve I was cleaning houses, three dollars a week, and no dishwasher or washing machine, you don’t think nowadays about that, but we didn’t have any, so me and this other girl went house to house, week after week, three dollars, that’s it, which was fine then, but anyway, later I got a job at the factory.  All the way down Twelfth Street, where they got that Acme now, well, somewhere around there because the roads aren’t even the same places they were before, so just around there I guess, making hinges for cars, that’s what I did, anyway.

“I used to go to that factory real early, work all day. I used to think about that job, even then.  I wondered where those hinges ended up.  I used to make up stories for each one, and it started with me on the assembly line, to where–who knows?   Alls I know is that there weren’t a lotta cars around the factory, that’s for sure, so  I used to imagine that they got shipped to real exotic like places, and I used to pretend I was the hinge being shipped out to other factories, in other places, packed tight in boxes, shipped off overseas for some cars that would drive around Paris  or Rome or London, see all the things I dreamt of seeing some day.   Sometimes I dreamt of hiding in one of those boxes, but thank god I didn’t, I guess, cause I wouldn’t’ve met Harry, and then, of course, no you,” she says laughing but also matter-of-factly, staring over my shoulder at the imaginary scene  that dances there, behind everyone’s shoulder when they’re face to face with someone reminiscing.

Her face is pale and leathery, yet her laugh-lines still sparkle on the corners of her lips as she smiles and stares through me.  On the wall behind her looms a huge oak cabinet, stained deep amber, chipped and nicked for four generations now.  Thick-heavy frames capture two panes of glass at the top of the cabinet, through which I can see a jumble of curios.  There are plaques, pins and medals, a trophy or two.  There’s a matchbox car, and the pair of golf balls my grandfather aced, a few tiny pictures (I can see my cousin in one for sure, and my father in another), cards, ribbons and glasses (both kinds).  I can see some envelopes, opened, tucked behind a few books:  a dictionary, the Bible, a wedding album, and two magazines:  a Popular Science and National Geographic’s November ’72 issue with endangered mammals and a tear in the spine.

“Oh, the factory was such a mess,” she continues; “There just wasn’t enough room in that place,” she adds seriously.  “I know because I remember this one day a boy I knew who was sixteen, same as me, got killed in the factory because there wasn’t enough room, not to do things safe, anyways.  That’s why the place was all shook and people like Harry had to come in to oversee everything.  Before that, it was anything goes, no matter who nor what, you know, you had kids, some thirteen, working right next to known criminals, sure they weren’t murderers, but no church-goers, that’s for sure.”  I let one corner of my mouth slip upwards in amusement.  “So anyway, this particular boy lived down here on the island too, so sometimes we’d walk together coming home.  Right around a week before he died, we all got called into the foreman’s office, one by one, all of us who looked underage, because they really started cracking down and saying you had to be a certain age to work in a factory.  So we lied, just like we said we would, really, just like everyone expected.  I always used to wonder why they made rules when everyone’s supposed to break them anyway.”

She interrupts a comfortable silence that suggests the end of her story with, “all over the place, hundreds of people, all on different machines.   Well, this one particular day, spreading across the factory like the flu comes this story that this boy got hurt real bad, probably was dead, and the thing is, he’s real young too.  So right away I thought that it was Charlie, the boy from the island, because there weren’t that many kids at the factory, mostly girls and their moms really, and he was kind of always asking for trouble anyway.  Well it turns out that one of the machines jammed up or something, and one thing or another shot out and hit him square in the temple, right on the side of his head.”

They took Charlie out of the factory on a piece of scrap plywood.  By the time he had gotten to the hospital, he was dead.  He had bent to pick up something, and was just caught off guard, well, that what the official report said.  He was the first of two who died that year in the Klein Edgar Divisional Factory #18, Franklin.  Twenty-three more were hurt.

“Well, about a week later, I guess, is when I get called back into the office, the foreman’s office, because they found out that I had talked to the ‘Charlie-boy’ before.  Well, I didn’t know what for, I figured the boy was dead, none for my business.  So I get into his office, and there behind his gray tin desk was the foreman, only not real boss-like as usual, but eyes shooting around and sweating like I had cornered him.  There were two big-wigs on either side of him, standing and waiting, trying to pretend to me that they weren’t even there, just me and the foreman talking as usual.  Anyway, he starts to ask me some questions and then I get it:  these guys were from the government.   They wanted to know why an underage boy was killed at the factory.  So, the foreman starts to ask me about my age, but staring at me, right in my eyes, like he was pleading, but I didn’t know for what.  I knew he wanted something very particular from me, but I wasn’t sure if he wanted me to lie or tell the truth.  But there was no one around to ask for advice, just me and the foreman and the big-wigs.  So I tell them I’m eighteen, or something, and he immediately picks himself up off the slouching position on his desk and sighs as he sits back into his chair, the big-wigs not taking their eyes off me for a second, but I don’t know if I said the right thing or the wrong thing.  Well, they ask me about Charlie, and I tell them what I know, which isn’t very much, but they finally come to the part about his age.  I keep waiting for someone to come in and tell me whether or not I should lie, because I don’t know who would get in trouble for lying in the first place, Charlie, I guess, but maybe the foreman for going along with it,  but it wasn’t his fault.  It wasn’t even his fault the factory was overcrowded, or that we all had lied to him about our age.  He played along like everyone else, but he didn’t seem to be playing anymore.  He knew it, the big-wigs knew it, everyone in the room knew it, but they were still asking me.  So the foreman starts pressing me about Charlie’s age and asking if we ever talked about it, or if I told him he should lie, then all the sudden I thought I might get in trouble, and still, no one to help me, and the big-wigs just keep staring at me, and the foreman’s eyes darting around his desk like maybe somewhere there in the clutter he might find the answer he’s looking for.  I break down crying, I’m not sure why, but I don’t know whether or not to lie to the men, whether it matters.  Maybe if it was Charlie’s parents that were asking me I could’ve figured it out better, but by this point I didn’t even remember Charlie, I was only thinking about trying to so the right thing, which I didn’t even know what it was, I was so lost in the confusion.  So now I’m crying and the big-wigs start in eager at the foreman, and one of them turns around to get a cup of coffee, exhausted.  The foreman asks me one more time about Charlie’s age through his gritting teeth, and all I can think to do is start crying harder, and they think it’s because Charlie’s dead but all I can think of is the lie they’re asking me to tell them, but I don’t know whether they want me to lie about this or that, I don’t even know what the truth is anymore.  Finally the foreman gets up and lets me go home for the day, figuring that Charlie’s death has me all shook up or some nonsense, and I never went back to the factory because I didn’t want to lie anymore.”

My grandmother sits here for a few minutes, sorting through the trail of memories that the story has left her with.  I can’t stop staring at her, like she’s a kid again and I’m one of the big-wigs, staring at her waiting for her to flinch.  She just keeps staring at the ground, and a subtle smile forms on her cheeks, and I close me eyes.  I hear her say in a much calmer voice, “Just never knew when you were supposed to lie, I guess.”

She gets up out of her chair slowly, as fast as age lets her, and walks into the kitchen.  I sit on the couch keeping my eyes closed, still trying to imagine, now, what the island looked like when my grandmother was sixteen.

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