Given Identity – Journal 9/6/17

I’m gearing up and putting together a manuscript for the Copper Canyon Press, due before Halloween! It’s a first ISBN-published book contest with a $3,000 prize and royalties. All poetry! Submissions are by way of manuscript. Which, to me, is good news. Publishing is something I’m good at, but only having to worry about content this time is good.

My plan of attack is to put together what is essentially a concept album. I feel like I’m really really good at being self-referential, so all the poems I’ve put in the collection I’ll submit call back to one previous in the collection. Also some original content written just for the theme of the collection: Red Men. If it doesn’t work out with this contest, you better believe you’ll see the collection in one form or another! I’m quite proud of it!

I’m having beta readers look through it to make sure everything that’s included is contextually sensible. That’s my one worry. I want it to seem like a concept album, but with words you can only do so much!

Speaking of publishing stuff, I’m needing to put together a small chapbook for that place in Tacoma to carry. And I need to talk to the people who run Anthem to see about if they’d be willing to carry some local poetry. I really hope that goes somewhere.

So what’s been going on lately outside of that? Well Rainbow 6 just dropped the Blood Orchid patch and it’s amazing. But aside from that?

The Pacific Northwest is still on fire. Oregon, North California, Western Washington, all burn once again and the sun’s turned red behind a haze of ash. I’m sipping coffee and looking at an orange sky outside my living room window.

I stopped by my former mentor’s classroom again. He got a new room! Super happy about it. Moved from a shitty little portable to a proper art room that’s maybe 6 times the size of what he used to have. Seeing progress even as I’m gone makes me happy.

Also yesterday made my first thrift store drop off run. A bunch of books and clothes are now entering the Value Village in Puyallup, straight from my room. Still so much to get rid of in preparation for moving. Me and my roommates are going to take a look at other apartments in our area, as we’ve recently stumbled across some other places that are comparable. Stuff’s moving forwards!

This journal’s excerpt will be from “Radcliffe Tea House”:

“When you pour
Into porcelain
Liquid medicine
Cut tea

That breaks the rim
Of fine china where
Your lips meet
And invoke the dream”

In this poem, the goal was/is to reference Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, and Alice: Madness Returns in particular, as much as possible. Jefferson Airplane’s White Rabbit will always be the one to beat when it comes to referencing Lewis Carroll, for many reasons including the era it was referenced in. This poem was actually written in a place I’m going to be bringing a publication to. A tea house! I didn’t know these places existed until I found myself in one. But the poem is about imagination and phantasm. I love it!

Today I’m continuing to listen to Deadmau5’s while(1<2), specifically the song “My Pet Coelacanth”. Nice repetitive track that rolls with its background. Check it out!

And in addition to checking that out, check out my main site if you’re seeing this on the reader! It’s where all of my bread and butter is!

I’d like to close this journal with talking about some things that I’ve been thinking about lately. Humanity. I know, what a broad fucking umbrella topic, Jake, did you use that one to get around a shitty high school essay prompt?


I’ve been thinking about people and the animosity that can prevail when communicating over the internet. I’m not talking about cyberbullying (loosely and improperly used term these days). I’m talking about people representing themselves in a really awful way by being pricks.

Everybody is entitled to the first amendment. Freedom of speech and the press is something I take a lot of pride in. As far as measures go, that is one thing that makes me proud to be born in America. That’s also the absolute most patriotic I will ever be. But I like free speech a lot. It’s my first love!

But people can be savage when they are given a security blanket in not confronting someone in person over something they normally would when they’re talking online. Take for example a situation me and my dad found ourselves in last night while playing the new patch for Rainbow 6 Siege.

Now something about this game for those not in the know: it’s a round-based tactical shooter. You die easily and deaths are permanent for the round. 5 vs. 5, best of 5 rounds wins. We’ve been playing this game since it came out, and I stream it as much as I can on my Youtube channel. We have a lot of fun with it, playing in a 5 man squad with other family members. It’s a good time even though the game can be frustrating.

Smash cut to last night. Just me and my dad playing the new patch, and we’re in the middle of a firefight (with 3 other teammates the game found for us). My dad blasts in the direction of an enemy, and a teammate walks in front of his gun while shooting at the same enemy. My dad gets credited for the kill on the enemy, and also kills our teammate. Knocked out for the rest of the round until the dust settles.

As soon as the round ends, and we jump into the game to start the next round, the guy my dad accidentally killed turns and shoots my dad. Intentionally. Before any enemies are even near. So I start messaging him asking why he did that, and the consensus was he didn’t care and was retaliating. He didn’t care.

There’s just something about taking someone else’s experience and dragging it through the mud for no other reason than he didn’t care. This attitude can be found in any place that isn’t a physical world interaction. It’s somewhat troubling. “I’m gonna take this fun thing and make it not fun for you”. I don’t understand it and I’ve always rallied against it in the name of utilitarianism.

After some point of messaging this guy, he says to me that I’m taking this way too seriously. Made me laugh. Maybe I am. But you know, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with trying to let everyone have as good a time as they can, right?

Anyways, just something that’s been on my mind. I’ve been interacting with people like that more and more lately, all using their real names or easily traceable aliases. It worries me that people are going to allow themselves to be represented like that. And continue to with no regard for self-awareness. You’re completely free to represent yourself however you’d like, but it seems that when a majority of people are given internet access and social media accounts they’re more apt to be pricks than much else. Personally, I’m quite vain and I know that!

Identity and representation is concerning to me. As is the theme of my collection being submitted to Copper Canyon Press: Red Men.

More news to come!

In the meantime, thank you for tuning in to Radio Reality. City! Feel free to wander the archives, put in some comments, even subscribe if you like what you’ve heard so far! We can only get better the more we write!

Palindrome – Journal 7/10/2017

Today’s date is a palindrome. 7102017. You ever get that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach for no reason? It’s difficult to describe, but I’ve tried to write about it before a few times.

I haven’t had much to write about this weekend between midnight runs for food as I was housesitting and couldn’t forage much. Plenty of interesting things happen outside when it’s dark out. Like Applebees being open until 1am? The fuck?

Man, writing has really slowed down recently. I’m really forcing myself to get this journal out to get something flowing. I guess now’s a good as any to go through my processes of writing. How I’ve done it.

Used to be, I’d lay in bed late at night and just write. I’d be able to type things onto my notes app on my iPhone. I did that for such a long time, before even knowing there could be form to any of it. On my old iPhone 4 exists the first draft and timestamp for Virgo Olympus. Pretty crazy to think all that stuff is electronic.

And then I have three filled paper notebooks, done over the course of a year, and brimming with ideas I still haven’t touched. I should look through one of those someday.

It’s so much easier to write when there is something less interesting going on around me. Fuck, what a blanket statement that is. I can write so well in classes at college. Open up my notebook and just fuckin’ go at it. May was such an insane month for me in writing terms. I have something like over 60 poems written in May of this year. This month? Maybe 5 so far. For the record, we’re only 10 days into July. I have plenty written. Not a lot ready for anything.

I can crack open my notebook and get going on something. See, my notebooks fill, but the amount of product that comes from it? Who’s to say. The notebook I had to start in June to replace my moleskine is already halfway full. It’s beautiful flipping through all the pages, but there needs to be some sort of distance placed between the ink drying and revisiting the ideas. Otherwise there’s not much to go on.

Maybe I haven’t mentioned this before, but the longest time I’ve ever gone between starting and finishing a poem has been 6 months or so. That was an idea I came back to that I started on my phone and came across when scrolling through my notes.

The fire I have for writing is being reserved for just banking those ideas. Keep banking banking banking, yeah!

This journal’s excerpt is from “Autumnreach”:

“I have a deathwish…
Nay, I have six!
For the evergreen trees
Better off an abyss”

In which I describe how much better the summer looks through autumn sunglasses. Particularly the ones I wear, because, you know, I write a lot of poetry about what I think!

Is this writer’s block? If it is, it’s shitty. Last time I had it I tried some tactics to beat it. They didn’t work.

There’s no spigot for creativity.

It either happens or it doesn’t, and there is no cure all method for making it happen. Even inspiration can be less inspiring sometimes, then when you might like it to. As such, I don’t often write very happy things. I brood a lot, because it’s mostly what concerns me.

Happiness isn’t easy to attain, but when I get there I find that what I want to write about is all that bad shit. Which might be a flaw in me, but hey, I can admit fault.

Like I say, you’re not a [blank] if you don’t [thing corresponding to blank].

Be inspired, damn you!

Infinite Ammo – Journal 6/1/17

This one starts deep and gets better.

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I just had a long conversation with my sister about the perils and difficulties of blogging. How in the hell can I expect to relate to you who is reading this?

We’re all people floating through a void of space, possibly along, probably depressed by the infinitesimally small span of existence each of our lives lays out, and angsty as hell. So where do we go from here? We communicate.

One of the most fundamental things about human relationships is that we have such extensive forms of communication, to the point that we have humor, trickery, and horror. Humans fabricate tragedy, come up with stories to explain the weather, and make gods in oral traditions that echo for thousands of years in culture. The Nordic peoples never thought that in a thousand years, a Marvel film would portray their beliefs set across the backdrop of a continent that hadn’t yet been discovered by a people that would have yet to inhabit.

It’s crazy. How can I relate to you?

I’m human. There’s one step. Two step fun being that I’m able to communicate. We can have Google translate this site into any language. Most likely error-ridden, but the ideas can remain somewhat intact. I live in America, which is a big deal right now for political reasons, though I haven’t stood atop that soapbox yet. In short, I think it’s dangerous to associate with any massive groups like that. All of a sudden, others can associate individual group member’s motivations and traits to you, even when they don’t apply. You associate, and thus are guilty of things everyone else is.

This is where we encounter one of the more interesting ideas of human life. We associate as human. All of us. There’s no denying that, and if you’re willing to take me up on it, I’ll take you to task right back.

We live in a world where cybergoths are a thing. Fucking cybergoths. Have you seen the way these people congregate and dance to industrial electro music? It’s fucking stupid.

But that’s coming from me. I have my own personal traditions and strange holidays, but I don’t associate them with anyone that isn’t me. Honestly, I love humanity. I love the strange things that people do, and I love that shit like cybergoths exist because that would mean that humanity has reached a point where it really doesn’t have to fight much to survive. Communities form in lounging environments where there isn’t much to do. We rest, and we associate with those like minded.

Assuming you’re here because you’re human, there must be something you find in all this. Existential crisis aside, something has drawn you here. A search on a website made by someone else, on a device who’s parts were manufactured in a factory by robots designed by people you’ll never know, who’s very ideas came about because humans had nothing left to do but to break through the ceiling.

You should wake up every day and be proud to associate with the good in humanity, and strive to nurture its arts, expressions, and good feelings.

I’m carrying infinite ammunition walking around and trying to make as many people as happy as I can before my short lifespan finally eeks out its last breaths. Why do anything else? Why would you spend your days being miserable and burdened when, even if just mentally, you can try to do some good every day. Say thank you to the man that sells you gas. Make people next to you laugh.

I have a lot of respect that can do such things on much greater scales than me, on screen, in literature. Hopefully I can join those ranks one day. But that is not today.

Today, I’ve decided I’m going to start publishing more poems per day (PPD, if you will). I have a massive surplus, and having written 8 poems yesterday (which right now would mean 8 days of content) I’ve decided it wouldn’t hurt to be able to publish closer to the point that I actually write some of these. It’s June now, and I’ve just started to get into publishing poems from April.

And on the actual writing part, you know that black book I’ve been writing in? I lost both silver pens I have for it. And pens cost money, and I have other notebooks and plenty of black pens, so I’ve made the transition to a hand-me-down Japanese notebook my sister has given me a while back. Time to strike into new paper.

My sister, Jade, used to write on once upon a time. I think that particular domain has fallen out of use, but she still has one in use somewhere. When I find it I’ll make sure to plug it here someplace. She’s the one who originally inspired me to get a website back when she was super into it. Many other authors I’ve enjoyed the works of have said there is incredible value in owning an outlet like this, and to use it as I’m using it now. Hopefully it’s relatable.

Jade’s been published in the California State University of San Bernardino literary magazine, The Pacific Review. Long before I thought myself as a writer, she was already at it. I owe to her the use of that Canon camera I love so much, and now a notebook that I will put to good use. I try to get her to write sometimes by asking if she’s done anything recently. Nothing yet. But here’s me hoping.

In terms of my writing, I have a lot to do. I have J-Day workshops to finally be going through, I’ve got to critique another peer’s stuff for Advanced Writing today, and then I get to go through and edit down and save the last of the things I wrote yesterday. And then write more today.

I’ve decided to do this thing as well in journals where I post an excerpt from a poem I’ve recently been working on. So here’s a selection from ‘Powerful’:

“Beautiful form
In every meter

Book chapter verse

Your body
A rhythmverse”

And that should spice some stuff up and drive anticipation. That’s quickly becoming one of my favorite words.

Still on the to-do list is to do some more stuff with Unadulterated, maybe do some critique stuff, and then see what the timeline will be for when I start posting more every day, starting today.

Well on the 30th, we crossed more views so far this year than all of 2016, and we’re nearly about to hit 200 people subscribed and tuned in! “We gotta pump those numbers up!” Pretty exciting stuff if I say so myself.

Meanwhile, let’s get some more stuff online. Be inspired, take something and take it yours! Thank you once again for tuning in, everybody. I can’t wait to see where this goes.

Ego Hell – Journal 5/31/17

J-Day has come and gone. Critiques are in and they are disappointingly not tearing me apart? Am I actually good at this? Everyone looking and smiling and saying most everything you do is okay is a sort of ego hell for someone like me. I relish in the verbal combat of defending my writing, and I think I might need a much harder critic to destroy me as a human being based off of poems. Or I’m a glutton for punishment.

Along those lines, an upcoming poem ‘Jungles of Hell’ features the set “Start running/ doors open, we’re coming/// we will set/ fire to the fire ones/ and build victory bridges/ on the backs of skeletons”. There’s that raw confidence I’ve been getting after! There it is! Striking me at a point where I am romantically compromised by a sudden wellspring of ideas and concepts. 

Single. Its meaning has morphed into a beast I call old blood. What’s old blood, you might ask? Old Blood is a poem I wrote back when a certain someone (called Rae, in ENGRAEYGED) told me of her not great past in the relationshipsphere. It was a poem designed to be animalistic in how ready I would come to her defense if any one of those marred exes of hers ever appeared while I was with her. 

Old Blood is an allegory for the fury an ex can bring. 

A fury that, now single again, I wish to tempt. In the form of Rae. In the form of someone from Olympia. And while it’s passive-aggressive as shit to talk about it in my echo chamber of a journal, I need these thoughts out. Very personal, wounding thoughts. 

Rae is even one of the reasons I wanted to take up photography. I uploaded some media to here during that relationship back in fall/winter of 2015/2016, and it was in black and white because Rae was colorblind. The sentiment behind that was to see what she saw. Understand what she understood. I described what sunset looked like to her once, and how it danced on leaves of the park we were in. She could remember colors, but due to her trauma she had become greyscale visioned. After she broke up with me, I sought to capture images which I would have had to describe to her. Some of which I even take the extra step still to write about to describe the colors, for anyone here who is colorblind. 

So I’m thinking of meeting up with the one who gave me Murmur. And the one who reaps her eternal revenge by playing into my thoughts still effortlessly. 

My life has seemed to revolve around relationships in a strange way. I am me. I always have been. No one but my first girlfriend ever had a hand in changing that for the worse, but the other three? They earned their place in my art. Now there’s also a fifth, and it didn’t take her nearly as much effort to impact me positively as some others did. And even she says she’s willing to ride this out while I do single person things. It’s great. She’s great, for that. I’ve always been a serial monogamist and I want some time to live the life that LMFAO made music about 6 years ago. She’s just handed me that opportunity. 

I stand me, and wanting to at least go out to coffee with and see in person again two of the people on this Earth who will always be a part of me. No expectations, of course, but just to see because I can, now. 

That’s me and my more internal side. A lot of my poetry directly reflects what’s going on in here, but it’s all inside still. Cryptic as hell. 

Sometimes it feels like my thoughts are a carniverse ripping at nodes of memory to see if I can revive them. Making memories is something I love doing, but what about memories made and done with? Can they be brought back from the dead to dance with? We might just find out.

“Start running. Door’s open, we’re coming…”

In other business… we did it! Yesterday at about 2pm, Radio Reality City clocked more visitors this year so far than ALL of 2016! I promise, it’ll only get better. Stick with it!

Having J-Day even gave me moxie enough to want to print off another publication to pirate-distribute at campus. Maybe I’ll be doing that as well!

Quality content always on the way, and once again, thank you for reading my soapbox. Something better will be up later today, after I wake up from this ego hell. 

For those of you more sensible to be asleep already (if living in the states), I’ll put up something lighter in the morning. Thanks again for sticking with it!


I am immortal

Not because I can’t suffer

But because I am not

Of the beyondest pale

My road to

For when I do finally

I intend to break the

Of the reaper himself

I am immortal

Not because I cannot
Be slain

But because I am
A muderer of murder

An apocalypse

Because I welcome
The inevitable

Sight into doom

Where my aggression
Must rise

And adrenaline flow

Welcome to the
Final mystery

Yet when I get there
And solve it

It won’t be as polite
Of a throe

Puzzle Ethereal

Puzzle Ethereal

It’s geometric grey
Like slices of symmetry
With moss and vines

Floating in a pond
Of oxygen
And liquid wonder

Light moss bleached by
A sun somewhere
Hangs off a tree trunk
And sprigs and leaves
Are green as can be

Coins scattered
All around the concrete

Copper, nickel,
Zinc, and gold

Each head containing
A happy memory node
And each tail telling
A story untold

What do you need?
What can you need?

What riddle needs
To be solved?

We Is Us

We Is Us

We is us no matter what.
Zero fuss “and stuff”.
Somewhere, the mountain
For us to climb

Some parts yin, and
We is us no matter what.
In the morning under,
Somewhere, the mountain,

Just a thought of
Some parts yang, and
Some of lust.
In the morning under

A pleasant dawn,
Just a thought of
Some mountain peak.
Sum of lust

For the rock and
A pleasant dawn
With clean greens,
Some mountain peak:

A love of changing shadows
For the rock and
Summit white-capped
With clean greens

Painted on the granite.
A love of changing shadows,
We’ve always got the mountaintop.
Summit white-capped.

We is us no matter what,
Painted on the granite.
Somewhere, the mountain.
We’ve always got the mountaintop.



From might or fury
What fury might
Prevail in haste
When holds are not

Fire or frying pan
What cast iron
Will sting and
Impale blunt will

Furious skull or
Scrap of steel
What arms may be
Taken in ferocity
Or fear.

For fight and flight,
For fluid spilled,
What tempered vein
Or tapped artery

Fraught with fright
At the prospect
Of finding a
Frail fence to hide

Fervor, when hydraulics
Pump in the tubes,
Pressure building in
Pipes. Primal pasts

So what arms would
Be taken? A skull?
An iron skillet? Or
Perhaps a frail

Fool, there’d be
No time to take,
No time to think,
But when pressure

Primal instincts
Possess. What
Might or fury
Might power

Only a metallic,
Copper taste left
On the roof of a



Waking up at three a.m.
I notice you’ve undressed
Somehow in the interim

Entirely from pajamas
They’ve slid off
Just like my wave of rest

Realizing my hands
Are holding bare skin
And I close in

Ignoring what I know
From yesterday
And the days yet ahead

I thought I’d dreamed of
Sleeping beside you
Feeling your pulse beat

Now as I’m pushing aside
An encroaching fear I push
Blankets between us aside

Maybe this is it
Maybe this all we have
Who knows

No sensation of forthcoming
Pleasure as I wake you
Will push aside that ill dread

No high sighs of your
Stirring voice as I try to
Drown myself will comfort me

Not anymore
No more
To those forlorn

In the dead of night
Someplace we’d never
Been together

Some feelings we’d
Never experience outside
Of the next hour

Gutter turmoil of sloshing
Lusts and desires lazily
Rising to meet what’s next

Trying to look forward to
What might come next
Lost in the waves of blankets

Sweating for no end
No means to reason
The change of season

It was hot in the bed
Maybe it was because
Of that summer dread

It was clear
As I got up to
Open a window

That somehow
This was

This beaconed an

Morose and trapped
Nothing left to do
But to go back to sleep

Nothing left to do
But to lay back
And dream

Try and shut
Out that beaming
Sinking feeling