explanation. update.

tv on city street

so by now, i should probably explain what i have been doing. with my last entry, i just completed posting the end to my third collection of poetry. the poems are all on here in reverse order i guess, but you can still check them out. perhaps one day, i’ll finally feel the poems and collections truly finished to publish them in book format. the three collections are titled: poetic ethnographypoetic syncretism, and notions: on politics, loss, love, and self. someone asked why i had posted a bunch of old poems, well mostly to get them out there, so theywouldn’t just wither and rot on my computer’s hardware, but i also simply because i can. the internet makes it that easy.

up next, i will be posting stories i’ve written since college usually around the same character or a very similar character, which i usually call, carlos castillo. sometimes the stories make sense as a continuation of each other, butsometimes the character is new and disjointed in ways i’ve never been able to reconcile. the character was developed in my creating writing courses, but grew out of my experiences afterwards.

i started working on the second person voice after returning from living and working abroad. i was substitute teaching, and had a lot of time, usually while everyone else was working. the character remained dark, and perhaps sometimes too dark, but that’s kind of how i like it. i probably wouldn’t write some of these stories today as i’m in a very different place in my life now. there’s a reason why my old blog was titled of the lonely lost dark empty.

carlos castillo has mostly been retired as a character in my stories, but perhaps, i’ll bring him back and continue to write stories with him as a character. i still can’t promise some of the new stories won’t be as dark.

spoiler alert: the author kills off our hero in the first act.

also throughout the collection of stories, i’ll be sprinkling poems, articles, photos, and songs, which may or may not have anything to do with the collection of stories and carlos castillo.

e.e. cummings has always been quite influential in my writing as were Joel Rose, author of Kill the Poor and Kill Kill Faster Faster; Rick Moody, author of Garden State and The Ice Storm; and Chuck Palahniuk, author of Fight Club and Survivor.

hope you all continue for the ride.

yours truly,

po’ E.T.

song for the return to nature’s love.

song for the return to nature’s love.

this shadow of a dream
reminds of haunting
memories, and tales
of drunken nights
at sea. if
only one weren’t so
landlocked thanks to
time, then, maybe and
just maybe, get to be.
all get to be free
to travel toward the distant
whispers of
secret, love
moment, eternal.

this shadow of a dream,
of drunken nights,
reminds of haunting
memories, and tales
at sea. if
all get to be free,

just maybe, get to be
time, then maybe, and
only one weren’t so
landlocked thanks to,
to travel toward the distant
secret love,
whispers of
moment eternal.

memories and tales
at sea. if
only one weren’t so,
of drunken nights
reminds of haunting,
just maybe, get to be
moment eternal-
time, then maybe, and
landlocked thanks to
this shadow of a dream.
all get to be free.
secret love
to travel toward the distant,
whispers of.


short term memory (who will remember).

short term memory (who will remember).

     how will we remember tomorrow and what will be remembered of it?
     will we recall the seconds that fell short, or the moments minutes away from not being?
     now, i’m just going to speak for the sake of it, in hopes that maybe something will last.
     i hope love lasts, if nothing else, let love rule the planet with an iron fist.
     if you forget me and everything i ever said, remember love.
     the rest you can forget like flashing lights, but love, place it on a pedestal, and raise monuments in memory, write poems, epic novels, create works of art in commemoration.
     magic, love is magic.
     ask the children, demand it of them, to love.
     give them wings to fly clear of danger into the arms of love.
     when future generations look back, they will see the bombs and ask, “what about love? what about love? what about it?”
     they will see so much hate and evil, and what of it?
     thus is the species and the way of the world.
     it’s in our nature to be this way and kill and step over each other’s toes and film men’s brains shot out in vietnam and being beat in l.a. to the beat of bricks flying over a palestinian trying to protect his son in israel.
     our children will study footage of human ovens, mushroom clouds formed by h-bombs, and prisoners in modern fully equipped dungeons.
     and what of love? what of it?
     in today’s fast pace world, there is no time or need for it, merely complicates and takes away from comfort.
     love is too much work and one already works too hard for nice things and easy living.
     forget love and be greedy, be executive v.p. at the corporation of your liking.
     the world is just a modernized response to globalization, and is this how we’ll be remembered, as efficient metropolises?
     it only works because they fuck you, and you’re never given a chance to buy back your freedom, but we still love the products, appliances, gadgets.
     love to waste away money and hate ourselves, never feeling complete.
     and can’t love.
     can’t love because don’t know how to get something you can’t pay for, charge on credit, or put on layaway.
     is this how? is this how? by the dollar? so what if love is an abstract notion?
     but silly me, i forget, men love to die for honor, flags, gold, and power, but love?
     what if soon, we forget all about love and the only things to remember us by will be the fucked up shit we do, the hate we breed?
     the only thing we’ll have will be ugly each other, and even now, we are at risk of losing that.
     the world is ready to love, teach the lessons of the universe.
     listen, to love, to dreams.
     dream of love.
     and love the moment you’re dreaming. the moment you’re dreaming, walking with closed eyes, open heart.
     if love is dreaming, i choose to never awake, and be remembered as always sleeping and always dreaming.


on the belief in travel.

on the belief in travel.

the beliefs we had seem to be 
traveling away. travel makes one’s mind move. 
travel is the last door. on one such trip, i 
traveled with beliefs. there i met you, 
and our mind(s) seemed to open. with a separated 
brain synapse, we seemed to lie, but connected 
on a universal wire. so it seemed our beliefs began to travel, 
and now my beliefs travel in my bags as i make 

sure to pack them wherever i may travel.