Print edition of essays!

51E8o9iuGgL._AA200_Real, actual ink on paper!

Here they are. In all their unvarnished glory.

Buy one for yourself and one for your auntie.

Or just one for yourself! Who am I to judge.

Contains rants about art, explanations of various tattoo things, stories about tattooing, about squatting, and about zines. Also contains some taxidermy info, essays about madness, and more.  A ton more! 166 glorious pages!

My next book will likely be the horror/cryptid coloring book. You can find individual downloads of the pages here if you like.

three poems.

I’ve got a book coming out this week. The chapbooks are already sold out (I’m keeping a few for later) but it’ll be on kindle as well (very cheaply, because it’s poetry, and who needs poetry.) There’s about a hundred poems in it and the chapbook/for real version has illustrations (but the kindle does not). Several other of my poems are here online, if you like that kind of thing.


Here are three poems from that book.

shovels in the sun

outside the little taco stand at 13th street and juniper I met

this bum, this grifter

lying on his side by the beer vomit, he was fooling around with the drawstring on his

grey, thin sweatpants

I sat there waiting. They didn’t have a waiting area, no tables inside. no Loitering.

“I went to the sun.” he told me. “there is a lake there, but it ain’t a regular lake. it’s fire, all fire.”

I smoked. He kept on at me, “Once, I went there. You can’t stay long. It’s hot you know. all the fire. all fire…”

His face creased. His hands started rolling imaginary coils of paper, clacking dirty nails together.

My taco order came up. So I got the bag and sat back down. I had nowhere to be.

“if you get to go to the sun, watch out. they’ll try to trick you. I had to escape, they’re assholes there.

I want to warn you, but they’re listening, right now.”

He pointed at the sky.

“well, what can they do from there?” I had to know. “shoot fire at us?”

“they’ll come and get me, take me back there. I said too much already. shit.”

He stopped. His hands sat now still on the concrete next to the vomit and some bird shit.

“have a taco.” I handed him one.

he nodded but didn’t look at me again.



something else I made today- and a quick up for PV using instead of smoking.

I haven’t smoked in two days, and I’ve smoked a single pack of cigarettes in the past week. I finally got good gear for PV/ecig use, so I haven’t felt the urge to smoke.

I can also see this becoming an all-consuming side hobby for me. I made these little desk-props for my pvs today out of polyclay. I plan to paint them (one’s a dick, one’s tits, and one is an eye)…maybe I’ll make a few more too, that are a little more interesting or fleshed-out.

PV e-cig desk prop or holders

totally self-indulgent photo post.

just some photos of me on my days off.

nothing to see here, move along, move along.

ah hell. have a gallery.



banned on etsy: her roses

human arm bone articulation. banned on etsy!

Apparently, despite many other listings of legal human bones, THIS one is unwelcome on etsy.

Their explanation? “Despite the fact that it is legal in your locale, etsy considers it to fall under the “illegal animal parts” clause of the TOS.”

In other words, the law is what etsy says it is.

Moving on.


Update: etsy has now included human parts as forbidden items, along with any thing  that has “health claims”.

ok, ok. The story of Carl Panzram.

 “I was so full of hate that there was no room in me for such feelings as love, pity, kindness or honor or decency.”

Carl Panzram was born at an odd time in American history. In 1891, in rural Minnesota, he was born into a poor farming family. His father left the family when he was 7. Brought up in an atmosphere of swift and merciless punishment, and unending toil for little or no reward, Panzram learned early that the world most likely hated him, or at best was indifferent.

Unlike most in this situation, he decided to return hate with hate, and indifference to suffering with callous disregard.

“The older I got the meaner I got.” 

The nation, in Panzram’s youth, was suddenly much easier to traverse. He was one of the first traveling killers. Canneries, industry, and labor disputes were common during his lifetime- the fact that child labor was being seriously defended by those in authority at that time did much to warp his perspective. He began his violence very young, and at the age of  eight, fighting and attacking other children. He was sent to a reform school at eleven. Reform schools and prisons at that time were not dedicated to rehabilitation- punishment was the purpose, and Panzram experienced several years of sodomy, beatings, forced labor, and starvation.

When he was released, he was primed and ready to take revenge on the world.

 “I first began to think that I was being unjustly imposed upon. Then I began to hate those who abused me. Then I began to think that I would have my revenge just as soon and as often as I could injure someone else. Anyone at all would do.”

In 1906, after another failed attempt at reform school, Panzram hopped a train out into the world.

“I fully decided when I left there just how I would live my life. I made up my mind that I would rob, burn, destroy and kill everywhere I went and everybody I could as long as I lived.”

He was almost immediately arrested for burglary and imprisoned again. At the age of 14, he was fully grown, man-size. He was able to escape, and began burning churches as a hobby along his travels. His fierce hatred for religion had been beaten into him during his time at the christian reform schools. He had begun to rape anyone and everyone he came across that was vulnerable; his anger was not limited by gender or age.

Panzram changed his name during this time, and wandered west again. He eventually enlisted in the military; he was court-martialed and sentenced again, almost immediately, for burglary. He was sent to the federeal penitentiary at Fort Leavenworth- an old, brutally-managed prison.  He was treated as an adult, since it was not known that he was only 16 at the time. A code of silence was strictly enforced there, solitary confinement and whipping were the chosen punishments.  He was there for four years- breaking rocks for ten hours a day, every day. when he left he was stronger and angrier than before.

I’ve found that I simply can’t do Panzram justice. His ability to express himself, and the sheer amount of information in existence chronicling his life, are overwhelming to me. He is a nihilist inspiration; he was the epitome of misanthropic, all-encompassing-hateful badassery, and his story is told very well and with thorough attention to detail here. You can also, like I did, buy his autobiography, which he wrote while in prison.

I hate to be a quitter but I honestly feel that my writing ability has broken under the weight of detail available about his life.

Perhaps I will come back to this post later, and take another run at him.

other, more successful stories in this series:

scary stories part three

That went…less than well. I handed it over willingly- if there were to be no consequences, he will truly value the thing. But as he took it a weight lifted from me. I saw him to his car and I knew it no longer wanted me, but him. Back to work.

He should have been home by now, it’s been three hours. His wife left a message here too, that he isn’t answering his phone. I have a sinking feeling, I know what’s happened. He’s been assaulted by it. I regret giving it to him now- he was so happy to have it, so excited.

and there’s the matter of the “harpy”, too.

I don’t know who it belongs to yet.

I’m finished with her.

I think I know who should have her. Who she will enjoy.

A collector I know.
I can’t find my cat. The litterbox is full of what look like owl pellets.

I called the collector. She arrived fresh as a daisy, and glad to have something for her macabre collection. She’s eyed my work at every opening so far, and was flattered that I gave this to her. She almost couldn’t believe her luck. That was this afternoon. I still haven’t heard from her, or the other artist who I gave the spider to. It’s now evening. Perhaps it’s a coincidence that they’ve both gone missing. I know it isn’t, though. I can’t keep denying this.

I keep thinking about the next creature- its bones are already laid out in order here on a piece of canvas. It won’t fit on the table so I lay it out on the floor. I don’t feel right about it.

I mean, these other two, I can rationalize giving them away. I can pretend to myself that they won’t attack their owners- they’re after ME, right? nobody else?

But I know this isn’t true. And this bigger one has a more malevolent feeling, a more intentional feeling. The first one- well, I was just building from a model I saw in dreams, right? I couldn’t know that it was animate. That it WANTED to be built.

But building this last one, I know. I know before I even start, that I am building art to destroy someone with.

and I wish I could not know that. Or turn off my conscience somehow, and not care. I want to resist. I don’t want to use my hands for this kind of work. What am I going to do? Can I kill it? Does that mean I have to kill all three?

Because despite everything, I feel the same fondness for these two that i do for any piece of art I have made that I am satisfied with.

Am I really evil enough to value my own art over the life of a person?
I think I’m going to fight it. I have a revolver. I don’t think that will work, though.



first installment of this story was here

second installment of this story was here 



scary stories to tell in the artroom, part two.

I could not keep this thing, this child of mine, in my studio. In my home.
I sat on my porch for a very long time. I soon forgot the darkness and the lateness- and I thought of someone-

I would give the creature to him. It would fit his collection perfectly. I can’t, even now, imagine being PAID for this thing. Yet, I felt, the act of giving it to someone would transfer its- affections- interest- to them instead of me.
Or perhaps it would do nothing once it was away from me, from this place.
when I ventured back inside, it was still. inanimate. The feeling I had had of it being live, in motion arrested- that feeling was gone.

I lay down, breathed a deep sigh, and slept.
This time, I dreamt I was outdoors. where I had just sat on the porch, in the dim light from the door’s window. Over my porch hangs, very high above, the long branches of a douglas fir. My attention was drawn there by cones falling to the ground in front of me. I looked up and saw, lit only by starlight, a dark shape. It screeched; I screamed. It dove at me and in absolutely irrational dream logic I saw it, even in the tarry blackness. I saw its feet, its face.
I’d call it a harpy but it wasn’t; any more than the first creature was a “spidermonkey”.

As I ran from it a long form on the ground pursued me. I only got a glimpse of it; I feel that it is next in line.
I began assembling immediately upon waking; this happened last night and I am here typing as the first set of articulations, the first layer of glue, begins to dry in front of me, and I plan to finish this and gift it before I sleep again. I’ve also, for some reason, began to lay out another set of bones- long, curving spine and short claws.
I’ve posted the “harpy” first, I’ll say the end and post the pile that is even now growing in scale and scope.
I have to go brew more coffee.
the sun is up; I can’t work on it any longer and I MUST sleep now so that I can wake up tonight to finish. I can’t prop it upright yet but I can post where I’m at so far. Still need to assemble the ribs, sternum, and jaws. It’s getting closer, though. It’s starting to look- familiar.

Not entirely pleasant now that the head is attached, and I wish I’d not given it its hands until the end. what’s done is done, though.

I woke up with my arms behind my back, like they’d been handcuffed, both arms tingling and sore from bloodlack. I feel queasy. I woke up lying on my back, my head tilted up, all the way up. I can barely look forward normally right now to type this; the strain on my neck is incredible, I’ve at least got a bad muscle spasm and at worst a strain or sprain.

I’m going to take a few ibuprofen and then come back and tell the dream. I’ve got coffee brewing and I foresee a long night ahead of construction.

I finished attaching some more pieces. I spent a few hours tinkering with angles and placements and wires, then fell onto the couch for a nap.
I felt fairly safe; after all, I’d told the story, decided to gift these creatures rather than keep or sell them, and this one wasn’t quite as animate, yet, as the last.

I cannot remember the whole dream, only I know it was long. One of those neverending dreams with repetitive elements that frustrate.
I do remember the end, though. I was walking, on a path. From above I was suddenly grabbed and my arms thrust behind me. Then I was lifted, by my arms, from the ground. It was excruciating and as I was lifted something sharp began to grab and tear at my hair. I was unable to struggle against my own weight, and screamed.

i woke up as I described, lying on my back with my arms beneath me. My arms were asleep and tingling and my hair was in clumps on the pillow.

The “harpy” had settled a bit on the perch when I finally was able to bring myself to look at it.

I’ll be working straight through, now, I think.

There’s something outside.

I have huge front windows, my work table faces one. I know for someone who spends a lot of time on /x/ it may seem odd but I prefer being able to see out of the windows, rather than having curtains up.

And there is something out there, slinking around in the bushes. It’s long.

The neighbor left me a note today while I was napping. “Two of my hens are gone, keep an eye on your cat, maybe a owl out here”

Whatever is moving around outside is in the bushes by the drive, which leads to her house.

I suppose it could be a cougar. I keep glancing out the window while I work.

I wish I could work faster. I wish I could finish both of these pieces at once, tonight, now.

I’ve made plans to meet my friend to give him his gift. I haven’t described it to him at all, just told him it was something I made just for him, for his collection. He’s coming by in an hour or so.



first installment of this story is here


third installment, ending of this story is here


corneal abrasions

everywhere it’s glowing was scraped up. the doctor said “like steel wool, some of the worst corneal abrasions I’vve seen.”

I’m already feeling much better, apparently eyes heal quickly. I’m down for a few days though, til they heal up.

The ER here in Phoenix took good care of me- I hate doctors but the one I had for this was really good. So unusual for me to get a doctor (esp at the ER) that does just the right thing,

And the irony is that I never saw her- I was blinded-and have no idea what she looked like.

ETA: They gave me antibiotic ointment goo which sucks and makes my eyes stick shut. they told me no drops- but today I’ve been using plain saline eyedrops and it is helping a lot. also told me no ice packs but until I used one yesterday my eyes were so swollen I couldn’t open them- I’ve been using ice packs anyway because it’s helping.

I sometimes wonder if hospital staff don’t recommend anything that reduces pain, when I come in, just to be dicks. Or because they just don’t care about the pain level? I mean they did give me some percocet but that just makes me calmer- the pain stays the same. Topical stuff is making more difference than that did.

I can read and write today and keep my eyes open longer than yesterday. So, NOT following instructions has helped way more than following them.

Guesting and the road









Just got back from phoenix. I love my desert tribe. Thinking I’ll visit Spokane next. Anyone up there got a chair to fill?

« Newer -- Older »

This is a unique website which will require a more modern browser to work!

Please upgrade today!