Echo: A Dystopian Science Fiction Novel

We all could do *much worse than hang out with a Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha. Seem too good to be true, friends? Well, just check it out and you’ll become a believer.

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

I’m wheeling through the blackness of space, humming to myself in Transcendental Enochian, picking and eating a few stars here, a few asteroids there…I pass by Andromeda and sidle up to her.  “Wassap ‘Droms?  You wanna merge black holes?  Mine is WAY bigger than the other—” she cuts me off with:  “Ew—no.  Leave me alone Kent.  Your galactic spheroids gross me out.  I’m gonna go see what Milky Way’s up to.”  Andromeda whisks away and I yell out, “Milky Way isn’t even his real name—it’s a porn name!  Anyone can see that!  He’s gonna leave a mess all over your face, neck, and chest!  Geez, how obtuse ARE you??”  She raises one of her spiral arms at me and gives me an obscene gesture.  Gamora’s boobies, what do I do now?  The supermassive black hole at the center of my body is throbbing and it needs to MERGE dammit!  The…

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The world begins with the silky, susurrating, soothing sound of “ssssss” water falling, mothered and held, a breeze moving reeds gently, their leaves and plumes gently grazing and sounding soft and rhythmic. The word is whispered and I turn in silken shroud of sheltering arms, her arms, holding and keeping, and holding and keeping, and holding and keeping me safe and cool.

I list and rest swaddled in her scent, she my ground and I her center. The dappled light, bright and resting dark by turns. Rich and wide, this sea of her love moving, and I within it, moving and drifting safe and whole. Her skin, I drink it in, warm and freckled and fruity.

Rooted, wild, languid and free, the belly uncoils in gladness. I move and breathe and have my being in this new and always known. My momma. My Donna, the Madonna, and I, the child. I arise from her in wholeness, it is enough.

I pluck my arm out, the fingers pudgy tendrils like a vine inside her elbow. Reaching up to touch that space on her lovely cheek, and I’m babbling as a bellows of love and fire. Broken upon her loving gaze, open and infinite and rolling as wind danced grass underneath the creamy sunshine of early summer.

Like butter spread on my tongue, I speak words of flavor that slip and nourish and I am heard for the first time. Colors and sounds fly out of my mouth, monstrous speech, gargantuan and pure:




Avant Garde Magazine letter

From the Avant Garde Magazine, Letters to the Editor, November 1969.


I’ve recently returned after two years in Vietnam, where I was a G.I. helping to tear the country down. I am determined to return, as a civilian, to help build the country up. I know a fair amount about building construction (and, alas, destruction), and I would welcome assistance, if only in the form of encouragement, from any of your readers. – Wayne L. Seth, 15609 S. Chadron, Gardena, Calif.”


slim bomb

Your Body Is Your Universe

Homage and Salutations to the Wonderous Gift that is Your Body. Read this one and be amazed.

Poetry and Writings - A Mind

Praise the muscles that hold you up

Treat the messengers of our nervous system kindly

Enjoy the rise and fall of your lungs

And the everlasting beat of your heart

Because it’s all you’ve ever known

Since you came into this world

You’ll depart before hearing it stop

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Imagine being a flower

Turning to images this week, over words and this one is a must see from Janet Weight Reed. My favorite colors in watercolor and gouache, and such a lovely, skillful hand in all of it.

My Life as an Artist (2)

Watercolour/gouache20-11-15 - 1 (1069)“Just imagine becoming the way you used to be as a very young child, before you understood the meaning of any word, before opinions took over your mind.    The real you is loving, joyful, and free.    The real you is just like a flower, just like the wind, just like the ocean, just like the sun.”     Don Miguel Ruiz

A Bientôt

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Hidden Falls

I think I need to stop by Hidden Falls today, to visit the cathedral poplars and their murmuring by the river. June mornings, where you listen to sprinkling music of poplar leaves and become young again, shoulders loosening on each breath of the moist loamy sand-filled sun air. Armskin smelling like summers spent dirt-streaked and skinned kneed. Let’s forget that step toward the grey, for a moment, and conjure birdsong moving over skin. Down the sand let’s walk to the clearing by the river, when all the body was legs and belly and breath, warm and humming with the light of a June summer morning.