We are hyper-aware and self-conscious to a fault —

lackluster beings full of barbeque-flavored chips and bubbly water.

The squirrels scramble like apostrophes through the scrubby brush,

relating amorphous flights of branches and seeds,

the scrawny language of pre-coffee collages in what dawn’s light hasn’t risen to yet.

The highway’s…

(photo by davy carren)

Dostoyevsky’s wife had to pawn her underwear to pay for his gambling debts. Me? My mother was a swimsuit model in the ’80s. So, that’s what I had to deal with growing up. It was an emotional deductible on my sudsy well-being, being dragged forthwith by so many just/unjust causes…

I wonder if these sorts of clouds change the kind of thoughts people get. That certain prance in the sky, there. Do people come to different conclusions because of the manipulations of the weather? Are we merely creatures of circumstance? Auspices be damned. We’re drifters, at best. Clamped to the…

THOMAS JEFFERSON: I woke up maladjusted to the world today. Suddenly, now, I don’t fit in. Can’t make it like the rest of them do. I’m here willfully on the outside of everything, drooling towards Saturday’s bliss-point crave, not a place for me in the whole sun-smeared world.


music changes everything (here,


majors denuded to rubberized polyphonies

as he stretches verdurous limbs

opposed to adipose with a splash of creamer

elementally elementary in curvaceous matters of the kidney

(ah why don’t’cha ride on off on the orange horse ya went that’a’way with?)

another bitter crusade’s avant-garde adventure

(photo by davy carren)

Calculated dissent,

a rough cut into a baseline of untethered raw data. And

here we go,

and are, again.

Boosters and busted buttons.

The point never gotten to.

The mood

never quite adjusted. And so,

all terms of the heart get limited and decompose in (or into) a finer dust.

(photo by davy carren)

People are always asking me, “Why are you not famous?” It happens to me all the time. Well, often enough that I’d mention it in passing. Like here.

A person will float, “Where’s your next book signing? Why haven’t you been on The Late Show? You’re the answer to a…

(photo by davy carren)

Sally snapped at Rodney, “Are you on drugs?”

“No….” He paused, gawked at the empty space between us, shook his head and gleefully rued: “I wish I were on drugs.”

He’d picked up the cat by the middle and was lifting the poor guy up and down as if the…

(photo by davy carren)

The obviously a-skosh-more-than-slightly balding man in flip-flops said to his date, “I’m like whatever the equivalent of a Foodie is to music.”

She might’ve been impressed, or was just making that fake-amused-reaction-face that people make when something unpleasant is forced upon them but they feel the need to (at least…

(Photo by Davy Carren)

Don’t you keep thinking things like, “Mutilated catastrophes of less-than-holy spirits randomly counted by an automated conjecturing system.” I mean: “don’t” as a statement starter, not a question’s incipient structure. That’s all. I proclaim my own silence, deduced from crushed sanity’s jeopardized morality.

Perfect. A predilection for remorse goes with…

Davy Carren

The only writer who matters

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