Here Lies an

American
Dreamer
stories, truths, and poems
by P. H. Madore
third edition
December, 2010

2008—2010
 contents
Introduction (3)
I Found Kurt Vonnegut
Under a Greyhound's Seat (4)
The Shackles Are Feathers Today (31)
The Saddest Break of Day (32)
A Platform From Which To Scream
This (39)
Ran Out Of Coffee Grains (42)
Several Minutes of Death and Taxes
(45)
Journal Vol. III, Book 3, Entry 79 (48)
The West Spake Beckoning (54)
Silent Come Morning (55)
Submission to An Internet Asshole (58)
Untitled #999,931 (63)
Gum Print (65)
Dedication (68)
About the Author (69)
introduction
This is the third time I have put this book
together. Much of this work feels like the
product of a much younger me, but I have
love for this book all the same. It’s the reason
I founded nonpress, and without nonpress
I’m not sure how happy I’d be with
disproductions as a whole. Please enjoy the
work herein and please don’t avoid checking
out the other nonpress titles.
Yours,
phm
26 November 2010
 (original)
I put this book together for friends and
family near the end of 2008. I had no desire
to submit it anywhere for publication
because I see the downturn in publishing as a
positive thing, and so self­publishing a
collection for friends and family made perfect
sense; it's almost the future of the “industry”
or lack thereof. Though I may not always be
underground, I will always believe in the do­
it­yourself spirit and the limitless power of
community. So much have such principles
accomplished just in my short lifetime that I
feel these will be the principles the new
society is founded on. This is the cream of my
crop from the last four years roughly,
published and unpublished. If you are
holding this in your hands that probably
means we know each other or that you have
an interest in me, and for that reason if no
other (a lack of confidence in my abilities
keeps me able to improve on a daily basis) I
know you will enjoy this little collection. I've
put it up for sale in case you need another
copy and can't get in touch with me, the cost
is sure to be as low as it can be, while still
letting me get a couple dimes for my
collections hat. I'm always starting from
scratch. I don't know what I'm doing
anymore. But I love you.

Thanks, Paul
1 December 2008
 I Found Kurt
Vonnegut
Under
A Greyhound’s
Bus Seat
first draft: 9 March 2006
heavily edited version published in
Flagpole Magazine 3/22/06 & 3/29/06

“And she said: / 'Look, I've never had a dream in

my life / Because a dream is what you wanna do,
but still haven't pursued / I knew what I wanted
and did it 'till it was done / So I've been the
dream that I wanted to be since day one!'”
­Aesop Rock, “No Regrets”

Life Lesson Number One: if there are any

life lessons, they aren't taught anywhere
because life is a busted, spastic cartwheel
6
steamrolling our years into something pliable
and plausible—something we can look back on
with watering eyes and nostalgia­ridden
minds.
There come times in life when we find our
wheels spinning, our minds rotting. When we
are going nowhere fast and going fast is getting
us nowhere. Arguably, these times are stretched
over the course of our lives and spread among
the entirety—some find themselves “trapped”
and “without escape” and decide to let things
pan out as societal and situational elements
supposedly decide they must; accept defeat
without receipt.
I'd gone home to rural Maine with a few
basic intentions.
I would take a job and slowly amass
whatever sort of wealth was possible. The waste
which was to come had no place in the plan.
I would work on my writing, get back in
touch with friends of the past. I would make a
full recovery from the city life of disregard and
no­tomorrow, wherein lives are always at stake
and things are forever changing too fast. This
isn't a confessional, an autobiography, so it'll be
left there. Those who've interest are free to draw
their own fruitless assumptions about me, to
make their own conclusions based on what they
can find of me. I really don't mind. And indeed I

7
did write, a lot. In the first few weeks of woodsy
peace, feverish, inspired, and fueled by caffeine,
I finished writing the first draft of my most
recent novel. Soon there would come parties at
the house after my father left (sorry, Dad) and
all that goes with such events. Life seemed
alright for a solid month.
I had my application into the local
employer. I say “the local employer” because as
in many towns through rural America, it is
necessary to get employed in that little town to
have a connection or two. That or work for the
local employer, one of the last remaining
vestiges of manufacturing in all of New England.
What they tell you when you apply there,
what everyone will tell you, is that you should
call every day. Apparently this is a means of
keeping your application on top of the stack, of
keeping yourself fresh in their mind. I'd never
before heard of such a thing, but I did it
regardless. In July, at first, I would call once a
day. By the time August came I was calling every
other day, was finished with my novel, and was
already considering other possible options.
Finally one day they called me back, left a
message on my father's answering machine, and
believe it or don't, by the time I returned their
call later that day the job was gone to another
man or woman hungry for money, as all we
working­class citizens in this great country are.
It is no secret why such a job market as rural
mid­Maine would be so tight and competitive:
NAFTA has been pounding coffin nails into the
heart of this nation's economy since G. W.'s
father signed off on the brilliant folly in the early
1990s. I can see why the reader might think I'm
criss­crossing topics, but the purpose is solely to
enlighten those from less heavily­impacted
sectors of the country as to why a job might be
gone so quick. No matter if the market is wide­
open for international wounding, the internal
dynamics and mechanics work the same, so why
would they hold the job for me—an
inexperienced, then­underages, next­town­over
person with a slim work history? I still believe
that my letter of recommendation from the
restaurant in Massachusetts I'd worked in was
the only reason they called in the first place.
But there was still supposed hope, and I
took the time to fill out applications at all the
other establishments locally which would take
them. I wasn't giving up just yet.
Sometime during this period, Hurricane
Katrina hit and my father was re­married. I
remember sitting on his porch the day of or the
day before his wedding, smoking a cigarette and
staring into the peaceful woods. It hit me in the
gut that few are so fortunate as to sit in such a

9
comfortable position. It occurred to me that
there were wars going on, there was a hurricane
at hand—people were dying. People are always
dying, don't get me wrong. Americans even are
always dying. Though my emotions initially ran
high—in my gut I cursed G. W. B. for ever having
been born—my reaction soon hardened into
something more tangible: a sense of duty. What
would I want the people of New Orleans to do if
such a tragedy struck New England? Wouldn't I
want them to come and do things to help, donate
money to organizations which were doing the
same, etc? I knew if what goes around comes
around, I had but one choice: carry the golden
rule to its logical extreme; join the Red Cross, go
to New Orleans, put my writing and related
projects on hold, gain new experience in life.
My father came onto the porch and did his
usual thing, asked me what was I thinking. I told
him, and he did something rare: showed
undeniable pride in me. I wasn't as proud as I
was excited and nervous and ready and happy
that at least I'd be doing something which didn't
at its heart involve my various and scattered
creative pursuits.
The first foreseeable problem with joining
the Red Cross was the obvious: I was seventeen,
but my birthday would be in less than a month;
the first question I asked when I called them was
whether my father could sign a waiver or
something; the first man I spoke to said this
would be very possible. When nobody called me
back for a day, I spoke to another person who
informed me that there was no such existing
procedure, but that I could still go to the training
regardless of my age, which made the plan to go
to said training as soon as possible, and get to
New Orleans right after that. The next training
was scheduled for the third week of September.
My father soon left—he visited his property
where I was living every month or few weeks or
so—and so went my one most reliable means of
transportation.
For the first day of the training—on which
I mostly learned of the magnitude and internal
glorification of the bureaucracy of the Red
Cross—I managed to talk a neighbor into giving
me a ride, and we got lost, and we were late, but
the most important thing was to get there, and
so I had. The training was in Bangor, about fifty
miles away from where I lived, and I no longer
had any money with which to compensate my
neighbor for the considerable amount of gas.
However, I did meet a man at the training who
didn't live far from me, and he not only gave me
a ride home but promised to pick me up the next
morning, for the second day of training.
The persona of this benevolent ingrate

11
solidified my decision to get the hell out. I
feared it could be true in this man's case that
we are the product of our circumstances, not
the inverse, and I wondered if it was possible
for me to end up the same as he'd seemed to
end up. This nameless know­it­all/know­
nothing, go­nowhere/see­nothing man didn't
show up the next morning, and the next
training wouldn't take place for another
month—far longer than I was willing to
spend in Nowhere, where nothing was
happening, where I'd written my novel,
where “Plan A” simply had not panned out as
it was meant to; because when you spend too
much unoccupied time alone, away from
civilization, with nothing to grab hold of, you
begin to spin out—your brain seems to slide
in and out of the atmosphere, and once
you've run out money, all the friends you
thought had time for you disappear, and at
some point you reach the realization that you
don't much want them around anyway. You
find yourself spinning out of control,
completely losing track of days, weeks, of
time itself. When your only company seems
to speak just for the sake of hearing her own
voice, you will, if you're of a certain mind and
personality as I am, do what's necessary and,
as I once explained to a friend in a nutshell:
“fear of failure will drive you to bust a crazy
move and get the fuck out.”

13
“Despite circumstance, you've got a chance.”
­Bad Religion, “You've Got A Chance”

Life Lesson Number Two: success takes not

just time and patience, not just grit and steel­
willed determination, not just smarts and social
survival skills—but also a touch of dashing self­
confident insanity.
“Plan B.” was fluid, like liquid concrete,
for a time. At first I thought to go back to
southern New England, where things were
familiar, the women are beautiful, accents are
similar, and attitudes are predictable; where I
knew people. It was still September, my birthday
was just shy of a month away—technically my
father still had rights and control over me.
Rather than leave just to see what he would do
about it, I decided to spend the weeks leading up
to my eighteenth in preparation for the life
ahead of me—the life I now lead.
Angry at Bush for not doing enough about
Katrina, angry at myself for the same reason, I
put forth the idea of a rebellious special first
issue to the staff at my online magazine,
DISPATCH. We decided to hold nothing back
and subtitled the issue “BUSH MUST GO!”­­
further decided we would put it to press, pay the
contributors a percentage with half the proceeds,
and give the remainder to the Red Cross. The
idea was that people could get something while
giving something; a win/win situation. All five of
us worked feverishly hard on the issue in
question. It was numbered Zero­Point­Five and
can be had at http://litdispatch.net/05 for a
good price considering the good it will do. We'll
be re­releasing it in April with new clothes, new
material. Bush hasn't gone anywhere; why
should we?
That done, almost satisfied that I'd done
something, I looked south. My first thought was
of Charleston. I of course didn't know anyone
there, and my overall wealth amounted to
around two­hundred dollars at that moment, but
I figured a city by the sea shared with Hootie
would be just plain cool. Then my poetry editor,
M. Blair Spiva, told me I was wise to go south;
said she liked it down here; then she suggested I
come to Athens. I told her that my primary goal
was to become employed, quick, and she said
that Athens was always hiring. I took her word
for it and my mother bought me a one­way
Greyhound tick to Athens as my birthday gift.
She tried to make it a round­trip ticket, but I
insisted that a safety net would be the death of
me. The day I chose to leave was exactly one
week after my birthday, on October 20th, and I
felt wise going to a southern city where I at least
had one acquaintance (we've since become much

15
better friends, and Blair is one of the greatest
people alive, in my world anyway). For this
reason alone Athens topped the rest of the
south—it would be that much easier to get
started. She then informed me that I was picking
a horrible weekend to come down. She said that
UGA was having a huge game and that I'd better
make my reservations as far ahead of time as
possible. I did so with America's Best Inn out on
Atlanta Highway.
All that was left was to pack.
I packed first my writing. Then a box of
poetry for DIS­PRESS (the original Lifshin
manuscripts, which will come to fruit on 4/21 as
Coal About To Ignite.) I realized I needed more
space; commandeered a suitcase which once
belonged to my grandfather and made do. Had
nearly three­hundred dollars, a desire to make
shit happen, three full sets of clothing, some
books and literary journals I've since read, plus
extra socks, two empty tablets, three pens, and a
reserve stash of collected change which would be
spent just days later. I convinced the same
neighbor who gave me a ride to the Red Cross to
drive me to the bus depot in Bangor, and she got
me there five minutes after the bus left, so my
next ride left three hours later and no matter
what I would be laid­over somewhere for about
twelve hours. You can just imagine how happy
this made me, but I'm not one to dwell, strongly
believe in that whole darkness­before­dawn
cliché, and figured that even if most would take
this for a bad omen, what it really was was a
damn good one. Or it had to be, because things
do turn when they must.
I sat indirectly across from a girl who
caught my eye. A guy a few years older sat in the
seat ahead of me, directly across from her, and I
don't think this guy shut up all the way to
Portland, where he was apparently getting on a
plane headed back to California. Just the same I
was exhausted—I'd spent the night previous
nervously smoking cigarettes and preparing
myself mentally for the trip ahead. The extended
time on my feet waiting for the bus to get there
had further tired me; the initial stress and
ensuing argument between the neighbor and I
certainly didn't help; I fell asleep and when I
awoke, the guy was laying back on my knees,
creating much discomfort. I said something but
he was so engrossed talking at the girl that he
didn't hear me, or appeared not to. I knew his
type. Who was he messing with?
I punched the headrest of his seat and
then tapped him on the back of the head in one
rapid motion. He was about to say something. I
said, “'Ey you fuckin' guy yer sittin' my
lap—how'd you like that, prick?”

17
 Clearly he wanted me to move away. This
was the first trial of the trip for me. He started to
say something about the extra seats all around
us and I asked the obvious question, “So?” He'd
no answer, of course, and the girl therefore lost
interest in both of us, which worked for me. At
the next pit­stop, Augusta, this 20­something
bump­about changed seats and began talking at
someone else.
Before nodding out again, I studied the
girl whose name I can't remember, and I saw
that she was reading a brand­new copy of Kurt
Vonnegut's Cat's Cradle. She was throwing out
tons of signals. Coming over the bridge to
Boston, I put in my Dropkick Murphys disk and
listened to them sing “For Boston.” I'll spend my
last days in that beautiful city.
I felt refreshed enough to speak with her,
and I found out that she was headed for Houston
to visit family, that she was just a few months
older than me. I thought we'd get to know each
other at least on the bus to New York, and
considered skipping the first bus—the buses
from Boston to New York run
constantly—getting her to skip with me and
show her Boston for a little bit. I was already
delayed enough with my reservation looming,
however, so I decided it would be enough to
have a fellow Mainer to speak with on our way
south. We wouldn't part ways until
Atlanta—hundreds of miles away.
I let her ahead of me in the line and we
talked until we came to the door. Then, she was
the last passenger on the current New York bus.
Sometimes life is as strange as fiction—usually it
tends to be stranger.
I was the first on the next New York bus
out of South Station, and I sat in the back
because it was spacious as opposed to the typical
bus seat. A college couple headed for Manhattan
sat next to me and we all hit it off. I told them
my story, they told me theirs. When darkness
fell and we were nearing the City and her
boyfriend fell asleep, the girl and I whispered
and did the best we could with the time we had,
neither of which was very much. Soon the driver
announced that we were nearing Port Authority,
and her boyfriend was waking up, and we were
passing Central Park, and she acted as if nothing
had happened—New England women are smart
like that; neither of us was trying to kid anyone
about our lives or circumstances; I was a kid on
the move and she was a well­suited college girl
with few worries. Lives can cross paths and
paths can take turns, but unless we're stupid we
will always choose the best route, to be
unromantic and honest.
Central Park is no big deal, never has

19
been. And I hate New York City, and it's a city
I'm not entirely unfamiliar with. We three parted
ways and I would catch her gazing at me as she
descended with her boyfriend and their mutual
Manhattan friends down an escalator. Green
eyes I won't soon forget, which I still see in my
dreams occasionally; when I sleep and have
restful dreams.
The bus marked “Atlanta” would leave in
forty­five minutes, just enough time to check out
the Porty Authority (again). I bought a pack of
Marlboro Menthols for seven dollars and ten
cents from an Indian man who studied my I. D.
(SSN, etc.) just a little too long. It was the first
time I'd ever bought a pack of cigarettes,
although I've been smoking nearly six years now.
Knowing my location well enough, and having
grown up in a region different in few ways, I
said, “You gonna gimme my fuckin' change'r'm I
gonna go somewhere else, guy?”
He didn't say anything, handed me back
my I. D., my cigarettes, and nearly made me feel
guilty. He wasn't fooling me anymore than
anyone else is, though, and I'd probably end up
doing the same thing if the same situation were
repeated today.
I went outside and smoked a cigarette
surveying Times Square. I sort of wanted to stay,
but my Yankee blood told me not to a second
longer than necessary—there was something
wrong with that place, plus it didn't matter,
wasn't part of the plan, had nothing to do with
my goal or destination.
I spoke a few minutes to a beautiful New
Yorker, gave her a cigarette ignoring her bullshit
about not usually asking for them, and soon
boarded the next bus.
New England was behind me and life was
before me. Since that morning when my
neighbor had asked if I was excited and I had
told this wasn't my way, to be excited, that it
typically messed things up, I'd been choking
back excitement like stale smoke. Now I decided
to let it roll over me and my eyes were wide and I
realized that I had forgotten the coffee I'd
purchased inside Port Authority on top of a coke
machine. So much wasted money in such a short
space of time—my karma was sure to increase.
Near the front of the bus I sat and once the
bus was smoothly in motion I decided to do
some writing. I had in a manic fury finished all
the open writing projects two nights before. It
was all quite rough, to be sure, but at least it was
all quite finished. Wrote some very strange flash
fiction pieces. Most of the things I wrote
between that October evening and the middle of
the next month I ended up incorporating into a
lengthy short story or publishing online.

21
 When we came to Baltimore I was hungry.
I bought some grub at the station's KFC and was
called a cracker; was in the process of starting a
fight with the staff when one of my co­
passengers informed me shouting that there was
no time because the bus was rolling out again.
Coming down from an adrenaline high, I
fell asleep until we reached Raleigh and had to
change buses. It was early morning and I'd be in
Georgia soon.
The NC bus stopped at a gas station and
everything was quite cheap. I bought a pack of
Marlboros and they didn't even card me. I gave
them three dollars and got change back! The
south and I were going to get along very well.
I had a copy of the Paris Review and there
was no one worth talking to, so I read again the
short story “On Foot In Lesotho” and I was
struck very hard by one line particular: “go
bravely to extremes and everything will be
provided.” I committed it to memory and
underlined it. It was something I felt and
understood at this point, something I hoped
could be true so badly that I could feel it in my
chest, had to pause for a moment or five.
At the Charlotte stop, in the late
afternoon, there was approximately a two­hour
wait before the bus to Greenville, South Carolina
was to leave. I sat off to the side outside near
some other passengers. There was a respectable
old man of color sitting there, and he started our
conversation by saying that the weather was
beautiful, he was so glad to be out of New York,
where he'd been visiting family. I told him New
York was an ugly hell­hole, and he picked up my
accent and asked where I was from. Then the
inevitable questions leading up to why I came
south. I told him the digested version of what
I'm telling you, and he called me insane, as you
no doubt have by now. I told him that insanity
was part of what it takes; I'd be just fine. He said
if I kept that attitude, then I would be. Gave me
a bucket­load of extremely useful advice,
specifically that I could go to the labor pools
until I got on my feet, and got a job, that they
didn't pay well but they'd sure help. Said to try
like there was no tomorrow. Asked how long it
had been since I'd had a decent meal—I think he
could tell I was hungry from the way I smoked so
furiously, but I had to keep all the money I
could. I was looking forward to the promised
feast at Blair's. I told him I couldn't remember; I
wasn't counting the KFC biscuit with wings or
countless cans of beans I'd eaten in Maine
(beans are very cheap, in case you didn't know).
He gave me an apple pie from McDonald's—the
most American gesture possible—told me to
always vote democratic in spite of now living in a

23
red state, and for my own sake to never give up. I
wouldn't see him again until we all got off the
bus in Atlanta, where he wished me good luck
for good measure.
Between Greenville and Atlanta I switched
seats three times. I was antsy and overly excited
about how I was coming into Georgia, finally
nearing my new home for real. When I sat in the
third seat I stepped on something in the
darkness—it would still be almost three hours
until I reached Atlanta and it was already around
9 P. M. as far as I could tell. I reached down and
fished it up, turned on the light to see what it
was: a water­damaged copy of Kurt Vonnegut's
Cat's Cradle. It looked like it had only been
recently damaged by water, probably some
spillage on the bus. I like to believe, and still do,
that it was the same copy the girl from Bangor
had. I stuffed it into my backpack and pondered
memory for awhile before I spent twelve hours
in Atlanta. It had been a somewhat rough trip.
Shortly after getting off the bus, a man fresh
from prison asked me for a cigarette and I gave
him two, and he gave me a piece of advice:
“Don't leave this fuckin' station; you will get beat
up and robbed.”
Managed to get robbed for twenty bucks
trying to buy a lottery ticket at the
convenience/liquor store across the street, and
before day broke a group of Army chumps
flaunted money and gave me a pack of cigarettes
for nothing, and I'd bought a coat for four
dollars. A cheap Ralph Lauren thing. But being
in Atlanta in late October over night, it was
much colder than I'd expected, and the man
selling the coat just wanted to get high, and
actually thanked me. I still have and use it; you
might see me wearing it.
A couple hours before the Athens bus
came, I met a homeless hustler from Charleston
whose name I don't remember. He wanted to
play three­card monty. I told him up front that
he would lose; he said he'd bet my five to his
twenty. I told him I wouldn't play for
money—it'd be unfair to him. I beat him once,
twice, six times before he realized I wasn't
joking. I didn't mind playing, it passed time, and
winning them is truly the only way to gain the
respect of such men. “Well you awful good,” he
agreed when I said I was bored with winning.
“They don't call me Slick Henry for
nothin',” I lied.
“Name's Henry?”
I nodded.
“Well it was nice meetin' ya. I gotta find
me a sucka 'fore lunch time, but I 'ppreciate you
not playin' fo' money.”
“We're in this shit together, men like me

25
and you,” I told him as he walked away.
“I like to play in the sand / what's mine is
ours—if it doesn't remind me of anything.”
—Audioslave, “Doesn't Remind Me.”

Life Lesson Number Three: you have the

day, this one anyway, and they can never take
it away.
My first home in Athens was America's
Best Inn. The price originally quoted to me over
the phone was $75, but when I showed up a day
late due to my Bangor ride, I ended up paying
$110 for a single night. After that it was only
$40, because I switched out of the expensive
suite which was the only room open before that,
and as you're probably thinking given all I've
already told you, paying the fee was quite a
struggle.
I was tired that Saturday night, but wired
on caffeine at the same time. Blair had planned
and was about to execute a party in honor of my
arrival. While waiting for someone to pick me
up, I wrote a journal entry, and in hindsight I
realize that I often rob my future children of real
detail when it comes to living my life—there is
not a single valid quote to share in Entry 56 or
57.
My ride came and picked me up, a friend
of Blair's from Southeast Alabama. One of the
two people in the car gave me a hint as to getting

27
a job—DialAmerica. Later the female
counterpart would drive me to fill out the
application which would end up being my first
Athenian employment. It was the Monday after
my arrival, after I'd called my father for a loan in
desperation and he'd made it so much easier for
me to catch some sleep. I remember saying to
him when he asked why I was so tired that I
could hardly talk, “ain't easy t' sleep when yer
tryin' to solve a problem's big as you ah.” He
saved my life via Western Union and I soon
moved into a room on Odd Street for $110 a
week.
Living in a southern ghetto was an
interesting experience. Lots of things I won't talk
or write about—boring played­out things
mostly—happened while I was there.
I worked for Labor Ready on Baxter Street
as often as they would send me out and I could
get up early enough to get some work until
finally DialAmerica called Blair's house and I
was soon working there. On one of my earlier
nights I met a guy who was rather kind to me,
invited me to hang out one night while giving me
a ride to my room. We've come to be friends, as
much as that term is a fallible one.
Against all odds I managed to gain full­
time employment at Dial in my third week and
on the same day a one­bedroom apartment on
Baxter Street.
Then in February I was fired from
DialAmerica without a penny to my name.
Getting my things sent to me was a costly
endeavor, and many of them still are in Maine.
The reasons for my getting fired were unclear for
the most part, and silly piddling bullshit when
they were clear; I recently received a notice that
said, “misconduct/improper behavior.”. I always
did my absolute best, I'm confident of that, and
it doesn't hurt my feelings that some waste­of­
life with a vengeance had it out for me because I
can tend on the cocky side when I feel I'm under
attack. Trust me, reader, if you'd seen all that
I've seen, done all that I've done, you might be a
bit proud too. Not that you shouldn't have pride
anyway, and for all their talk of pride, it is the
last thing the DialAmerican establishment wants
of their employees. I'm unafraid to say so,
because I am only telling the reader the absolute
truth. I can also say with honesty that I made as
many or more sales as were required of me, and
when they weren't obviously personal issues, I
did try to improve my performance based on the
rational critique I occasionally received. Most of
the time it was irrational or wrapped in
“because­I­said­so” tones. The Dial is a company
which knows very little about true
professionalism, about setting personal issues

29
aside for the greater good, as far as my
experience is concerned, and I don't miss
working there—c'est la vie; I only regret that I
was fired before I quit, before I was prepared to
be unemployed.
Which brings me to my present situation.
A step further on this path than when I started,
far more publications than when I got to Athens,
two steps from the street and none from reality,
with just two issues of my magazine behind me.
Unless you've got a job to fill, though,
don't worry for me. I'll be alright. The world is
the same as it's always been, things are the same
as they've always been, and I truly believe my life
is in my own hands, and unless you're crazy,
dear reader, do believe me when I tell you that I
will forever act accordingly.
 The Shackles
Are Feathers
Today
first draft: 24 February 2007
published in Silenced Press

On this day
stomach butterflies are
zesty with life,
crowded & raucous

The shackles are feathers today

& society takes its trends
from the earth it's built on
making revolutionary rounds

On this day
the abandoned eyes of drones
are reflective & humanity
mixes toxin w/ oxygen

31
 The Saddest
Break of Day
first draft: 28 October 2005
published in Thirst For Fire

Massachusetts was dry, as were Providence and

Newport. This was a pain because I’d been
relying on a redneck named Cob in Newport
during dry season for about two years—an
eternity in our culture.
But I knew a guy who knew a shady Asian
in New Jersey named Yao. I paid the guy a
hundred­fifty bucks to put me in touch with Yao.

“This is the Pumish one,” I told him on

demand.
“I have what you need.”
“Ten­pack, twenty­pack, what?”
“Fifty, no less.”
I was stunned. I’d never picked up fifty
pounds before, never nearly that much from a
new connect.
“How much?”
“Thirty­five per Z,” he said. He must have
thought I could do that kind of math on the spot.
I said, “I’ll call you back.”
After a mad search for my calculator, I did
32
the math: thirty grand.
I talked it over with Corey and he brought
up the obvious: it would be crazy for us to go to
New Jersey with that kind of cash. According to
him neither of us had ever been there; he didn’t
know about the time I went to Newark to drop
off three white kilos and had a bullet graze my
neck in the process.
He was right; New Jersey definitely wasn’t
safe for guys like us. And this is basically what I
said to Yao, adding that the price was truly
unbeatable. But before I’d even finished my
sentence, he said, “We will bring. Two days. You
wait for call.” Then he hung up.
I couldn’t even calculate the profit. It
being dry season we could sell skimpy bags for
higher prices. We wouldn’t lose a single
customer. I figured the first eight pounds would
be gone in a couple days. I contemplated cocaine
to stay awake; contemplated hiring help—but
where was I going to go for that, the classifieds?
Rats were everywhere, and there were
days when I even wondered about Corey. If
given the chance and the right conditions, would
he roll on me? I wasn’t stupid enough to ask—all
I could do was watch.
“This is fuckin’ nuts,” I said to him later
that day. We were waiting on some girls,
finishing off a bottle of Vodka.
“Yeah this Absolut hits pretty hard.” He
was looking out the window, not paying me any

33
attention.
“Not that,” I said. “This deal.
“We’re gonna make around seven­
hundred percent, Corey. We could retire after
this shit’s gone.”
“But we won’t,” he said and smiled. We
blinded ourselves with the inherent mental
darkness of alcohol.
I woke up at about four the next morning.
I pulled a book out of my hiding place and
picked up where I’d left off two weeks before. It
was A Walk On The Wildside by Nelson Algren.
“Stranger on a strange­lit stair, you have
come to a strange frontier,” I read, and my heart
moved. Rarely do things affect me emotionally. I
wondered if they’d be the last words I’d think if I
got hit in Newark or Hackensack or wherever.
I heard Corey stir in the next room; as he
flushed the toilet I hid my book again. Spent the
next hour oiling an AR­15 I’d never used.
At about seven I woke Corey up and
directed him to get me high. I knew for a fact he
still had some stash of Canadian hash from a
queer dealer I wouldn’t go near. Soon we were
both overcome with a powerful hunger. In our
cabinets there were some Ramen noodles, some
stale saltines, and some instant potatoes.
“You know what that means,” I said,
closing the cabinet.
“Munchie run,” Corey said with a chuckle.
We meandered through Hi­Lo across the
park for about an hour loading the cart with food
we both knew would mostly go to waste: ice
cream, fresh deli stuff, pretzels, crackers, various
brands of soda, and all of Little Debbie’s big
fillers.
We sat right on the curb outside the store,
grubbing away in the early mist of the
September day.
When my cellphone rang, the familiar
number I’d been anticipating appeared on the
caller ID.
“Puma here,” I said.
“You leave yet?”
“For where?”
“Bu—“ I started as the line went dead.
Corey was looking at me with wide brown
eyes. I nodded. We both stood up and he asked,
“What about this shit?”
I shrugged.
Corey hollered, “Hey, you!” He caught a
homeless guy’s attention as I started jogging
ahead to the apartment, gleeful and ready for
action. I heard him say, “You want this?” and
then I heard the wheels of the cart bounce across
the asphalt.
In my room I stuffed three pistols (two for
Corey, one for me), the AR, and two fresh bottles
of Bacardi into a duffel bag where the cash had
been resting for days.
I heard Corey outside revving his
Thunderbird. I took a last look at our apartment.

35
 I nodded out as we went south of Boston.
When I awoke, it was to Corey’s laughter.
I looked at him and said, “What?”
“Nothin’.”
I already knew. He was drunk, and he was
a happy drunk. This must have been why he
drank so much.
“Pull over,” I said. “I’ll drive .”
“You don’t got a license,” he said, suddenly
serious.
“And you’re drunk.”
“We get pulled over we’re completely
fucked,” he said. “These plates’r still hot.”
“No they ain’t.” He didn’t answer. “What
the fuck? I thought you fixed that!”
“Then gimme the bottle.” I could smell the
rum. That was how we’d met—we were the only
two at a crack whore’s party who could drink
straight rum.
“Na—“
I cocked my heater.
“You wouldn’t shoot me.”
“You think,” I said, not sure myself of how
serious I was.
He tossed the bottle into my lap carelessly,
rum slopped onto my clothes. I was satisfied
with that, even if I wanted to bust the bottle on
his skull.
I put the safety on, made sure it was a
noticeable action. “I will next time, you cunt,” I
told him. I couldn’t help but smile.
 I turned the radio on to medium volume. I
hoped this would fool him, have him thinking I
was awake.
I leaned back in the seat, relaxed.
The sun set.
The next time I awoke, we were stopped at
a gas station. Corey was inside, all smiles and
red cheeks. I noted three cop cars. I was
proud—he was becoming as bold as me every
day, finally learning.
He came out of the store toting four packs
of gum. Unlike most drunks, Corey’s cheeks
were his only giveaway—he never stumbled or
talked too fast.
I reached behind the seat and checked on
the duffel bag.
In my dream I heard a tugboat; I had
spent the entire dream somewhere near Booth
Bay Harbor. The shatter of glass, however, had
to be real. I was launched to consciousness as
my body heaved forward. My head smacked the
dashboard.
I smelled rum and burning rubber and
blood. My own blood, I realized.
As my head went back my eyes were wide
open. Headlights I knew to shine golden were
spots of white; tail­lights I knew to radiate red
were shades of gray.
As the car rolled on its side, just once
(miraculously), I reached left for Corey; I wanted
to touch his heart, I wanted to see if he had a

37
pulse left in him.
I touched his neck and was immediately
shocked for the first time in years.
There was no pulse. There was no head. I
pulled my piece and held the barrel to my temple
for a time. I thought about cashing in right then.
Starting over is a bitch, I knew from experience.
Then the music still playing on the radio
filtered into my weakened consciousness.
Go on, take the money and run, sang Steve
Miller. Corey’s favorite drinking song ever since
we’d hit some fuck named Chico for our first
eight grand.
I yanked the hefty duffel bag from the
back of my seat and crawled through the open
skull of the windshield, dragging the duffel
behind me, and walked until dawn.
Not only was it the saddest break of day
I’ve ever witnessed, in gray scale as it may have
been, but it was one of the last.
I haven’t seen anything for over two years
now.
A Platform From
Which To
Scream This
first draft: 14 October 2008
unpublished

Temptation is the primary facet of modern

society. I'd find a platform from which to scream
this if only I felt it would change a thing today.
Everyone has their own solution for the
problems of the world. From communists to
fascists, they all look in one direction or another
simply too far. I'd tell them all that there is good
in everything if only I felt it would change their
minds today. I've shouted plenty of things in my
life, but they have all been too personal.
Personality is the nature of the pride of young
men. I remain young, but I feel less of a man
with each day passing wherein the system
remains. I'd love to say that there is something
to look forward to but there is not. Armies,
civilians. These are the composition of society
whether we like it or not. You're either militant
or you're not. I'd love to say that there is
something here worth shouting, but there is not.

39
Here I am in the heart of a city in the depths of a
society which will one day too be forgotten, and I
feel nothing. No one needs us anymore, we're
nothing. I've come to a turning point, a last
resort of necessity: I'll either enlist or I'll go
hungry. A past life would have driven me to
choose the latter, and perhaps I'd manage to
survive awhile before things got easier, but
inevitably they'd get harder again. Sister­fuckers
everywhere I turn—a melody I can't remove
from my head no matter how many years pass. I
am but twenty­one. There is time for me, and
plenty of time to be successful, or so they say. So
here I sit, broken­hearted, society shit, while I
but farted, and there's a war on. They'll take
anyone in the effort, and I'll go. I'll go, and I'll be
there, and soon there will be new horizons
before me, and perhaps within the madness I
can find some concentration. Seems to be the
best place for me to find it. For tonight my goals
are to be much simpler. I can still go home, the
lease has not expired. I'll do that. In the corner
of that room which has become gradually more
empty, there is still a bit of food and water. I'll
make use of it. And tomorrow I'll join an Army
I've never felt affinity for. And tomorrow I'll
break down into something new, a new
compound. Once I thought life was an
interpretation of art. Now I see otherwise: there
are no universals such as that, there is nothing.
There are choices, beginning when you're young,
and over time they add up and become what
you'll know as your life. I've seen this world for
what it can be, and I've seen this world for what
it should be, and tonight I see this world for
what it is. Someday I'll be something, I swear I
will. In the meantime, I'll be a soldier, and pride
will be something I keep in shoe boxes, proof of
what I can do, proof of what I will do. Life is
research for better novels. Life is anything you
demand it be.

41
 Ran Out Of
Coffee Grains
first draft: 16 June 2006
published in Zygote in my Coffee & In Between
Hangovers (UK)

I'm tired of smoking cigarettes

They add weight to my lungs
There's no such thing as a light cigarette
I just came back from a writing bender
I often sleep fully clothed in my own home
& my apartment's a mess
& I've been eating too much I figure
& I accept less than the best at that
& I keep thinking about the world's most
beautiful woman
So my sleep is short & restless
& I'm calling myself a pussy all the time now
& I'm delirious maybe, ran out of coffee grains
I wish life was easy
I wish Georgia wasn't a graveyard
I want to write a letter to god but I forgot his
address
I want a suture for my mind but I'd probably not
be inspired then
& I keep thinking about the world's most
beautiful woman

42
She gave me a book of poems
That are better than this
& I've lost internal formality
& I read silly things for the sake of short­term
happiness
& I'm thinking the days aren't so magical
anymore
Because I wasted Monday sleeping & doing
laundry
I just came back from a weekend writing bender
& I hunch my damn back all the time
Which is stupid
I think people might be giving up on me
I just want to get back to working
What I'll plan now to do is read a book of poetry
until I sleep
My eyes are ready to bleed & my head will feel
detached when I really quit cigarettes later on
But I'll just read until day breaks night in half
again
& then I'll go fail or pass a drug test
& who knows what will happen after that
& I want to write a letter to god because
someone once told me or I once wrote or I once
told myself or now I have written that he is the
dealer of cards & I think I might want a new
hand though I figure I haven't played this one so
badly
But I ran out of coffee grains & that kind of
makes me angry
Disconnected and discombobulated

43
I poured coffee in cereal
I want it all at once
Everything
I want to be famous right now
Minus the fame
I don't even care about acclaim as much as I do
not being poor
Every day's a good day
I'm just being a pussy
& calling myself so all the time now.
Several Minutes
of Death and
Taxes
first draft: 5 October 2008
published in Thieves Jargon

Wake up before the blood starts running. Might

run away. Wake up before the day starts dying.
It'll die anyway. Wake up before the lights go off.
And through the glare of bleary eyes: a fist.
Never aimed at you. You were a bystander.
Sideswiped. Now you are awake and standing.
Wondering what the fuck. The fist belongs to the
friend. Perhaps answers won't come and never
do. More importantly, you're not sure if you can
talk. Cold, thirsty, hungry, craving a cigarette
though you've not smoked in two months. Begin
to mumble things. Singularity at first. Then
muffle­screaming. Just like you to go out like a
fuckin' pussy. That's what this Mohammad Ali
ass clown shouts. Need a seat, a drink. A
moment to process things. George Clooney takes
charge of this situation, momentarily. Perhaps
you've been knocked senseless.
What?

45
 Onward. Meat of the day.
At home, your picture window's busted.
Don't even get pissed. A sudden urge for a crime
spree. Pillaging package stores. Instead, leap off
the wagon for several minutes of freedom. Shot
to the arm, it has healed in sobriety. And you're
too blame. Probably things are to get better—you
may run out of excuses. On the radio, talk about
the leading causes of death. Only in America.
You notice yours isn't listed before the Nod.
Morning appears again. Wake up fired
from best job to date. Hours late. Termination
via voice­mail. Know you'll be hired back, but
meantime, to hell with it. Life exists.
Somewhere. Or such is the premise of your
quest. California knows how to party. The liquor
store hold­up scheme's more tempting. On this
day, you decide, you are going to die. Until now
you never ever considered the absolute truth of
death and taxes. Soon the lights recede. There
will be no surprises.
Soiled clothes and tar­stained teeth are
subliminal honesty. Zap out as a replacement for
a solution. The girlfriend shows her face.
Intentionally you leave a lengthy pubic hair on
her shoulder. You lie about your reason for the
errand and leave her waiting while you score
smack. Wondering what a pack of gum costs,
you walk into the early afternoon sun. Already
desire is rekindled, you miss her embrace. There
is always that. Into forever, rewinding. Step and
repeat for an accurate biography.

47
 Journal Vol. 3,
Book III,
Entry 79
first draft: 12 January 2008
unpublished

7:20AM

The Army. I am now a soldier in the United

States Army. Private Madore, E1, a professional
soldier paid $1,300 a month to risk my life for
causes to which my support or opposition is
wholly not relevant. I must accept that George
W. Bush is my commander­in­chief and that
fucking Hillary Clinton or Barack Obama may
well be his successor as the mood of the civilian
population dictates. As always, this is the life I
chose.
Getting to this point wasn't easy. I had to
waste every red cent, go to jail, and all that stuff
that happened before I thought of the military. I

48
had to be rejected for the crime of honesty by the
U. S. Navy and Air Force. The Army is more
interested in keeping people interested and
getting them enlisted than the others. I had to
pass the Armed Services Vocational Assessment
Battery. I scored an 85 out of 100 and my “GT” is
high enough that later I could become a Second
Lieutenant with ease.
ASVAB was the first part of getting in. I
took it at Portland Military Entrance Processing
Center on Thursday. Hotel overnight, having a
decent free meal and watching the Republican
debates on Fox. Of all the candidates currently
running, I would mostly easily accept Mitt
Romney, who was my governor in high school,
or John McCain, who I believe can most
efficiently handle the war and the country's
defense. Maybe I'm just in the dark ages right
now, and I can't much imagine a ruler other than
a republican in office, but this is how I was
feeling last night.
Next morning we got a wake­up call at
0445. My roommate showered, I showered, then
it was off to a buffet breakfast. I ate too much
bacon. You'll know why. From there it was three
quick cigarettes and onto the bus. Downstairs of
MEPS we had to empty our bags so the lady
could search for contraband. No smoke breaks,

49
we were informed. Bummer. Later I found out
that there will be no smoking at boot camp,
either. It will be like jail with a gun and a fitness
program.
Went through a hearing test. The women
in the medical department were bitches. The guy
who briefed six of us was an asshole. Had blood
taken so they could check for AIDS. If they let
me go to boot camp that means I tested negative.
Had to piss in a cup but I had to shit so this was
not easy. This is no lie: I had to drink nearly
sixty cups of water before I was able to piss, after
two stage­frightened tries. “Settle For Satin” by
Alkaline Trio was in my head all the day long.
Had to do some pretty basic physical tests in my
boxers. Walk on your heels, and so forth. Was
determined that I had to take “the ARMS test”
because my weight/body fat ratio disqualified
me.
This was one of the hardest things I've
ever done. Made me re­think the Army overall.
There was a platform about two feet off the
ground. I had to step on and off for five straight
minutes in tune to a stereo cadence and
afterward have a heartbeat lower than 180. The
guy was only allowed to tell me to speed up
twice, and he did so once, but he was also
encouraging. After three minutes my legs began
to vehemently protest. I didn't think I was going
to make it, but I did. I just kept thinking about
what it would be like to go home a failure that
day. Then I had three minutes to get my heart­
rate down and go get a drink of water. My legs
were funny about walking to the water fountain,
not quite bowed but certainly crookedly carrying
me there.
After that I had to do fifteen push­ups in a
minute. Were I not so exhausted from the
stepping these would have been much easier.
They weren't real push­ups, for sure—I've never
fucking done push­ups before! I had to make a
couple trips back and forth between the Army
liaison and the front desk. Then I was allowed to
have lunch, which was free, from Subway.
Forgot to mention that I puked my guts
out after doing the push­ups. Ate too much
bacon that morning.
Once the paperwork was all through I was
fingerprinted and then sworn in. My contract
forbid me to associate with groups that desire to
overthrow the government.
Eventually the ride back to Bangor came. I
slept the whole way. Had to turn my folder over
to Sergeant Sproul and then he gave me a ride
home. Ate a couple sandwiches for supper and
51
called my Dad to surprise him with the good
news: the Army took me, I am now enlisted. He
was a bit apprehensive, asked a lot of questions,
and said he'd be there at my basic training
graduation, which I doubted, just because things
work out that way, but didn't say so. Fell right to
sleep around ten.
Of course I still have a responsibility to
help around here for the next ten days. Had to
get up at seven this morning and left in the
middle of this entry. It's now two­something in
the afternoon. And soon we're going to
Howland. I hate to admit it but I'm tired of him
claiming my days for his own, but I know he
doesn't have many of his own left, so I don't
much mind it, all things told, and probably
someday I'll regret feeling this way. But now I
don't have much free time left. He has the nerve
to get upset about what I eat, too, even though
he's not paying for any of it. He's just old and
stuck in his ways. I don't say a word out loud
against him, he is my grandfather, I just let him
be. Someday I'll come to peace with my feelings
about him, but right now I definitely feel like I'm
constantly getting screwed. Most days I regret
coming back to this place, but, after all, I had
nowhere else to go, and it's good they just
accepted me as soon as I said I needed to come
here. There are people for whom that's not even
an option. I'd have been homeless again
otherwise, because even my best friends were
tired of me getting myself into trouble.

53
The West Spake
Beckoning
first draft: 7 November 2007
unpublished

Sell everything, I'm gone

& leave my life forgotten

I was staring at the night

& the West spake beckoning
So you covered my ears

There were buses on the road

& planes in the sky
So you covered my eyes

You never picked up the phone

& the fare was low
So you lost me to the wind

Sell everything, I'm gone

& leave my life forgotten

54
 Silent Come
Morning
first draft: 16 April 2008
unpublished

Paints her nails and cigarette filters the same

sanguinary maroon. Loses men with a wink or
smile. As she pleases. And knows nothing but
the freedom of a breeze on which to burn or
carry promises to those she'll tomorrow forget. I
know these things. First meeting. I'd like to
think we have this much in common.
Sans farewell she leaves that night. We've
yet to touch. Words forever fail me. Talked
mostly of places our wandering souls had led us.
Take now my usual inventory of
experience—uppers, downers, workweeks,
complaints. Swear to a neglected journal: “I'd be
better off in a combat zone.”
Phone rings hours before dawn. She
demands something better. “I'm rarely this
bitter. Deliver something new.” Tempted to
admit I've had enough self­conscious nonsense.
Fail to say a word. “We'll always be silent come
morning,” she promises. A relieved click. She's
bad with goodbyes. Can't sleep now. Guzzle
yesterday's coffee dregs, prepare for the day­

55
long boredom of work.
Mail comes on time. A two­cent postcard
from a stranger: “Life's a rough draft a
disgruntled deity wrote standing in a closet some
Sunday long past. One trick is to never pretend it
matters.”
Sitting on the hood of my car when I go to
it, she says, “We should kiss now.” Nonchalantly
boring. Instead of Let's not and say we might
have, I say nothing. From the passenger seat she
says her name's Natasha. Probably expects a
sigh or anything from me. Playing too cool for
that. Minimize emotion to maintain sanity: one
survival method.
Leaves my car when I reach the workplace.
Says she'll try again later. “When the sky's dark
and the moon's not empty.” Spend the day
wondering where the world's tears ever end up.
Something superior is her beauty. Lips
full. Fuller from chest to hips. Not my first
beautiful girl.
Don't lock the door that evening. Don't
pick up the phone so she's sure I'm home.
Musical rum harmony keeps me company until
her appearance. In a dress torn unapologetically
with the stink of smoke and margaritas.
“Admittedly I fucked a slutty woman in a
bathroom stall tonight,” she says. As if to tarnish
an absent awkward suspense. “I'm not gay. You
were thinking so.”
 Alcohol spins clockwise. Conversation's
random and flirty. All but in my lap now, she
speaks of pornography. This much I can tolerate.
Her words are interesting and the liquor's not in
short supply.
“Is nudity acceptable here?” she wants to
know.
“Mostly in the shower. Plus you smell of
whores and tobacco.”
Most glorious shower of my life. Water
turns cold with time. We're still heated.
Bedroom accommodates. Find it boring after our
third or fourth go. Says she's got a place with a
balcony. I ask if we can go there next day.
Responds, “I'll be gone tomorrow. The west
beckons. This town's sickening me again.”
I drink stronger than before. “Did I wait
too long to comfort you?”
“You're only my newest memory. I think
you knew that. Let us not be lazy now, it's just
two blocks.”
And so we proceed to the point of our
faltering coffee­laden goodbye. Intoxicated, she
hails her flight that Saturday breaking no
promise.
Awake with a new standard for what love
might evolve into.

57
 Submission to
An Internet
Asshole
first draft: 9 March 2007
published at Head For The Coast

There's a song I love so much I stole

Every precious note I took, I sold
Now I spit out words, do you see my lungs on
the dance floor?
—Alkaline Trio

Until it happens that I'm fluid and lucid, blank

paper. Trying too hard. I've become lazy. A good
sentence is a fillet in a sea of fat. This room
should be clean. Colder days should not be
forgotten because I'm always two steps from
more of them. May the music fade to
background. Everything should be as free as air
and time's more valuable than any currency.
I dreamed in detail of a revolution this
morning.
Consider this hand exercise.
Masturbation. Guess that's both. I think I'll

58
refine this and send it down a dark internet
asshole. Haven't even got the internet at
home—I currently operate on a war­torn laptop
and at the library. I'm definitely refining this
into one of those pieces whose only quality is the
allure of the spastic mind, then submitting it to
an internet asshole for publication. I maybe
should delete that sentence but I won't. I don't
think my newfound laziness is the result of
things being too easy, I think after a period of
continual frustrated failure I began to lower my
standards of good until I wound up in this
basement room. Pretty sure my jail cell was
bigger, and that didn't cost anything. Someday
I'll be famous or infamous. Jack Kerouac or
David E. Winters or someone, anyone, who
didn't fail forever. Motivation is a fleeting flighty
whore when you live on the bottom—memories
of rich guys who recognized our similarities but
never our disparity in starting point sicken me.
Had I been born with loot, it stands to reason
that by now I'd have stolen more from this
society of dedicated slaves. I'd have been
successful. Since I was not, it makes sense that I
have three two­dollar bills and three one­dollar
coins and eight pennies and some food stamps.

59
This song's rhythm always stimulates pen­to­
paper. I wonder sometimes how many are
actually alive. I write long­hand first, even unto
stillborn novels. The current dimmer brilliance
is about losing friends when losing psychological
stability.
This town could be worse.
If Beth calls, I'm sure I'll leap back on
track. Keeping promises and losing weight again.
Fat rolls bother me.
Eighth draft of a very ridiculous piece of
writing, but I have someone in mind for it and at
least I'm doing something right now. Eight
drafts, though.
There are days that I just smoke, get
munchies, and stare out various windows.
Marijuana should be more abundant or simply
eradicated—there's never enough of it. Even
though it's murder on the work ethic. My balls
itch and my body aches. Money baffles me. I'd
rather recycle it for loose­leaf paper—there are
madmen who kill over the stuff. Also: dirt and
oil.
This page is blackened with ink. With the
ash of Winston Cigarettes. That was an earlier
draft, actually, but here lies an American
dreamer. Nonetheless. I've always had faith,
even unto the days of squatting and eating from
dumpsters: I always believed that war stories
could somehow culminate in an end worth the
struggle.
Earlier I considered the concept of an
ampersand.
Bohemians and pseudo­intellectuals are
neither attractive nor any better than real
intellectuals. Language has its limits; a smack
can sometimes do all of the talking.
A former room­mate was fond of pissing
in bed unto the point that he was kicked out of
the damn place. At least this roommate's got the
dignity of making it to the steps before letting
go. I'm too young for this.
Midnight is a full seventeen hour day.
Pricks like me need another person to
succeed, an outside reason. Otherwise we just
bumble along, doing nothing in particular, until
someone or something injects person in us;
we're good for military service or surviving
potato famines, liberating populations or
fighting revolutions, and not much else.
Shamrocks might be beautiful, but we're
retarded. We'll drink ourselves to death over
people we never even thought of loving.
I hate bending my neck. People with stiff
necks tend to bother me. I'm over two hundred
pounds right now.
It's never been this hard to smile and I've
been losing focus for months—the fucking
bastard cops really nailed me to the cross this
time. Twenty years I've been exposed to money.
61
It still makes me laugh—people actually take this
green paper more seriously than life itself even
though one bill looks like the next and they all
burn at roughly the same temperature. Society is
such a beautiful museum when you're poor—a
life spent munching table crumbs and window
shopping for ways out.
Schedule: Today—fuck off and pretend I can
write; Tuesday—work hard for disgusting­but­
cash wages; Wednesday—crawl out of basement,
go to regular job, step and repeat until Monday:
my weekly dream of life in California.
 Untitled
#999,931
first draft: 12 January 2008
unpublished

I shouted from the other room

& my voice went unheard

I asked what the point was

& my answer never came

I drank a gallon of coffee

& gained nothing from it

I wielded a self­righteous sword

& my friends abandoned me

I shivered in darkness
& was never found

I sang a thousand songs in a row

& my voice went unheard

I asked when the end was

& my answer never came

63
I ran until my lungs collapsed
& gained nothing from it

I gave everything I had

& my friends abandoned me

I wandered to a new consciousness

& was never found
 Gum Print
first draft: 9 September 2005
unpublished

A Modernist Mouse was chewing through

Literature’s shoelaces the morning it awoke to
realize its mortality. It scared the Mouse away
only to find a Post­Modernist Mouse chewing
into the sole of the same shoe, while the
Modernist had resorted to chewing Literature’s
pantleg draped over the edge of the bed.
Literature dove for a closet, produced a
can of RevRevReview, and doused the invaders
as a sentry with napalm; afterward hiding their
corpses in its closet on a shelf next to the
RevRevReview.
Skipping out of the building, Literature
realized it was vulnerable to oncoming rain due
holey jeans. Being carefree by nature, Literature
ignored the jeans and strolled merrily.
At a crosswalk not far from home, a trolley
car named Genre barreled out of the street and
onto the sidewalk. Literature's right ear was lost.
A band of schoolchildren with names like
Romance, Horror, and a pair of twins named
Fantasy hopped out of the trolley to apologize.
Their teacher, Mrs. Grammar, wept crocodile
tears at Literature’s side.
65
 Later that week, Literature went into
hiding and became a hermit because its bully
cousin Idiot Box returned to its once­peaceful,
suitable city. Idiot Box and Literature had not
gotten along for many years; not since the day
Literature’s mother had chosen to pick Idiot Box
up from soccer practice instead of taking
Literature to Uncle Sam’s house. Uncle Sam had
promised Literature its own bicycle that day, had
died the next, and Aunt Attention had given the
bike to Idiot Box instead.
Years later, walking down Beat Street on a
rare grocery run, Literature stepped into an
amassed plot of used chewing gum on the
sidewalk, shrieked, stumbled, floundered, and
proceeded to nearly die. The gum, stubborn by
nature, stuck all over Literature's shoe sole. And
as Literature walked, the gum attracted the very
worst of fictive dreams, nightmares,
clusterfucks; of poorly written manifestos and
lackadaisical heartless prose.
Literature stopped finally in front of a
shoe store, ogled a fancy pair of boots. Walked
into the store, spoke to the clerk, had a change of
mind, bumbled out, stood indecisive, and strode
confidently back in to acquire the boots it had
first desired.
In them Literature felt renewed, capable.
Felt unafraid of Idiot Box or any of the countless
children it’d had since their last encounter. Felt
proud, and laughed at the gum which had ruined
its favorite leather shoes.
At this point the gum turned clever,
vigorous. A wind picked up as Literature
dropped the gum's chosen shoe sole and while
Literature turned away the gum launched into
the air and plastered itself into another plot not
far in front of Literature.
The gum, after much concealed effort,
finagled to attach itself to the sole of Literature's
boot, and until present day it gave platform to
the worst combinations of letters it could while
the fabric of Literature's boots withered away
and was relegated to memory.

67
 This book is
dedicated to the
memory of Todd
Christian Roesing
(1987­2005),
Wayne Daniel
Turcotte (1986­
2010), imprisoned
friends and loved
ones, and the rest of
the lost.

68
 P. H. Madore
i s the founder of nonpress and
disproductions generally. He has been
published over 200 times under this
and other names. He wishes mostly to
command the respect he has earned.

phmadore.com

69
inscription