MONOPOLE

It has been too long since I’ve written something without a purpose. I so often used to write just to write, for the joy of it...

Monopole is a time-travel mystery novel about a world-famous physicist and engineer from the 1950s who, after creating what is arguably the most revolutionary technology history, wakes from a coma completely crippled and with severe amnesia. In short order, the hero regains his capacities and realizes that the future world in which he now finds himself is the result of that technology, which he invented 100 years ago, when he was the Elon Musk of his time. It’s a classic fish

one couldn’t count on fingers and toes the things that help the poet disappear it’s the will of a man that keeps him walking not the shoes on his feet or the feet in his shoes though both are helpful it’s just one catastrophe after another with you, isn’t it? (one must be willing to let it all get rearranged) poets, plights, people, and playing cards virtue is relative to the medium sense the same as the jar it holds counterintuition can often be the safest practice because y

How does one exist in anything less than the forty-two minutes it takes until the laundry’s done? By one, of course, I mean myself and any of the useless thoughts I’m able to squeeze through the annals of my brain. It seems to me that the process of thought and expression is a little like consuming food and shitting it out: Somewhere in between something gets digested. What are these thoughts digesting in my brain? Are they the vitamins and minerals necessary to conjure a use

With reason enough, I’ve been thinking over writing more and more…as of late. Beyond my current state of endeavors and affairs, I guess the best I can do to attempt to ascertain from whence these thoughts derive (as it were) is to attribute them, at least in part, to my recent encounters with Salinger’s Seymour an Introduction and Hemingway’s On Writing. I guess the best one can do is to wrap oneself in it as much as if it were the only thing preventing an endless fall into t

The poet is a patient man. He has to be. You see, the poet spends all his days trying to pick the perfect thing to say and, moreover, trying to put it the perfect way; yet, even after he’s long gone and dead, the poet tarries on. He waits many generations, scores if not hundreds of years, until what he says and how he says it burn into the soul of man. Only then will he have achieved his fulfillment, but for it, he will have had to have been patient, which is why the poet is

What does one say when one sits down to write? He could speak of the sound of somebody outside wheeling the big plastic garbage can to the curb, or cars going down the road, or planes across the sky, or of his incandescent thoughts dancing through his skull. He could speak of everything wrong or of everything right. He could speak his mind or pretend to speak somebody else’s. He could piss and moan—and he undoubtedly will—but of all the things one could say when one sits down

From the award-winning short story A Vain and Terrible Thing, or Therapy, or Mr. Mitchell’s Cock Charade. I wake this morning to a dream of empty hallways, vast silent bedrooms. I walk past a window and there seems to be a dark brown dust blowing all over everything, covering all of it. I don’t think much of it, so I wander more about the apartment. I walk past the large mirror in my bedroom, only to find two reflections of myself. The one on the left is me in my flourishing