Spiffy Space-Cadets entering the Final Fall of the Zeroes

Rocketing and rocking on with life in Portland Oregon my current writing projects burn with blaring clouds of flame and smoke blasting onto the pad. At the moment I'm working on a press-release for my boy Ansel, for his band, wait for it... Ansel. This kid is a contender I tell ya, living on the waterfront so to speak in West LA at the moment. Check them out at www.bandcamp.com/ansel . Beyond this I've just begun a new novel, "White Balls and Kina'ta'An" the tentative title, a romantic drama of sorts juxtaposing the rise and fall of a relationship with the economy of the Zeroes while expressing the reality of cross-cultural relationships in contemporary American culture, in this instance between a Native Son (American born) and 2nd generation Filipina. The short story "A Sentimental Story about Family" is done, exploring the transitive and at times surrogate-like nature of family set against a decadent back-drop of a Portland OR drug-scene, email me and I will send you a copy, as well as "Panic Switch", a sort of criminal drama, and I'm working on a religious satirical allegory titled "Adam" exploring the origins of Adam, a creature of the visionarium nestled within the seventh belt of the thirteenth planet from the darkness. On the physical front I've breached five miles and am nearing the kick-flip, it's only a matter of my front foot placement man, front foot placement mastery, and I'm golden. The weather in the Northwest is a watered down iteration of the Northeast, although I must admit the kindling leaves and fall foliage is a welcome divergence from the evergreenery of SoCal. As the trees come alight in this final year of the Zeroes savor the burn and prepare for lift-off.

the Bi-Week Networking Endeavor

I've been in this here city of Portland for a period of five weeks, however, have been chilling within the Alberta Arts District for two. This sector of the city is to Portland as the Meat-Packing district is to NYC. And so, having posted on Craigslist in the strictly plutonic section that I was interested in watching "Weeds" with someone, I met Morgan, through whom I met Jason, through whom I met Micquael. This particular lady is a social nexus, having introduced me to Dusty, a southern boy with the charm to match dressed in flannel, Baisa, Caleb, Shyanna, Chrissy and Lex, Jason dos, the Cajun bartender Brandy, Mantas, a gentleman from Lithuania not unlike my paternal Grandmother with nice art skills, and Shah, a stylish hair sylist with panache, the latter two with whom I've become boys through a few hyper-silly nights of adventure, although Mantas has since moved to Seattle. Shah has lifted me out of the virtual world into the realness of friends, and I've crashed with his hospitable self since having signed the lease on my pad, suite-mating with Drew, an aspiring painter and likewise inquisitive mind that no doubt will inspire mutual creativity. The coming end of the final year of the Zeroes is looking up,and I've no problem with getting higher. Rock and Roll
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A La Calle - Ahora at least mehn...

Two weeks into the Portland experiment and my hypothesis of awesomeness continues. No longer crashing with my bro Ryan's ex girl, I sit beneath the stars upon a reclined chair of finished oak at Guy and Jen's house, a couple met online through couchsurfing.com, a community of wanderers using karma to keep one another's trips through this world flowing. Their dog's name, a wiry Wishbone-esque doggy dog, is "Grr". Word. To my right rests a garden bristling with staked and vined tomatoes as upright comrades at attention beside other herbs cultivated, to the left my wet, perhaps about dry, clothes hang upon lines similar to the rather retro clothes-line rack curiously in the attic of my Father's childhood house and former Worcester crash pad, as a result of an earlier laundry situation. A few feet farther still three chickens roost, awaiting the dawn, prepared to produce breakfast. In Portland it is legal to have up to three chickens on a private residence without a permit. Conscious of green, I release a breath ignite and inhale; it stimulates. Appreciating the stars I laugh, "I hadn't ever thought to consider that it was space that was moving"; a line I roughly recall from the new Star Trek flick, enjoyable; and recognize that while progressing within, it is at times necessary to sit back, chillax, and let the movement go on without. Rock and Roll MJW

A Much Shorter Story

"I'm a straight arrow..." "Really...?" she says. "...rather, I'm a crooked arrow with a straight shot." "Much better..." she says, stroking a lick of the lengthy blonde and mohagony fire of hair ablaze, alighting amber eyes, "...now I'm not disappointed in you."

A Swap of Consideration


His post was published in the artists section of the craigslist community, seeking a fellow writer within which to trade feedback, his work a scripted tale of a bedeviled bounty killer, hers a novella regarding emerging bisexuality. They exchange emails and quips, personalities seeming to click through the keys. Meeting in person, trading hard-copies, they share a joint. She is El-Salvadoran, late-twenties, coffee-tone lending a contemporary flavor to her 1950’s pin-up figure, lashes complemented by fully inviting lips. The ash burning halfway, there’s space between them, the joint extinguished, she sits nestled beneath his arm, head resting against his chest as she exhales the last gust of smoke.
“Fuck… I hate to say it, but I need to get to class… we’ll meet soon, see how the reading is coming.”
Deep brown glimmers with mutual reluctance as his green stare fades. Rising, shouldering a suede messenger bag, he takes her hand tenderly, helping her up.
“I’m busy until Friday, but I’ll call you, I’m excited to get started.” She says.
“No doubt on that. I’ll show you out.”
He does, holding doors, impressing her with quite unfamiliar expressions of gentlemanly behavior, as chivalry is oft dead, particularly considering the girl’s line of work.

Working on a piece his phone rings, recognizing the number, sensing an energy, answering.
“What up Kaera.”
“Hey You.”
She’s had a fight with her open-relationship boyfriend. Fucking strangers is acceptable. Fucking best-friends apparently is not. Obviously stressed, he offers a session to lift her spirits should it be desired. It is. She talks. He listens. They stop. They smile.
Moving in, they share the first embrace, tongues meeting, experiencing, adapting, flowing. Passion sparked, she mounts him, gyrating in a practiced professional rhythm. Pulling off his shirt, scratching down abdominals, red nails flutter as she unbuttons his jeans, likewise disrobed, foreplayed.
Slipping into intimacy they fade seamlessly between intense lust and an almost romantic synergy, their flows having synced powerfully.
Time having passed and the crescendo orchestrated they appreciate a moment in passing admiration. She bites her lip, he licks his.
Rising, he assists in clasping her black lingerie, watching admiringly as she slides on her pants, hopping with effort to slip them on. I pull up my jeans, zipping, buttoning, tightening the belt and clasping it. She helps him slip on his t-shirt and he does the same.

Strolling arm-in-arm outside the warm afternoon sun strikes their flesh, a cool breeze skittering past, rustling the trumpeting blossoms along the drive. She perks up onto her tippy-toes, sharing a last kiss, her lips remaining against his for the length of an indulgent blink. Stepping down she wraps herself around his midsection, cheek nestling against chest, his muscles first tensing, releasing as he feels the realness of her embrace, returning. Pressing hard, pulling reluctantly away, remaining in one another’s arms for a beat, bittersweet vibes exchanged through a gaze, they’ve come together in parting.