Steve and I will be getting together come Sunday to get my website put together.  Steve is talented in the realms of flash animation and web affects, so I’m excited at what we’ll end up with.  The basic concept is a sort of spectral tree full of ravens and each raven is a different story or different link to another part of the website.  Below are some concept notes I jotted down very quickly…


-There is a tree at the edge of dreams and every branch has a raven and every raven tells a tale.

-A tree grows at the edge of dreams and it bares a thousand and one branches and in every branch roosts a raven and every raven tells a tale.

-There grows a spectral tree at the edge of dreams.  It lost all its leaves in the long ago – its branches now leaved with ravens.

-The ravens feast on the dead feed on meat and memories in the enterprise of plundering corpses and now ghosts swim in their feathers and in every feather there is a story for anyone with the courage to pluck the quill.

-There grows a black tree on the edge of dreams and all its leaves fell in the ever-Fall – it’s branches all bare, but it will not die.

-There grows a black tree on the edge of dreams.  It’s branches blow bare on oneiromantic winds, but it will not die – its black roots feed on those below.

-There grows a black tree on the edge of dreams, its leaves all ash, its branches all bare, but it will not die – it grows in the grave soil past Ever-After, black-fang roots feeding on the heroes buried below, toiling in a congress of bones, feeding meals of marrow up and up – and black bark encapsulates all the rhymes and prose trapped in the memory of a millennia of rings, and the black spiral swirls up and up – and stretches into a thousand-and-one black branches that hiss a cacophony-chorus of forgotten mythos in oneiromantic winds – and every black branch bares a raven – and every roosting raven tells a tale.

And lastly, here’s a poem I wrote the other day:



The faithful cried because the evil prophecy had come to pass

and the sound of their generation was a self-indulgent keen,

the bellowing of bad karaoke singers who became demigods

in the flickering, pixilated eye of the babbling Cyclops.

And the faithful cried at the sound

of the demidgods’ voice-box-masturbation.

And the faithful prayed for the return of soul

and the second coming of Buddy Holly.

And the faithful prayed to all the saints.

To Saint Hendrix.

To Saint Morrison.

To Saint Lennon.

To the Holy Order of Zeppelin.

To the Knights of the Stones.

To the monks of the Brothers Blue.

To all of the angels

who now stood on the stairway,

holding their hands to their ears,

leaving their harp strings