Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you. — Marsha Norman

What does that even mean!?
Why, that is very kind of my soul, I understand it takes much effort to write a book, and apparently a movie is being simultaneously shot & previewed for my slumber-filled eyes only. I love my soul, first off, for its wonderful humor. I have chuckled many a night. My soul started out some of the early chapters of this book as a horror story. It’s an enthusiast like that. Nonetheless, I crawled out of the web of spiders, buggies, giants, evil alien mothers etc. These days I do enjoy the book my soul writes for me. Most nights my soul likes certain genres: action/thriller, mystery, and annoying comedy. My dreams are fucking wacko to say the least. Anyways, I can’t help but feeling a bit like a thief, because a lot of my dreams have been inspiration for both my writing and art. Am I the plagiarist of my soul?
Find out more next week
the exciting adventures of “WTF dreamy”




(the evening wore on)
familiar faces,
all around

looked upon a placid lake last night
in mind’s eye
third dream of (the evening)

laid down among the cozy graves
to rest.

Bright round of faces
flash back in my mind
I watched my pink lips smile in the rear view mirror.

(this appears to be my 9oth post eva, I was awarded this lovely quote:
Dreams are illustrations from the book your soul is writing about you. — Marsha Norman

speeding boys

new shit 2.0

Doesn’t matter what
you’ll stab anyone in the gut
you’ll stab your friends in the backs
just to get your red stash
take the cash, don’t look back
don’t look away, like a car accident
two teenage boys speeding down the highway
testosterone’s all the rage, and literature is just another snack for the fire’s hungry light.

Doesn’t matter what
we’ll stab anyone in the back
we’ve all lost all our friends
to the games we play, when we talk about souls
we cast out our lines, take out our guns
spread the honey, and don’t expect to come back home again
empty handed.

All’s the rage, war, love, peace, drug’s the game
land in the sand, strike a match
with all the kids in the land, jump off a bridge
watch first the water coming to meet the eager hands
watch the sunset cast gold over your eyes
dig your hands deep into my treasure
take it all, I don’t mind.

I think I’ll leave town for a while
drive around, think about wasting time
I think I’ll take a long drive, turn off my brain
let my heart take the wheel, lose all my friends
in the deal, that’s life.

This is how we shake hands, this is how we say goodbye.

this is a poem for a really long story I’m writing,
where a lot of the main character’s main thoughts/actions could be written in poetry…
so ENJOY> lukewater.

so screwed

Song for Three Soldiers (1940)
Stephen Vincent Benét

Oh, where are you coming from, soldier, fine soldier,
In your dandy new uniform, all spick and span,
With your helmeted head and the gun on your shoulder,
Where are you coming from, gallant young man?

I come from the war that was yesterday’s trouble,
I come with the bullet still blunt in my breast;
Though long was the battle and bitter the struggle,
Yet I fought with the bravest, I fought with the best.

Oh, where are you coming from, soldier, tall, soldier,
With ray-gun and sun-bomb and everything new,
And a face that might well have been carved from a boulder,
Where are you coming from, now tell me true!

My harness is novel, my uniform other
Than any gay uniform people have seen,
Yet I am your future and I am your brother
And I am the battle that has not yet been.

Oh, where are you coming from, soldier, gaunt soldier,
With weapons beyond any reach of my mind,
With weapons so deadly the world must grow older
And die in its tracks, if it does not turn kind?

Stand out of my way and be silent before me!
For none shall come after me, foeman or friend,
Since the seed of your seed called me out to employ me,
And that was the longest, and that was the end.

I came upon this poem while watching a movie called The War Game on netflix. It is a haunting documentary-style movie, done in 1965…where it covers ‘what if’ Britain was caught in nuclear war. It is very graphic…and frightening, because it actually has happened to people in the past, and could easily happen again. Nuclear war is such a plausible event these days, and there is no way to prevent the future…I think I’ll become a nomad, go off and camp for a decade or so, play music and dance naked around a fire, howling to the full moon…yeah. That will surely prevent nuclear war.

The poem is really lovely…and interesting, how it’s tone is so light and hearty, but I feel this dark, deathly underlying theme. War is never very pretty…yet I was looking for creative writing prompts the other night. One was: choose a dark theme, such as war, disease, etc., write a story that brings out it’s good aspects. War allowed women in this country more freedom. The civil war liberated slaves… and our country’s first war, the revolution, allowed us to become more than just an occupied territory.

The story of the little men fighting back, the underdog winning. What have we become? Addicted, greedy, starving on a diet of hamburgers and drugs.

Glass half empty ^

But this world isn’t so terrible. We still have love, and the warmth of the sun. White milk from cows in green fields. I like theatrical violence, bright red blood, cherry blossom, ice. But I don’t like real violence very much…I don’t like suffering, and I would never find pleasure in hurting someone unless they deserved it.

Spiders are just victims of victimless crimes. How could we ever know whether one is deserving of pain? All’s fair in love and war, in peace.



she held her finger down on the delete
like flick of lighter
sharp rasp, thumb print marked
is this all I can think about?
songs played across the radio
sound waves passing across my brain, bitter sweet
when the smoke fills up the room,
tears brimming my dark eyes
I don’t mind, losing myself to all of this
the substance, the people like water flowing under a bridge
we can’t change their behavior, can’t take back our failures,
mistakes me for a friend in the crowd,
strangers everywhere, looking into one another
searching souls, sifting through lost children
but don’t worry, I’ve handled it, the world
—I’m not afraid of death, not even uselessness
so I’m gone, before I know it
blink out
through to the end of the century.

some of my private musings

Peace out.

the word of the day is—

I—saw a film the other night.

violence, people seem O.K with it

I do not understand.


I am not too young, and I am not very old at all.

I look around myself, see my world, eyes open

I admit, I separate myself from most of it, all the people

but I notice things, I do.


We’re all still growing up

some a lot faster than others.

growing up…pulled towards the sky

ascending stairs, we are drawn, perhaps.


Something about fear the other night

people were afraid of death mostly,

losing loved ones, everything they cared about.

I’ve always been afraid of suddenly realizing


nothing is real after all.


the egg blue sky out my open window

red leaves shedding from solemn oak trees

ready to shed, my old guise.


inhale, you’re halfway there

you don’t know if you’ll be stopped dead in your tracks tomorrow—

you never know, do you?






the warning signs


Share? Something my friend posted earlier on facebook…

I thought it spoke very well for itself. xD

some notes.

In my psychology class we learned about how
artists, scientists, and scholars, and creative thinkers
are a dangerous threat to a dominant government
and the ultimate savior for the people
we bring liberation, humanity, rationality, beauty
we do not entertain the dumb masses
we enlighten and inspire the willing few
brave enough to experiment with life, and ask, “Why?”
In a period without war, art is free to morph, fly away
We are in that period, I suppose
we are inspired, fighting against the government
against our own armed citizens…
ready to take down and mount.
I know one thing is certain,
artists bring this human world closer to beauty.
We revert our broken ways back into nature
quick switch, inside out like a cotton shirt.
Save the artists,
save the poor, dying people
we’ve become a land of empty faces
I’m not sure what side I stand on
but I feel the music waves vibrate through
the air, chill but fresh.
I go once a week to absorb the knowledge of the salty ocean
a great ocean wave, sun as round as yellow
I listen to their lips moving, the sounds that come out
longing to be heard, begging to be understood
I kissed those lips gently, then pulled away.
Art has a heart of it’s own,
and it’s not a crime,
or it’s a crime of passion.
art saves…I guess it saves me.

x -lukewater