Update & Poems


The Thinplace is now complete, officially.  After six rounds of editing and revisions, working with notes and suggestions from agents, a New York Times best selling author and my beta readers, the novel is done.  I have been querying it out to literary agents, so far two agents have requested the full manuscript for their consideration; hoping that goes well.

I have been adding to my novel in progress, FEAR.  Had about 20,000 words and decided to rework the beginning of the story; novels have to grab the readers quick now-a-days.  The story is churning along nicely.  As much as I enjoyed writing The Thinplace, and as happy as I am with how the novel turned out, it is nice to work on a new project; fresh ideas, settings and scenes to get lost in.

Here are a couple of my favorite poems; oldies but goodies. 


An Alcoholics View of Moderation

The architects of genocide never understood the laws of sarcasm in grade school so they filled empty corners and sat against brick walls plotting against the world.

The foolish girls chew gum and babble nonsense to one another, their words only bouncing and bouncing off each other; dressed to copy Barbie and just as heartless.

Our lives are priceless and curiosity is imbued in our humanity, knocking with our consciousness and probing for discovery.

But we keep ourselves busy with pride and follow protocol for the sake of protocol.  We chase happy apples to dead ends then draw borders claiming God’s creation for the sake of order and in doing so lose order; because when man is given authority he corrupts and abuses, but when man is given responsibility he serves.

My elderly neighbor walked his springy puppy this morning and the imagery of opposites flooded my imagination and I couldn't rub two pennies together to make any sense of it.

The sky opens up and we fall on our knees, always thinking the long arm of the law could never reach us.  The insane anticipate the apocalypse unable, or unwilling, to fear God’s wrath:

and the springy puppy just keeps bouncing; completely content with sunshine and green grass. 

But what man has done with choice rippled generations into misconceptions and depressions.  Busy, busy bees stuck in a honeycomb cluster filled with white noise and timecards, with gasoline and politics and demonocracy.  Marriages for the sake of feeling and divorce for the sake of money leave gunpowder trails to packed prisons in an alcoholic’s view of moderation.


Test Running a New Routine

We are expected to expect three things in life;
Death, taxes, and concrete cracking.

And I don’t know what my generation’s done with contextual setting or historical lenses, but we sure as hell can’t seem to find them.

The ignorant need a crutch to lean on and the arrogant need a crutch to point to, both perpetuating a downward cycle of stereotypes while they try to pick themselves up by the handle of the bucket they stand in.

Only the guilty need feel guilty; since the lights which twinkle over the vile streets of Vegas keep the economy rolling; 

We are expected to expect three things in life;
The sun rising, the sun setting, and cut-throat community.

Church walls designed and lunettes carved to welcome are counter-acted by the clicks inside, which only whisper and one-word answer the wounded and truly needy who summoned and scrounged and salvaged the small pieces of hope and optimism they had left on the floor of their tired soul that sought to prove the fog of what was inside wrong.

A disease of commercialism pulling the meat from my bones, like a knife fight in a phone booth we are the fire-eaters; killing by day and baptizing by night. 

Because a cycle is a circle and a rose window is a glass ceiling, stopping to think has become a backup plan to pointing the blame;

We are expected to expect three things in life;
The truth will always be doubted, the truth will always be challenged, and hospital elevator rides will always be the longest in the world.  


Thanks for reading.
Stay alive,

-M.P. Callender