Sorry for being incommunicado for a whole week. I was on the other side of the moon without a QEB. I’m working on the storyline of Part 6. It is intriguing as it unfolds in front of my frontal lobes but each twist and turn is executed in its own pace, in its own obscure timeline, but while I’m working on it (in Real Time), I’d like to talk about some other things too:

I just saw that Amazon has made my sci-fi novel, “Why is Unit 142857 Sad? or the Tin Man’s Heart”, searchable inside so that everyone can have a look-see to let them decide whether it’s worth forking over $18.95 for the chance to read a truly challenging and original book. As far as I understand, it will eventually be Kindlized but why wait?

Incidentally, my poetry, parables, and journals, “The Uncollected Works”, has been searchable on Amazon for some time, so have yourselves a gander at that. They are not your grandmother’s book of poems by any stretch of the imagination. They are pretty much a tour of the lanes of my memory.

I will try my best to post a new entry on my blog at least once a week, probably Friday or Saturday, if you want to check back from time to time, but are afraid to subscribe to my blog (or follow it) for fear that I might charge you or spam you or something else I’d never think of doing.

In the meantime, here’s some Raw Material to pluck your inner chords and that will probably find its way into future poems:

  • Human being is what folks do when they are being human.
  • There is a fear that flows through us like spilt blood from the stone cold heart of Jerusalem.
  • How can one ever hope to fill such emptiness with only more emptiness?
  • Sometimes I feel lost like / a snowflake in a sandstorm / like a whisper in a mushroom cloud / like a prayer in a galaxy
  • All men are islands and all writing is a note stuffed in a bottle cast into the waves.
  • Suddenly his trembling hands / are my trembling hands./ Slowly we become nothing / but whispers around an open grave.

Here’s a poem I wrote last night:


Ostensibly it was about the child

Or was it the old man?

Something he said at the time

I wish I could remember

Not that it makes any difference now

How many years has it been?

Something about specific ambiguities

Or was it static ambiguities

Like the San Francisco fog

Moving in off the bay toward the city

And standing there thick and corpulent

For hours until the sun climbs

High enough in the sky to burn it off.

What did he mean by that?

He had a knack for saying things like that.

I think he said them not for the meaning

But for the sounds of the words.

He once said words were not something

Hollow you could look through to see

The true meaning of a thing.

He said one word could never mean another word

Just like one snowflake could never

Mean another snowflake or a butterfly.


Mike Stone, Ra’anana Israel


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Filed under about writing, Essays, Dilemmas, & Philosophy, Journals, Poetry, Prose, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Stories and Novels

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