Monday, January 16, 2017

Not Random

So. We watch what was done around and within my reality, past, past, present: Mer-ry Christmas!

Ahw. Ya shouldn’t have!

I mean, really, you shouldn’t have.

And in the end of that night-light flicker-test… Tossed and the rind of the banana, apple, orange, lemon? peel of my re-scheduled demise.

Say, who’s flipping whom?

You wanna throw that fire energy away,

Or siphon it off like a sippy straw for angels?

Nah. I’ll stick with my blue diamond silver steel lined spine, if you don’t mind.

N.B.: Dr. Seuss was not Dr. Roberts, unless you consider chemo for diabetes to be a good solution for spare ribs รก la … duck?


My bad


Sunday, January 15, 2017

Planned Publications for David Lawrence

22 Stories: Falling Upward

22 Stories: POV

Tav: Future Perfect

Cabal: Climbing the Tree

Friday, January 13, 2017

A Momentary Meditation

When the young woman awakens, she hears a voice, telling her, “It was just a dream. Only a dream.”
And it sounds like, feels like, the voice of Christ, maybe.
And she thinks to herself how happy she is to be safe, for now, in an evil world.
And she thinks again.
But what if?
And it is the voice of another, asking, “What about others… including oneself?”
Well, for some, Limbo never truly lifts.
For there are people in places where, even if the veil is raised, the truth is still very, very frightening… and very, very real.
What to do?
Pray with her congregation to hold the Devil at bay?
Or sink in search of some place appropriately appropriated as a viable line of…

We are not alone.
We are never alone.
And, yet…

Oh, God. Yet.

Good (K)night

You know, just speaking personally, if I were Xander, looking at Willow just after she almost destroyed everything, I’d remind myself that I’m neither Xander, nor the actor who played Xander, nor anyone else besides Dave, who really liked the Buffy series a lot because it touched my heart (st(r)oked my soul?), made me scared sometimes, and always managed somehow to remind me that true friends and true allies are the same damn thing, and that best friends, well, I’m just going to weep inside a bit and pray for those I care about.

Thursday, January 12, 2017


“You really shouldn’t,” said the voice.

Derrick pulled back his hand.

Something tugged at the back of his mind. It felt warm yet commanding. Like a fatherly presence, stern yet loving.

When Derrick turned around, he saw no one there, only the empty street lined with quiet houses. The chill air made him hug his shoulders, and he remained that way, his back turned to the mailbox. He still held the letter.

Unstamped, it was sealed with a distorted circle of red wax and had a name scribbled in black ink on the other side. “Constance.” Inside, the letter felt unnaturally heavy.

“Why not?” He silently mouthed the words in the cold night air. Looking up, he saw nothing. The stars were muted behind a heavy cloud layer. The nearby street lamp shone down like a stage light.

“You do not want this.”

Derrick looked down at his feet. He felt the truth of this. Although he remembered the fevered pace of his pen when writing the letter, although he remembered the yearning inside his heart at the time, his memory of the act now felt alien. He had only thought he wanted to reconnect with Constance. He had only thought the time they had spent together going on five months now had meant something more than a joke.

He knew better now. The voice told him so, and he knew it was true.

“But you’re going to deliver it anyway.”

He knew this was true, too, and when he walked away from the street side mailbox the letter was no longer in his hand.

Heavy Movies (My Kinda Thang)



Suicide Squad (2016).





Disappointingly reminiscent of:

Ghost Busters (1984)

The Matrix Trilogy (1999 & 2003)


Total Recall (2012)

A Native American Fantasy (STS)

The squaw had been so carefully selected. Or so said the Navajo, whether or not he was Hopi, Mojave, or something else. Still, this was the Navajo’s report. She was, finally, Sioux. Carried out of the jungle swamps of the south. The Navajo said he heard the echoes of her dreams, which contained the echoes of a dark, dark dance. A dance of which few dared speak. Of black women marionetted by the Queen of England (perhaps), forced through (willing) rage to tumble-stomp first their feet, ankles and shins - off. Black blood, mud and moss. And, when they were nothing but fallen husks of ripe flesh exposed below their knees, the filet, the feast, began.

So, when this nameless squaw was granted release, she was firmly told (forced) to search through the corn fields for one perfect ear of corn, speckled with at least three colors, according to the individually arranged kernels. She searched from some indeterminate point in time after high noon until just before twilight. When she found the ear of corn she was searching for, she knew it by the echoed sounds of cackling screams, the spiritual anointing stolen from the ritual in the swamp-lands to the east. This “perfect” ear of corn lay in its husk on the ground: Sod, loam, indeterminate. So, after this nameless squaw carried this nameless un-shucked ear of corn through the throngs of the warriors of every tribe, and given respite only through the cooling spirit-breath of the Navajo, she lay her offering before the “Cherokee Chief”, who then raped her on screen.

Tuesday, January 10, 2017

Testing and Hoping...

Well, since I seem to have lost access to my web-presence (having lost all access to both infinitedot @ yahoo . com and dclawrence650 @ gmail . com), I'm kicking off three new blogs.

This one: David Lawrence (author)

And the following two other blogs: