I have not updated my blog in quite some time. I was busy finishing my first book, working on a musical, and handling many personal (mis)adventures. However, I plan to get active on here once again with poetry, music, and other smaller pieces. In the meantime, you can follow my newest creative project on Instagram. It’s called Rusty Toybox (@rustytoybox), and if you enjoy my more unhinged material, then it’s probably for you. Anyways, I am looking forward to reconnecting with a lot of you in the near future (if you’re all still on this platform.)
Author reading an excerpt of his personal narrative at the 2014 WALL Literary Journal public reading.
I will be handing out tricks and treats at this one.
I invented time travel for one purpose and one purpose only: to murder Jackson Pollock.
When that glorified finger-painter hit the scene, he opened the door for every talentless dribbler to proclaim, “I’m an artist, man!” The effects of his work would be long-term and nefarious, indeed: technical skill, diligence, and honing one’s craft would become largely irrelevant as malformed clusterfucks of color gained prominence. It was nothing personal against Jackson, though: how was he to know that his drunken masturbatory experimentation would forever taint art as we know it? No, it was nothing personal; the fucker just needed to be stopped.
I knew I had to get to Pollock before LIFE did that infamous spread, in which some philistine journalist asked the rhetorical question, “Is he the greatest living artist in the United States?” Fucking LIFE, man. I couldn’t allow this to happen: I had to make sure he wasn’t living period. But I didn’t want to deprive the guy of his entire life. I’m not a savage, after all, and I wasn’t about to go back in time and off his pregnant mom or strangle him in his stroller or anything like that. I just needed to get to him before his silly artistic ambitions took hold.
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