As mentioned elsewhere in this site, I am an author with a humble few publications under my belt, writings which I (eventually) intend to make accessible from this website as well. I do, however, also want a home for writing that, for whatever reason, has found a hard time getting into a publisher. There's no shortage of things I've written that I'd love to share, but will likely never have an "official" home. However, there's something of a tightrope to be walked here: Most literary journals request right of first publication, meaning that if I have a piece of writing submitted here, I can no longer send it elsewhere without seriously jeopardizing a journal's trust in me as writer.

As such, if writing appears here, it is because I've become convinced that, despite whatever fondnesss I have for it, its chance at publication is doomed. Let me be clear: I don't believe these writings are always bad. While there will almost certainly be some real stinkers I post here for whatever reason, there will also be some idiosyncratic writing here as well, which I've found difficulty finding a home for simply because I've yet to find journals which they match in terms of taste. While this is a sad fate, nearly every writer has pieces of this sort.

In short, this place is a graveyard. No one decorates the graves of those they didn't love.

-Gus
3/31/2026.

Light from the refrigerator superimposed

over the moon's.

Peacock feathers,

arranged in a half-hearted bouquet,

near audible in their sighing.

 

A living room without people,

and all the couches unoccupied.

Ghosts born of unfilled purpose.

 

In the dark, what do we believe in

so much as the floorboards,

hands feeling along the walls?

 

The Greeks prayed to the sky

for the gods of their lives,

and poured to the soil

for the gods of what’s left over.

 

The finish has all but disappeared.

The pitcher shakes in my hand

and so much spills over.

 

Standing weary,

let’s say three AM.

The air too,

heavy as a millstone.