‘Oil’ by Walker Storz


N___ was unsure if this was a dream or a video game.  There were surefire ways to tell, but he had forgotten them.  It’s all about targets, navigation, safe exits.  Something about grounding should tell you.

All he knew was that he was evidently in a shitty neighborhood in Chicago, and with a feeling of disgust cloaking him, as if he was soiled with something that would never come off.  The houses here were old townhouses, many boarded up.  There was a feeling of sharpness in the air–not just from the cold, but a certain old-country lilt.  It felt like an easter mural in an Orthodox church–bright primary colors and ethereal song, lurking behind the drab exterior reality.

But things would dissolve and rework periodically, into other scenes, only the refrain of breathing remaining constant.

I know I’m in danger.  She told me what he did to her.  He probably knows I know, he probably beat it out of her.

That feeling of soiling was intensifying.  When he thought of Sasha’s father there was a layer of oily dark residue surrounding him–sin, yes, but not the banal kind.  What he had done to her was unmentionable.  And it wasn’t only done to her.  N___ wanted to help, but was scared.  Sasha’s father was a big man, and she had implied that he had criminal friends–low level, perhaps, but still thuggish men who would take his skinny, pale body and beat it until the face was blurred and impressionistic.

Both dreams and video-games would dissolve sometimes into a haze of phosphenes.  The cathode ray TV was a lot similar.  Stations broadcasting from anywhere, picked up from the ether, signal and noise always blurred.

With a hum and rearrangement of dots and pixels, the station changed again.  Now N___ was running through backyards, jumping fences.  He didn’t remember the last 12 hours with great clarity but had a sinking feeling that Sasha’s dad had figured out how much he knew, that he had let something slip.

Continue reading “‘Oil’ by Walker Storz”

Three Poems by Walker Storz



To help the
descendant of
madness who
does and does
not need your
who is
“how can one
be both
too near
and too far
and be repulsed
and attracted at
the same time”
Pierce the
clammy veil,
go to the
Garden, start
there is sin
like a sickness,
deep, dig
deep, eat the
wretched grass,
eat the
dirt, a
small amount
of a
poison is
poison, a
large amount
is a


Then start
anew, because
you cannot
bear to see
her face
again with
between you,
tear the
But these
things cannot
be done
heart like
marble. If
you fail,
you remain.
Your heart
was never
pure or
enough, you
sinner, you

Continue reading “Three Poems by Walker Storz”

‘Sonata 4 a Dying Loser’ by Walker Storz


This afternoon, I passed by a man on a ladder who was working on the box store, cutting the rock with a machine.  The rock was screaming, splitting the air while it was being split–it sounded like grey-stacked neurons crying out of their own dryness.  My head was full of that same dryness and I couldn’t sleep.  I was contemplating suicide for reasons far more pragmatic than I had ever hoped.  I would rather exit than die of this thirst.  I couldn’t breathe, and my head was full of this suffocation–it permeated my entire body and consciousness.

My mind has become a wet, ragged cloth.  Time is power I can’t access.  I am a slow drowner.  I keep lagging–hope always comes to a different time zone.  Remember that time the USPS sent you a love letter I wrote before I died, three years late?  We have had quite a journey.  I remember when I died and was denied entry to my own funeral, it was because I had forgot my glasses.

A stratocaster is like an ak-47, an appropriate technology.  The way she smiles creates a glow–synthesized like had to be–no angel, subterranean, constant, chthonic.  It’s good the way rubber is good.  I read everything wrong and if you take this pill you can come into this other space.


The “art world” is a paper tiger.  The art world is made up of bodies, some lithe, some fat, brains, with wiring amenities and such.  The bodies can make things or go in things.  They are in buildings.  We can tear down these buildings.  It’s about unleashing something on the world that comes from the neglected mother.  Every night that you don’t sleep, fully, this barrier is eroded.  The veil becomes thinner, the way technology prepares us for this by means of desensitization, is just making our heads naked and stripped raw for a little bit, hearts raw and overworked for a little bit, only to fall into the dreams waiting in the center of the earth, to fall and have it be a good and a soft fall and have it work and replenish the brain’s thirst for sleep.  If that gap were ever sealed, the gods of sleep (all kinds, nymphs, demons, larger and more contemporary ones) would unleash themselves on the waking world.  People will spasm in smaller circles.   People will remember less, and people will do things that they don’t understand why they are doing.  They will be in one of the unhappy stratas that occurs when one breaks down the natural territories of dreams and sleep.  They will be anxious but tired, always coming or going.  And not remembering! And not remembering!

The sleeper must return to his mother once every cycle.  The cycles are based on organic, low rhythms.  This particular cycle, this particular sleeper is returning to the bowels of the green earth, the soft caves.     He will awaken at an appropriate time, that is to say, when his body wakes.

See another sleeper, Artemis this time, crystallized and suspended in a forest.  To glance at her is a sin, so to protect the public, the ministry has covered Artemis’ face with a sleep mask.  Visitors to the clearing are still exposed to danger, but they will or have signed liability releases.

Everything is moving so fast, my brain is buzzing acerbically, on a high frequency. I’m at the mall and they won’t let me out, I’m lost and every time I go down a level someone asks me what top they look best in, or where the nearest bathroom is.  A woman is hanging from the girders of the dome in the middle of the mall, when I look at her face closely to try and identify her, it starts to pixellate.  Underneath the mall is a parking garage, and I know the last sleeper is under the concrete on the lowest level.  Things move so fast, dissolve and ossify at record speed, but this sleeper is on another timescale.  The rumblings happen once every two centuries.  This sleeper will awaken, but I have to get to it first.  I have become aware that I’m in a dream and I’m racing to the bottom of the parking garage as if it’s a funnel.  I have a gun.  About half the times that I have a gun in my dream it’s a handgun and I have an accident with it or try and kill myself or am worried about killing myself with it, and the other half it’s an ar-15 variant that has plastic parts that break or jams.  But this is different.  This feels beatific, as if the gun was a gift, from an entity that was made out of violent yellow love and knew that love wasn’t passivity.  Love can be wrenching.  It’s a shotgun, and I point it at a car and shoot out the back windshield–I mean I’m in a dream, right?  I get to do stuff like this and start over, I think. The alarm goes off, however, and I know I just squandered some time.

Despite the fact that I know I’m dreaming (what’s sometimes called a lucid dream) I also suddenly have a feeling that this dream is important, that it has bearing on reality, that it’s vital not to fuck up.  Usually I’m on autopilot, but if I am to awaken fully this time, and not just into an adjacent waking dream, I will need to do this right.

I feel the concrete shift.  I am armed.  I am loved.  Tears of silver are running out of the corners of my eyes.  I am ready.

‘Gone’ by Walker Storz


Susan and I had no real need to hitchhike back from the show, but we didn’t want to wait for the bus.  We figured why not.  We sheepishly stuck our thumbs out into the nighttime traffic with no real idea that we would be picked up.  But a red sedan pulled up to the curb, and the driver shouted out something I couldn’t decipher, that sounded like an invitation, so I got into the passenger’s side back seat, while Susan slid around to the other side.

“Where you guys headed?”  the driver asked.

I hadn’t foreseen this, had no knowledge of the local back roads, or main for that matter.  Nevertheless, I pretended I had competence, knew the score, everything.

“If you just get us to 116, I’ll know where to go,” I said.

“Tell me where I’m goin,” he stated.  “You guys live in Tilton Village, or what? You goin through there?  You in college?”  he lengthened and swallowed the vowel a bit, somewhere between a Boston and New York accent.  I could smell the beer on his breath.  He slurred his speech a bit, buzzed, I judged, not drunk.

“I don’t know where that is–Susie’ll look that up on her phone.  If you just get us to 116, I know where to go from there.”

He drove through unfamiliar neighborhoods.  Each house lit fluorescent orange with rounded hedges and small neat backyards and perfect driveways and grills.  I stared out the window longingly, thinking of all of the lives I could live out in any one of those houses.

“Hey, Jeff, are we goin the right way?” he asked his companion in the passengers seat, who had been silent so far.  Jeff nodded in assent.  “116 north should be coming up in a mile or so.”

“Remember that place, Sam’s, we used to shoot pool at up here?”  he pronounced it heah.

“Up on the left.  We used to go there every Saturday night.  With those cheap pitchers.”  He turned toward the backseat, an idea forming.  “You guys shoot pool?  You guys sharks?”

“Yeah, I play.”  I was crystallizing into having a purpose now.

“Let’s stop in there.  We could run these tables, man!  I can feel it,”  he said.  He was focused with an intensity on his vision, now.

He meant it.  We pulled into a lot lit by halogen floodlights, where a neon sign hung on the side of a square, plain building,  and the bar band noise emanating brought the skunk smell of cheap beer to my mind, even before we entered.  All through he kept talking with that same obsessive repetition.  “We could run this place, man.  This is our night.”  I identified with it.  I didn’t drink, but at heart I was a drunk.  He had his glow, his mania, and I wanted to bathe in it.  I was hungry to feel with the bloodred intuition that he had in that moment.  Susie and I followed him up the walkway.

Inside, the bouncer asked for our IDs.  Our man of the moment, he was having none of it.

“These are my kids, and we want to have a nice family outing here.”  The bouncer shook his head.

“Listen, I been coming here for years, never had a goddamn problem!  We just want to get some food, have a nice family game time!”  His eyes were slightly bloodshot.

The bouncer wouldn’t budge.  Our guy looked puzzled.  He knew what needed to be done, and they wouldn’t let him do it.  He really didn’t seem to be able to process this information.

That moment was shot, flat.  He drove us back to our college, even raced a pickup truck through a stoplight on the way back, but there was dead silence in the car.  He dropped us off near the dorm and drove off.

I didn’t talk to Susan at all, and I didn’t walk back to my dorm.  I just nodded goodnight, and walked back out the college entrance, onto the road, and kept walking, aimlessly.  I would tell this story as a joke, the next morning.  Drunk guy picked us up, tried to play pool with us.  Asked us for drugs.  But I really felt jilted.  For a few minutes there, I had felt as if I had a window to step through to another world.  It was like when I sometimes had the absurd urge to wander into a commuter train headed out of the city, and just wake up somewhere else.  Start a new life, have breakfast in a chrome diner in one of those small towns where I knew no one, having these dry dead memories stripped and waking into something that had the green light of birth around it.  It was a worthless aimless fantasy, but I had thought he would take us all the way.

★ ‘Pale God’ by Walker Storz


Jamey was dead tired.  He was talking to his mother when something inside him snapped.  It might as well have been a bone.

He had been sick for a couple years, and nothing much was getting better.  If exceptions proved the rule, he was pretty sure his moments of clarity and energy were exceptions.  Feeling ‘normal,’ or not sick, was rare, and was much like being high–he learned not to trust his judgement on those days.  Promises would be made that, like curses in the daytime, wouldn’t hold when he came back down.

Life had become temporally distorted.  His therapist was right when he said that being sick was much like being high, but he didn’t know how much Jamey hated being high.  At least with pot.  Every high was a dissociative nightmare.  The narcosis always revealed the screaming dissolution of the universe.  Those famed synchronicities of psychedelic trips would sometimes appear, only as if to mock Jamey, as if moments of order were famous, rare creatures dying of pollution by entropy.  Being sick had taken him from being a healthy, if angsty, 20 year old to inhabiting a strange fever-dream in which he had the energy and mind of an elderly man, but a still-childish body.

When he looked at his mother’s face in a sudden new light, he had the realization that there was no reason for things to get better, and so they probably wouldn’t.  He was tired of being a parasite, even if he had been made one against his will.  Everyone was growing tired of him, he was sure of it.  Every time that he fantasized about suicide, the protestations in his mind grew fainter.  The fantasies grew more vivid, real, heavy.  They were far more frequent than his sexual fantasies.  It was as if he was gradually leaving the world of the living behind.  He was less and less attached to his flesh.


Later that night Jamey went outside, feeling like he was leaving the world of the corporeal for the last time.  He was fairly sure of being unnoticed.  He had the keys to his sister’s car, an old station wagon.  He had sent an email to her with a service that allowed the sending to be delayed, so that she couldn’t stop him.

Dear Liz,

I’m sorry.  There’s not much I can say.  I’m mostly sorry that i’m going to smash up your car.  In that light I’ve left you my debit card and taken the other one that has a little bit on it, for gas etc.  The one I left you has that money I got from that gofundme for medical expenses.  It’s only 800$, I spent some of it.  That’s half of the cost of this car, I hope you get some insurance money or something.

I just got tired of this shit.  Please, please, please don’t hate me for this.  You can’t even imagine.   It’s not fun.  I wish I could be with you and mom and dad.  I want to be with the living.  I’m taking up everybody’s time and money and I’m just not fun anymore.   I don’t think I deserve this, but I realized that nobody’s gonna come along and make things better for me. 

Please don’t try and figure out my password and go on my computer or my phone.  There’s nothing horrible or illegal on there but if you go through all of my searches and chats I would just feel very embarrassed, and some of them would probably show me to be a mean and petty person, or just very strange.  I know it doesn’t make any sense but I can’t rest knowing you might do that.  Everyone deserves a little privacy. 

I really love you.  I can’t say much more or I might turn around and decide not to do it, but things aren’t gonna get better and I can’t turn around. 


The car–he had come to this out of a quick meditation.  He didn’t have a gun, or even enough pills of any seriousness to guarantee anything beyond maiming himself inside.  Every time he thought about suicide he had the sudden desire to do something that would allow him to die “happy”.  Not so much a bucket list as a bucket shortlist.  His illness had rendered him always-tired, near catatonic, and worst of all, boring.  Jamey was determined to die after having felt like he had stuck his finger in a light-socket.  If there was divinity he wanted a taste of it.

With a car you could experience this.  After all, it was America.  He would drive to the horizon and beyond.  This was his fantasy.  In reality, he had made up his mind to get to some canyons out west, or a mountain road, and just drive off the edge.  He was sure that he had at least 24 hours before his parents decided to call the police, and he would take back roads after that point.  He would have a car chase before he died.  Either he would get away, and die shot into the bottom of a majestic pit, or he would commit suicide by cop.  He felt guilty about the people who could be collateral damage, but he had been driven to this.  Nobody deserved to have to choose their own death, and he was determined to at least make it memorable.  He would not die as a loser, he would not live as a ghost.  Continue reading “★ ‘Pale God’ by Walker Storz”

‘Simians 3’ by Walker Storz


You were born
with (statistically)
no chance

You were born
into soft noise
and sickness

What good is
what little
quiet that

against the
onslaught of
glowing screens
and hyper-present
noise, outlined
in neon

These days
you nurture
all you have
left of your
animal hurt

Fueling an
acid flux,
a nausea
at the seat
of yr soul,
an anti-
Sit with it
and hold it
like a secret,
like a poison
that loves u
too closely, that
licks behind ur
ears like a
wayward flame-
a friend that
nobody else

‘Simian’s Sad Song’ by Walker Storz


History is over


I have a hard time
focusing, sometimes


Late summer rain no
longer means “late summer
rain,” because History is
over, History is

But as I was saying,
there was a late
summer rain building
towards what might
be a climax, but …

and there was an
orange light
shooting through the

I saw her standing
there, only five feet
from me

But that’s the thing
about distances

These days, distances
are all that
matters but they are
defined in multiple
arguments, or attributes
like a line of code

Distances are defined()
in a different way
now that the past
is dead
now that the future
stretches before my
lonely eyes like the
lit-up screens in a

Like the

best bargain in an
empty store full
nowhere people

Continue reading “‘Simian’s Sad Song’ by Walker Storz”

‘Bittermilk’ by Walker Storz


The last time I saw you I had popped a xanax and washed it down with a beer just to be able to talk to you.  It was like speaking through a cloud.  I bummed a cigarette off you even though I had quit, just to prolong our time together.  Things were said–it didn’t feel like anyone was saying them with any intent.  The words were just pieces of dust kicked up accidentally–careless gestures.   I would keep coming back to lick your hand, sideways-glancing like an abused dog.  I hadn’t been abused.  I had no good excuse for being this way!  I sometimes worked hard and cold and imagined I was from the North–that great expanse.  You were from a wealthy suburb in Maryland.  It embarrassed and thrilled me that I knew the median income.  I should have resented you for all of that, for the way you were perfectly positioned to be successful–one parent a professor, the other a corporate something-or-other, but instead I loved you, and trusted you.  Now, in your life, I am a deleted file.  I am a ghost.

‘Untitled #1’ by Walker Storz


If I was my

father’s son

I’d grow up

strong, pure,


Silent in

a dark wood

disappearing into

the snow, my


a lack of

tone, contrast

A mirror,

a canvas

A piercing brilliance

from the

sun’s glare

on snow,

the color

someone’s hair

turns when

they experience


great loss


This color

was a zero


a negation

a mirror recognizing


in a

mirror, the

color of ghosts

ghosts of conquistadors

ghosts of



We came from

the North

relished the



were clear,


we ate dark

bread, we

worked, we

were silent often,

like the blankets

of crystals that

dampened the

green wood

What was

there to say?

that hadn’t already

been posited

by the terrible

turning of

the planet,

of time

Continue reading “‘Untitled #1’ by Walker Storz”