A writer of things.

Short Fiction

Paranoia Salad

He’s only a bit

And he’s only a piece


He’s a fractured memory in the mind of a time-traveling boy


He’s a broken part of sadness and confusion

He’s a broken part of misery and convulsion

He’s a concussion

He’s a heart attack

He’s a cigarette

He’s always there and never new

He’s the breaking point of everything good


He’s the broken one

He’s the damaged part

He’s the always everything


He’s the empty apartment

He’s the changing the bed sheets

He’s the coffee-stained teeth


Fluttering heart beats

And breaking heartbeats

And everything else that goes too


He’s the part of the boy

The time-traveling boy

The ugly boy


He’s the part of him


There’s the decision maker

There’s the one who calls for the goods

There’s the god

The god that makes him who he is


The him he is

Is the him he is

And they are us

And we are falling down the stairs



The detective man

The smoking man

The drinking man

The coffee man


The man he’s not

The man he wants to be


The man who drives like a lunatic

The man who carries a gun

The man who’s lived


The man who never cries

The man who never dies

The man he called Lane Laszlo


The man who goes

And never knows

And always moves

And never dies


Lane Laszlo


Lane Laszlo is the him he wants to be

He’s the him who knows the secret of Everything


He’s the detective

He’s the P.I.

He’s the dick


He’s the way he never was


He’s the way he wanted to be


He’s a combination

He’s a fragmented reflection

He’s a breaking point

He’s a nervous twitch

He’s a paranoia salad

He’s a stream of consciousness

He’s a manipulated memory

He’s an exploited thought

He’s a stolen story


He’s a creation

He’s a figment

He’s fleeting


He’s Lane Laszlo

But he won’t be forever

And that’s the way it is


That’s the way it always is