All posts by D.L Edison

To The Victor Go The Spoils!

Victor is a member of the disposed, once opulently well fed, royal family of Tuxsteininberg.

After his ousted, gilded family left his motherland,

leaving behind their silver serving dishes and baroque flatware,

penniless: he moved to America.

Today Victor dumpster dives for dinner.

He can’t get a green card.

Sustained by gluttonous consumer waste,

he’s never been better fed.

To Victor go the spoils.



All in Good Time

Fuck moderation: enjoy life rapaciously.

If you are making a bucket list, you aren’t really living.

Bucket lists are for those afraid of today.

The only thing left, for me to experience –is death.  Life’s last big adventure.

Bring it baby.

I only hope I have time to give her a wink and a crack on the ass before she puts me to bed. She’ll show up eventually, she’ll take me on a new ride; one with no ticket or list required,  guaranteed.


My Demented Mother

My mother took a hike, and ventured to another land, one exempt from time, where space continues to expand.

She now resides in limitless wonder, utopic at the least; an easier go I’m sure, without the earthly body she used to drag around.

“Happy Mother’s Day Mom!”

But I’m sure you’ve already heard, as you where there when I awoke this morning and uttered those same words: Happy Mother’s Day.



Portland, Oregon

The city of Portland, Oregon embodies the epitome of liberalism gone awry.

Need a police escort to march down I-5, closing all interstate traffic to automobiles, for the sole purpose of wanting to be heard, come to Portland.

Want free healthcare, food and counseling, allowing you to spend your panhandled riches on dope, come to Portland.

Hell, stick around long enough and Mayor Wheeler is likely to give you a free mini-house!

Come to Portland, where it pays to burden society.


Festival with Friends

I have a compost pile to bury my friends.

Once they rot and wretchedly stink,

I’ll know my summer harvest of cherry tomatoes will be a blue ribbon winner at this year’s festival.

I love a good; feast-of-evil with friends.


“The Billionaire’s Brain” / Book One of The Grave Master Series is Now Available!

“When You’re in Our Cloud, We’ll Know What’s on Your Mind!”


Brash, young billionaire, Taylor McQue, built the world’s premier cloud storage company, the McQue Dynamic Data Corporation, from the ground up.  He grew a company that was internationally recognized, affording him the life of a one percenter. The Company’s “Intelligent Cloud” had the capacity to store a person’s lifetime of human memories, in the form of pictures, letters, movies and notes.

McQue wanted to go further.

Through lost love, betrayal and pure genius, McQue developed the ability to live forever by storing his own biological brain’s thoughts, attitudes and experience, in essence “himself,” in a computer database. After downloading “himself” into a database server, he has the ability to then upload, “himself,” after his human body dies by loading his digitally stored mind, into a fresh, newly grown, blank brain and healthy body, thus ensuring his survival.

What if a billion dollars could buy you a guaranteed tomorrow -Forever.

Order from here

Amazon Kindle Store

Flux at Capacity

As a writer, I’m in a constant state of flux.

Caught between; what I need to write, and “selling books.”

In the end, on my deathbed, I’ll be okay dying sans wealth,

It’s my words, that survive -eternal.

Not this body.

I’ll die with a smile,

 peaceful and content.

Knowing I’ve used the word, “flux” in a piece.


To the, “Marijuana Anonymous” Members from Salem, Oregon, That Were Profiled on the Five O’clock News

Sack up, you fucking pussies.  Why is your group comprised solely of twenty-eight-year-old white boys?

Yes, I’m laughing at you, even the bitches and their ugly ass friends are laughin’ at cha.  And for giving me such a chuckle, I’ll impart some wisdom on ya that I heard from an older soul, he was a fifteen-year-old chronic, crack smokin’ hooker with AIDS, from Las Vegas.

The nigga’ said, “when was the last time you had to suck a dick for weed: bitch.”  I loved the kid.

You’re doing a grave disservice to junkies everywhere.  You’re merely weak minded individuals that need direction.  Get right with yourselves; you’ll be okay.

Insert emoji here of the last dude that died from a THC overdose.  He might look something like… well, we don’t know now, do we.

Whitey C. Blackwell

Scale of Pain

I was recently in a medical center for a visit with my doctor, and on my way to her office, I found myself momentarily captive in an unescapable temporary prison cell.  I was riding an elevator twenty-two floors up, with a pair of obtuse, loud and unruly young brothers accompanied by their intensely demure, mousey mother.

After elevating a few floors their mission became apparent as to why they were in the hospital, the trio was going to visit the children’s grandfather who was recuperating after triple bypass heart surgery.  The surgery was the result of a massive heart attack the older gentleman had five days earlier.  As the elevator’s cables wound back on their spools, the car climbed closer and closer to the twenty-second floor.

With clear distress in her voice, the boy’s mother reminded them, their grandfather would be in a great deal of pain, and he may not seem like his usual jovial self.  The two boys immediately began to compare the worst pain each of them had ever experienced.  The younger of the two exclaimed, the worst pain he ever felt was “brain freeze” from drinking a frozen Slurpee too fast.  The older boy was nearly in tears as he relived sliding down the climbing rope in Gym Class.  He was about twelve feet up hanging on the rope with both hands when he began to slip.  Instead of letting go and landing on the safety cushion directly beneath him, he hung on tightly and slid down, both hands gripping the rope, burning and tearing his fleshy palms the entire way down.  His hands required an antibiotic ointment to be applied twice daily, prior to being wrapped with sterile gauze leaving him with hands, that of a mummy for a full week.

Their mother remained silent as we passed the twentieth floor, she was getting ready to face her greatest pain.  She was especially close to her father, in part because she was an only child and because her mother died young.  She was old enough to endure the torment, depression and truly deep pain her mother’s death inspired.

Upon arriving at floor twenty-two, the mother led the boys out of the elevator to their grandfathers room, she grew pale and moved in a trance like state with each step toward his room.  She knew she was likely to acquire a new high point on her pain scale.  A tear welled, she wiped it away quickly.  She smiled at her boys and said, “let’s see Poppy now,”  as cheerful as possible.

The cheer was a lie, when she saw her dying daddy she confirmed she had indeed felt a new high point, a ten out of ten, on her pain scale.  Looking at her frail, confused and small father was overwhelming and horrendously painful.  This is the worst pain she has ever endured, this is her truth.  As is a young boy’s rope burn, his worst pain ever, a true ten out of ten on a pain scale.  And the youngest brother is entirely valid when he reported his worst pain ever was “brain freeze” the result of a quickly consumed Slurpee.

After three more floors up, I got off the elevator and checked into my doctor’s office for my appointment.  Included in the paperwork I was asked to complete, was a document titled:  The Standardized 1-10 pain scale rating.  Question number one asked what was my level of pain today?

I quickly thought through the elevator ride and noted that for individuals, pain is extremely personal.  Without understanding what a ten out of ten represents, without knowing the reference point a subject uses to compare their pain, a one out of ten pain scale is entirely flawed and irrelevant.

If the worst pain I’ve ever felt, a ten out of ten, was after I survived a brutal auto accident that left me with multiple broken bones, a ruptured spleen and a punctured lung and this is my truth, the boy with “brain freeze” claiming this is his worst pain ever experienced,  should be treated equally.  Shots of morphine for pain control for both the auto accident victim and the victim of the dreaded “brain freeze.  After all, one mans rope burned palm is another mans double amputation, and loss of sight.

I’ll take the physical pain, a true ten outta’ ten, hurt like a son-of-a-gun pain, over the emotional pain, painless tormenting pain.  The physical stuff is easy, temporary.  The words, “I hate you, you’re ugly,” or “I’m leaving you” even a simple spit ball shot at the back of my head by a school mate, that, for me, truly is the greatest pain I’ve felt in this life, an absolute ten out of ten on a pain scale.