1. “We are all alone, born alone, die alone, and — in spite of True Romance magazines — we shall all someday look back on our lives and see that, in spite of our company, we were alone the whole way. I do not say lonely — at least, not all the time — but essentially, and finally, alone. This is what makes your self-respect so important, and I don’t see how you can respect yourself if you must look in the hearts and minds of others for your happiness.” - Hunter S. Thompson

    photos by jay halsey


    the west hills squat behind cloudbank

    and grey temptation:

    they speak of gospel by not being seen.

    two-day hangover slips like nails through wood rot

    into three-day habit.

    and yellow daisies

    lean low to the road’s edge,

    less wild as they once grew before:

    their roots spread thin anguish.


    what we see as truth now

    is only how the winds slap our face;

    and they will shift for eternity

    on the immortal bones

    of cracked lands.


    it’s the small indecencies of life

    that can drive an otherwise

    content soul to destitution or madness,

    not loss of love

    or sickness

    or death.

    a numb mist spreads itself

    like a comfortable bath.

    the sun cowers.


    the veins of us clog

    out here

    upon highways of picked scabs.

    and where the grass does not grow

    the weeds prosper—

    it is the right

    and only way.

    yet we kill them off,

    deemed as nuisance.


    the rain ruins the dust,

    and the dust is mad.

    very mad.

    photos and words by Jay Halsey

  3. “Silence is only frightening to people who are compulsively verbalizing.”  - William S. Burroughs


    photos by Jay Halsey


  4. a summer evening after work.

    the sun a cruel god moving

    its torment through slow minutes

    and then slow hours.

    the beer is cold and beautiful

    like past loves.

    it fills something.

    thinking of ages and bending

    to self-created complications from a

    neglect of the soul,

    as the uselessness of the breeze

    beneath a wise tree is evident.

    the heat wins

    and losers lose.

    I lose at cool.

    it doesn’t matter.

    because I’ve pissed into front rains

    and bargained with dim stars.

    the heart’s mighty fist has broken

    the walls of stagnation.

    and I know when our teeth


    she is close enough.

    are you afraid of the heat?

    words and photos by jay halsey

  5. “Well you say that it’s gospel, but I know that it’s only church.” - Tom Waits



    photos by Jay Halsey

  6. the spiders all live in my bathroom,

    and the hush strangles the air

    like an old inmate I never wanted.

    the sun spreads itself open

    with the itch of something

    that is crucial and wide,

    but the day-in, day-out

    is grinding and continuous.

    the smoke of the fire

    sits heavy and useless.

    a soul-sick dog is pushed

    into hot morning fade and dandelion.

    ripe, hard vine blankets the empty bottles,

    and the empty bottles shrug

    as wind-beat litter piles like monuments

    and proof of a beset existence.

    a rusty bowl of water

    is hardly enough to sustain.



    there is very little left

    to kill.

    the murder of the fruit tree has been

    with hands that look like mine.

    and yours.


    and somewhere in these

    small, familiar deaths

    there is a magic so wondrous,

    so bright,

    so perfect,

    that it must be


    which makes it all a bit better.

    and worse.

    much worse.

    words and photos by Jay Halsey 

  7. it begins with a knot in the gut.

    like pregnancy,

    or the need to excrete.

    the stars in the sky are drowning beneath

    fluorescent tides as we go about our rat routines.

    we are dying in and out of a life

    mired in small, never-ending futilities

    and sundry hoaxes,

    where we latch onto tragedy

    like suckling calves at the tit.

    we champion common men

    and common women

    to terrible levels of undeserved applause.

    and once they slip from the pedestals

    we erected for them,

    and because of them,

    we shoot them down.

    we finish them off.

    we hate them for being human.

    we hate them for being




    and we move on to the next round of fools.

    it’s a vicious cycle

    where the affairs of our creation

    become the instruments of our destruction.

    we are dying in and out of a life

    where nothing matters

    except how well we deliver

    what we have been taught.

    even if this entails

    more murder in the streets

    more disease

    more hunger

    more dumb

    more dumber

    more money for the ones who have too much

    more of nothing

    or anything at all that will make

    a real difference.

    we dance the rat dance,

    and the mosquitoes are full of us,

    yet we are not.

    words and photos by Jay Halsey


  8. the disease spreads.

    the old theories have fallen down

    upon themselves

    like toothpicks in flame.


    our sorrows become profits from fear,

    when they should wield swords

    or guns

    or at least great notes of triumph,

    but there’s already enough bloviating

    and not enough action or explanation.


    the institutions of forged innocence

    are completely free of charge;

    dripping as dog slobber

    in the heat of August.

    the masses exhale,

    and the smoke hangs long after

    the shot.


    high-paid heads swell

    while the ones with heart shrink.


    this is the way

    and hate is the utility.


    more beer

    more whiskey

    more strong coffee

    more good music

    more children free of suspicion 

    more conversation and bigger porches

    and sunlight beneath the black eye


    less perfection

    less dull

    less clean for the sake of clean

    less me

    less you

    less shoestring lives

    carefully and strategically

    tiptoeing into a

    lukewarm emptiness


    this should be the way.


    when we kill our gods


    and governments

    the world will beat harder and faster,


    and brighter.

    a hard fever is

    the only option.


    this will be the best way.


    so arrive when you like,

    and please,

    do not 

    wipe your feet.


    words and photos by Jay Halsey



    grass grows greener on sides of bland interest

    for the same reasons people live in mansions

    and follow popular radio.

    a heart flourishes on the tough, hard earth

    where squirrels copulate among thistle and stray cat corpse.

    old things cling to other old things;

    they go nowhere.

    and I see the same cars

    driving to the same places

    from my dark porch.


    —the view is fine from here—


    you could get drunk on cheap beer

    while listening to Waylon

    or Cash

    or Motorhead,

    and shit more soul

    than the average man

    in the average department store

    or theatre

    or restaurant.

    we only believe what we want

    to believe,

    and it has been wrong for ages;

    yet it blooms as hemlock

    and poisonous mushrooms.

    the humans look like



    as machine becomes smarter

    the crowd becomes dumber.


    two wilted flowers

    lean against each other

    within the cracks of a

    six lane boulevard.

    and it is beautiful.

    it is the most beautiful thing

    you will ever see.

    the soft sun of too late.


    —the view is fine from here—

    photos and words by Jay Halsey


    it’s good to sit here as another day is drained

    then the glass

    then myself

    choked dry with contemplations and routine abuses

    waiting for something, and roused by nothing

    wondering, what’s next?

    the fat male mosquito moves

    slow and spent

    across the patio

    it’s just him and me and the drooping sun

    the air is cooling, a puddle shrinks to dark resin, and day is leaving both of us

    he knows what’s next, and after that

    it will just be me

    sitting here

    words and photos by Jay Halsey

  11. “Wilderness is not a luxury but a necessity of the human spirit, and as vital to our lives as water and good bread. A civilization which destroys what little remains of the wild, the spare, the original, is cutting itself off from its origins and betraying the principle of civilization itself.” ― Edward Abbey, Desert Solitaire

    photos by Jay Halsey

  12. "I’ve seen that things find their void when they search for direction." - Federico Garcia Lorca

    photos by Jay Halsey

  13. "I was born to hustle roses down the avenues of the dead." - Charles Bukowski

    photos by Jay Halsey

  14. “We live in a world where there is more and more information, and less and less meaning.” 
    ― Jean BaudrillardSimulacra and Simulation

    photos by Jay Halsey

  15. “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” 
    ― Edgar Allan Poe

    photos by Jay Halsey

    mosaic skull by Matthew Alexander