Deflating hopes like sepia balloons.

I’ve not been up to much, comedy-wise, in a very, very, very long time. If that’s why you’re here, I apologize. My time these days is mostly spent writing and reading little poems to people. For example, the video below is from when I got to read my poem “Requiem for a Revenant (in Memory of John Fahey)” at the 4th annual Great Twin Cities Poetry Read last April at Hamline University in St. Paul.

I ramble on at the start about John Fahey, but his music and writing mean a lot to me. Just play it. Thanks.

Deflating hopes like sepia balloons.

The great goth outdoors.

I recently started publishing photos at the literary website Midwestern Gothic. I realize I’m no Ansel Adams, but I’m happy-ish with how the four below turned out. They were snapped during treks through the woods with the girlfriend and our dog. Until I can get some new words out, it’s nice to have a new publishing venue. Of course, as soon as I know if I have a show in this summer’s Minnesota Fringe Festival, I’ll know if I have a future as a hack nature photographer or if this was just phase to go through between stories and poems.





The great goth outdoors.

What’s up with YOU?

As usual this time of year, I’m pretty much passing the three hours of daylight wondering if I’ll survive another winter’s interminable darkness and sub-zero cold. I’ve been writing and publishing and working out some storytelling ideas, too. Because I’m doing December’s Two Chairs Telling at the Bryant-Lake Bowl. Jokes are on the back burner for now. So at least they’ll stay warm.


Online yoga/mindfulness magazine Elephant Journal recently published my poem “Whirligigs.” [Click the link.]

Revolver, force-feeders of pudding last summer, just published my poem “The Last Diving Horse in America.”

A digital broadside commissioned by paired my poem “Loam” with art by Gregory Euclide.

The above pic was taken the day before snow and temperatures fell as if tied to Wile E. Coyote’s ACME anvil. My face is too frozen to smile now. I’m sure people think I’ve gotten Botox. Take my word for it.

What’s up with YOU?

Looking down the barrel of 44.

Turned out I wasn’t cut out to be an arts columnist — and that two years was all I had in me as a podcaster. The prospect of turning 44 in January has me taking inventory of my creative pursuits. I’m looking forward to doing more storytelling, playing more music and keeping my hand in comedy.


There will be more poems, too, whether anybody wants them or not. In fact, here’s one:


A jar of fireflies
on a shelf abandoned
years ago to dust
gives this place
(a barn) a glow a guy
could read by
if he’d brought a book.

But no one would believe me.
So what
does my story become
instead? That I was
lit inside (warmed, too)
by a little something shared
from a different jar.

No wonder I can’t
remember how I got here.


Maybe that’s why I’m alway so blurry.

Looking down the barrel of 44.

Four cents’ worth.

The latest edition of The Columnest recounts my experience as part of the Little Brown Mushroom Summer Camp for Socially Awkward Storytellers. My interview with The Missouri Review recounts my gradual decline from prodigious literary up-and-comer to over-the-hill stage performer/hack needy for laughs.

Speaking of which, here’s a snapshot of me berating the audience at‘s 2013 Summer Stories reading at The Union in downtown Minneapolis.


Four cents’ worth.

A new poem.


Editors aren’t showing much interest in this new poem of mine, so here it is. Because that’s possible in 2013. (The photo is of British stand-up comedian/storyteller Daniel Kitson, who in no way inspired the poem.)



Brian Beatty


He found it hilarious to tell balloons,

“Don’t hold your breath.”

Maybe because he too was empty inside

and at the same time incapable of containing

his own hot air. Or there was another

explanation seized upon

by the scientific community

in which he had zero faith/friends:

People near him often noticed a quiet hiss

(though they never smelled any odor)

that was determined — by rigorous experiment —

to be the truth escaping him the moment

he dared to start a conversation.


This fart of honesty typically disappeared

on the next breeze, no matter how slight.

And afterwards everyone would wonder

what was safe to believe and what was not.


Two site updates in the same week is unprecedented around here. Don’t count on it happening again.

A new poem.