I suppose you could call it literary A.D.D but the latest thing to come from the dome of our very own Daniel Louis Crumpton (D.L. for all his ghetto bruddahs) was that his next publication would be very much in Monty Python tradition…something completely different. All you Zenners who frequent our little site are familiar with his spiritual and political writings, and for those of you who arent the lazy type that wait for the movie; his novel Then Came the Flood was a gargantuan of completely different. So what pray-tell is the next trick he has decided to pull from one of the myriad of his hats? A rapid fire, three round burst of modern day poetry dripping angst, emotion and grit coming to us in just a matter of days.

hahalogoThe first collection; Hearts and Arrows, Halos and horns is scheduled to be released on March 20th underneath the super-duper mega moon eclipse thingy and we are all sure that has absolutely no connection with why he decided upon that date. Like a roller coaster of emotions, concepts and perspectives the collection shifts gears fast enough to give you intellectual whiplash as it takes you through over twenty years of never before published work.

The second (Wasting Despair) and third (Perspicacity) installment’s release dates have yet to be announced however The Ochelli Effect was kind enough to have D.L. Crumpton on recently to discuss his upcoming projects and though saying he was a little under the weather is quite an understatement (many of you out there have experienced the horror of the recent cold strain destroying a week or two of your lives) our little slugger still did a decent job.

After the interview the crew of the Zenterprise had to put him on medical leave until further notice and while he recovers we thought we would serve you up a slice from the interview. So grab a tasty beverage, kick back and enjoy Chuck Ochelli and Daniel Louis Crumpton rap about Hearts and Arrows, Halos and Horns, self-publishing, Edgar Alan Poe, the insanity of a writer’s life, content control and whatever else managed to come out of his medicine head. Enjoy!



**NOTE: Years ago I wanted to pay homage to one of my personal idols, Edgar Alan Poe, and wrote a poem in the same fashion as “The Raven” called “The Evil Act of Alan Loe”. Unfortunately the original copy as well as the collection it was in exchanged so many hands that I lost track of it and now it is either lost forever or in some vault somewhere…hopefully. Either way the poem told the story of a man who came home drunk from the pub one late night and caught the scent of another man on his wife. In true Poe fashion, the narrator of the prose murders his wife, hacks her into bite sized bits and feeds her to all the stray and feral cats outside in the alley way. Of course no murderer ever finds contentment in their deeds so at the end of the poem I had the man haunted by the perpetual meowing of cats possessed by the spirit of his dead wife. Years later I thought it would be fitting to write a sequel to the poem and that’s how this one came along. Hope you enjoy the macabre side of my scribblings.**



photo from

“My screams, my screams, they filled my home’s long hall!
As a cat with fur so black would run from all my calls.
I’d stalked the thing all night you see, all my efforts failed.
I’d sought to crack its tiny spine and curse the place it hailed.
It’d turn its head and give a hiss, the claws cut through the air.
I’d done away with all his friends, and their deep grave it’d share.
For many years I’d sup inside, alone with drink in sight.
And from outside I’d see those eyes filling me with fright.
I’d take my food and find a room with no window nearby.
Yet still those pests would not give up, they’d all begin to cry.
Their taunts would fill my soul with ache; I think that was their aim.
To torment me for all my days, and burden me with shame.
Late sometimes I’d fall asleep, try and rest my seams.
But then I’d wake in drenched in sweat, those cats were in my dreams!
For quite some time I’d search for peace in what’d become my life.
But when my back’d be turned away, their eyes would be a knife.
Although I’d not look onto them, their stares would pierce my skin.
And then a hate I’d hid away would rise in me again.
I knew to make this nightmare stop I’d have to see their blood.
Find a way to end their curse and place them in the mud.
So I’d feed them every day, a bowl of milk for each.
Inside the stuff was poison see, it’d stop their silent speech.
One by one they’d fall to death, their legs would cramp like stone.
This would wipe them all away, except for one alone.
He’d not drink the milk I’d give; he’d turn his nose to it.
He’d gaze at me and lick his paw, upon my steps he’d sit.
So here I am enraged again, this thing eludes me much.
And though I’m fast this thing is more, so fast I cannot touch.
As I chased it through my house, I tripped and then went down.
And I knew I’d all but lost, as my head filled with some sound.
When my body hit the ground my neck gave up a crack.
Then all my touch soon went away, my body went all slack.
That is when the cat would stop, and take its little rest.
But where it did is what numbed me, its bed was now my chest!
So I know I’m living now the last of my poor days.
With nothing more to comfort me, except this cat’s deep gaze.”

D.L.C 1999

Behind, “The Pride”

The man telling this story obviously has some secret to hide from the world. Something so dark it’s been eating him alive for a number of years. He’s so convinced that his actions are somehow known to this pride of cats that he intends to do away with them. Unfortunately he is paralyzed in the process of clearing his conscience.

Next: Perspicacity: The Twisted Fate of Alan Loe