Author Archives

Mike Yost (Photographer/Writer)

I have a passion for words and photography (and craft beer . . . and weed). Just trying to be creative and experience the creativity of others before I'm kicked off this lonely planet. Death may nullify my body and brain, but (hopefully) not my art. I've been capturing snapshots of time and writing out the thoughts of fictional characters in my head since I was a kid. Maybe even younger! Not sure. It's hard to remember that far back. (I blame the weed.) I had the opportunity to pen a novel for grad school. Five characters. One narrative. Existential dread! You can purchase my first book, Remnants of Light, on Amazon here: http://amzn.com/B00MZBT15C It's available in paperback if you want to be retro and ebook if you want to be modern. Personally I think there should be a stone tablet option.

Pete’s Kitchen

[Old Poem. New Photograph]

Pete’s is a place to warm our hands on a snowy afternoon, to wrap our fingers tightly around a thick mug of hot joe that burns the tongue.

Pete’s is a place to find company among the friendless, to nourish a lonely heart with the unspoken words of weary strangers.

Pete’s is a place for derelict souls, for those Denver denizens who feel endlessly lost—even at home surrounded by those we love.

Photograph and Prose copyright Mike Yost 2017

Rivers beneath the Sky

Rivers beneath the sky
Spill over the cloudy banks
Crashing into formless rocks
Splashing into space itself

Into that vast void
Flows time into timelessness
Only the now exists

Light streaming simultaneous
Hidden throughout

The undercurrent swells
Rising out of blackness
Breaking through the surface to breathe

Reflecting off cloudy banks
Reflecting off the eye
Reflecting off the mind

Pulled out from under an endless river
That flows gently beneath the sky

Photograph and Prose copyright Mike Yost 2017

Black Box

And this powerful mind
Framed within a black box of our own creation
Reflecting only upon all that exists outside a glass canopy
Never turning that attention inward

Behind the glass

Behind the engine of consciousness
To dwell on the absurdity of a thought
A memory without weight
Pulling ideas through time

To be aware of such mental machinations
To be bewildered at the awe of thinking itself

Gossamer strings vibrating memories into existence
Vibrating me into existence
Out of vacuity
The very idea of self, emerges

All locked behind our weary eyes
Sunk deep into a black box
Of our own creation

Photograph and Prose copyright Mike Yost 2017

Mirage

“All this pain is an illusion,” Maynard sings
I slam my head back and forth
Desperately hammering those words into my skull
As pain sinks its sharp teeth deeper into my chest

It’s all a lie

I hear

Even the truth is a lie
No way to really know
We float helplessly in nothingness
Embracing lies to survive

Teeth and claws break apart my rib cage
The loud crack smacking my ears
I watch my heart, torn away in an arc of liquid red
Now pounding within its jaws, dripping
I bleed eternally into the thirsty dust

The illusion feels too real tonight
To cope
To see the truth of my existence

Swallowed by suffering
I see eyes glowing yellow in the dark
Hovering just above a wide, red smile