All posts by G. Z. Kieft

Notice of Eviction

Nowadays this blog catches strays and wanderers unintentionally, like long forgotten trash drifting in the ocean traps birds and turtles and, I’m not sure but can only assume, the occasional merman.

For those wanderers, a forewarning, this is abandoned real estate. You are each of you squatters in a forgotten jumble of html’s. I have not died in real life, yet, but visiting this blog feels like I left something behind and it feels unfinished. I meant for that, I meant to abandon it the way you leave dogs on the street after they’ve grown old and boring, avoiding any correspondence and moving onward to my next project.

But I’m drawn back here, still, just like you rando’s, stumbling upon an old page using an arbitrary combination of tags.

Unfortunately, I’m already balls deep in my next project and feel no inclination to continue this and that, both. So here’s a secret link, the only one connecting both. I started it with the hopes of being less authentic and more broadly accepted but old habits are hard to break.


last one

I struggle with identity, hustling my friends for fees, like my posts and like my feed and if it’s not enough I flee, I see these flaws, these traits I treat with such distaste and patient greed, every friend who cared for me I push away, I vaccinate, I take a hit you take the bait, I call for absence, call for space, silent contemplation’s mate, but damn I sure do miss those days, writing for that small Crusade, banding up to flip the page it paved the way for so much praise I fell addicted, felt the rage of falling short on certain days and so I left, turned my back and kept the pen inside my chest and that’s the day I started fresh, wrote like fire, read like the wind (like flipping pages) Vonnegut, Pirsig, Hemingway, print, the pages in my fingers felt like grace before a drink, the education every writer needs contrast, contrast, exposure, risk. But I was playing it safe, wasn’t I? Writing for myself was safe, my inner demon wasn’t praise but a lack of feedback leaves you strayed, a desert full of endless words and sure it felt so good to be afraid, to be alone and avoid the race, to anchor down inside your mind and float yourself into a glaze.

But today I went back and saw what I didn’t let myself see and I regret acting so selfishly, delving deep into the wells of grief, self pity is a tunnel and I was driving it at top speeds.

The Narrows – An Instagallery

Zion Nat’l Park, UT
July 5th, 2016

It’s just after nine in the morning when I arrive at the visitor’s center. I’m only here to park my bike (a well deserved break for her after 200 miles under the empty summer skies) and catch the shuttle to the Temple of Sinawava, or more appropriately, The Narrows.


This is my third visit to Zion, but my first to the Narrows and my first in the summer. A prerecording in the shuttle tells me something poetic about the mountains – I don’t remember what it was because an obnoxious Vegas show runner is name dropping the dicks he’s sucked just a foot away and making it hard to focus on the colorful walls we’re driving through. When we arrive, I shoulder my pack and move on.

They tell you don’t go off the trail but the trails here are clogged with human life like the arteries of an obese smoker. I pull out my notepad and write that down, humans are plaque to the earth’s arteries, then slide off the trail and snake through the woods along the shallow river that will lead me to the mouth of the Narrows.

Infant Shores

Sparrows sift through the tall grass (or are they swallows? I can never tell) and the river water rounds along the grey mammoth rocks. Infant shores crest the water, where dumb little tadpoles await their demise – death by footstep. The ambience here is a rainbow of organic sounds.

Squirrel who doesn't give fucks

The squirrels give zero fucks. They’ve grown fat with modern luxuries; I see them swagger along with loot salvaged from littering humans. I imagine that I’m a small human, small enough to befriend the squirrels, and one takes me to his squirrel house and introduces me to his squirrel wife. They wear bottle cap hats and sit on shoes that they’ve arranged in their squirrel living room like furniture. I sit on some Adidas. They offer me a little pretzel stick.

Sorry, I’ve been reading too much Vonnegut.

As I’m off dreaming, I catch a glimpse of movement in the distance. I kneel down along the river and see a deer (I think? It had antlers) as it closes in on my location and moves beside me with little care for its safety. These animals have benefited immensely from their life on government-protected lands. If I were a hunter I would have eight squirrels tucked into my loincloth by now and one deer swung over my shoulder. But I’m vegetarian so instead I’ll just take some pictures.


I finally enter the Narrows and watch as humans clamber through the river like there’s gum on their shoes. Their clumsy movement looks so unnatural in this environment, where everything moves like it was intended, and I realize I’m part of the world’s epilogue. Or sequel. We’re earth’s shitty sequel.


(At this point the water was getting too high so I had to Ziploc my electronics… so not a lot more pictures for the gallery, sorry I lied.)

The pack of humans thin out as I continue. They play their stereotype off with extensive precision – lazy; sunbathing in the blue lights of their cellphones; complaining about the lack of coffee shops along the trail. I fucking hate my people, and I miss the time I spent with my squirrel friends in their squirrel house.

Those infant shores I mentioned earlier – the farther in I go the wider they grow. Beaches littered with rocks and the gnarly roots of drunken trees leaning too far back and casting cool shadows under the sun. For those puddles of water parted from the main river, they are now prey to the various water spiders and other strange water creatures that seem to spawn into existence in these conditions. Those waters look like half-eaten carcasses, rotting in the sun, a testament to waters foolish enough to stray from the main herd.

There is a split in the road, and I curse. Not like a witch – like a “fuck!” but actually I think I said “shit…”

I’m a completionist at heart (for everything not book-related) so a split in the road does me no favors. People pass me as I wrinkle my nose with indecision. Finally I take the path on my right and move on. This trail is rather empty, and word is there’s a waterfall at the end. My hopes have been raised now, so there’d better be one, because I run the chance of colossal disappointment. (spoiler alert, there isn’t one. So I did whine about it, but not much).

There’s some kids ahead of me, probably around seventeen years old based off of their high school shirts, but they look thirteen. I judge them; tell myself I’d enjoy my hike more if they weren’t ahead of me and I didn’t have to listen to their garbage conversations. I manage to pass them and move on.


That picture is of a giant (it looks small, but it’s fucking perspective. You can use that excuse with your girl too) boulder blocking my way, and since I don’t have a Pokémon with me that knows Rock Smash, I sit to the side and decide this is the end of my hike. I read some, write some, and eat my bagel and trail mix (leaving some pretzel sticks for the squirrels).


Those kids I passed catch up to me, and one of them delivers a moving speech to the other three about destroying obstacles and proving yourself and doing things that expand your comfort bubble. He disappears from my view, leaving his three companions to rub their heads and cover their mouths and pace back and forth uncomfortably. I grow curious, and my six-years of seniority urges me to go down there and make fun of their attempts to move on when even I couldn’t.

But that motherfucker had climbed up there and secured a rope for his friends, and the reason they hadn’t moved on was because his friends were chicken as fuck. As a writer, I’ve built up a Trojan wall of superiority around my emotion, but seeing this was like receiving a flaming cannonball into my foundation. What totally crushed it was that he looked at me then, smiled, and said to come on up. I used his rope, and he even offered his hand, which I refused because fuck man, pride. But then I couldn’t get up, so finally I gritted my teeth and grabbed his hand, and he helped me up. I thanked him, offered to pay him with water bottles or anything else I had on me, but he refused. Guilt swelled up in my gut when I thought about the many people who needed my help during the trail and I had pretended not to hear them.

What an asshole I’d become.

Ah, I changed tenses in that last paragraph. I’m not gonna switch back now.


After climbing up that rock, the trail became barren. No traces of footsteps, no human sound, just rocks standing in the gentle trickle of the river, looking foolish with their mossy wigs. My steps weighed heavy with my shitty personality, and the devil on my shoulders tried hard to convince me not to sterilize my elitist attitude. I don’t have a little devil on one shoulder and a little angel on the other – no I just have one devil who sits on my shoulders like a child on his dad’s shoulders and covers my eyes and pulls at my hair. Sometimes I whinny and make hoof sounds with my tongue because he likes it.

That’s the end. I never found a waterfall, and I was running out of sunlight, so I headed back home. This is the part where I whined a bit, but not too much, and felt like I hadn’t accomplished much but still somehow enjoyed the trip a bit.

It would’ve been better with a waterfall.

This is me barfing all over your feed.

Hot steel is a steep contrast against the chilly spring sunset. Breaking speed laws helped me get out of the city in less than twenty minutes but it also overheated the capabilities of my 250cc engine. The dealership told me I wouldn’t hit a hundred so I’m always trying to prove them wrong. It’s a sore spot, I guess. People telling me I can’t do something. People or, whatever, myself I guess.


I pull off the road and kill the engine. The trailhead is a mile up this stretch of desert but I’m not going to risk my tires on these jagged rocks. I lock my helmet under my seat, retrieve my girlfriend’s camera, and shoulder my backpack before heading out. (I spent about ten minutes considering that oxford comma).

A trip like this isn’t for the hike. It isn’t for the instagram filters or the soul searching. A trip like this is because your gut is in knots and you’ve got frustration burning the skin off the tips of your fingers. A trip like this is spent hunched over like Golum with a notepad and pencil in your hand consuming blank spaces like you’re getting paid for it.

But you’re not. Well, I don’t know if you are; I’m not. And fuck me for trying.

I don’t fit in here. Hikers pass me by in neon things. Shorts, jackets, shoes. Bright things. I wade between them like a fly among flowers. Buzzing along in a leather jacket and jeans and the kind of haircut that looks less like a haircut and more like a mistake.


The terrain is dead. Twisted branches gnarled into arthritic fists clenched at the heavens for their fate. Is the desert a reflection of my insides or my insides a reflection of the desert?

Because I’m fucking lost. I’m the little monkey on your child’s mobile running in circles. What do I do – write? Writing like this and hoping it’s going to turn into something of a life? I can’t. What then? College? I should’ve gone. I should’ve bent at the knees and let societal standards fuck me in the ass for four years so I could get a piece of paper that could get me a better job. What job though? Every notch on this retail ladder I’ve climbed has only bored me more. Mechanic, maybe. Work on bikes only. I could do that. Grease stains and loud music. Just enough money to live but not enough to ever quit. But the words – the fucking words.

In my head. In my chest. In my fingers, throbbing, wringing, aching, stinging, breaking, bringing frustrating rhythms to my brain and spilling flame like gasoline’s in them, words filled to the brim with the will to just give in and type, or write till the pencil tip splits and resigns or till I’m reminded of my drive to survive, why I’m designed to comply to the lines in my mind every lie, every sigh, every moment in life that I’ve questioned these words they’ve come back twice as bright, twice as mighty but twice as likely to deny my plight, well I’m pleading tonight with my knees to my eyes will the need to write finally cease or realize that a life full of words is still meaningless… right?

Stop. Clear my mind. I’ve reached the peak of the trail and the sun’s dropping behind the mountains. Those ageless giants. Up here silence is so fruitful it becomes company.


On my way back down a woman says something to me. I look up and see a group of people (I don’t remember how many – at least four) led by a blond woman with a bob-cut and wearing neon sneakers.

“What?” I ask her.

“There’s deer.” She’s pointing to a hill adjacent to the trail. She must’ve seen my camera and thought I cared.

“Oh,” I say. “Thank you.”

I guess I did care because I crossed over the desert and took a couple of pictures (I’m not going to post them here because in black and white deer just look like more rocks and dead plants) and when I left I didn’t mention the deer to anybody else I ran into. A silent cheer of victory. Senseless pride jacking off to the notion that I saw something other people wouldn’t. That miniscule rise of joy grown from independence and discovery that, ironically, I wouldn’t have discovered without someone else.

I want things but I don’t know what they are. Travel. Writing. Riding. Nail-biting adrenaline or hiding under tents and finding undiscovered lands with my girlfriend in the stands cheering me on or holding my hand. I just get stuck in the rhythms and the words are easy ways to navigate through them. I feel the empty space and I just want to fill it up with sentences and paragraphs. But I lose focus. I need that – focus. A place to pinpoint all this energy.

All I want to do is ride into new places with my laptop and a camera and make art. The fuck kind of abstract idea is that? I don’t know. I guess I’ll go write about it.


Heal Me

(So what are you supposed to do when these words keep on choking you and the only thing that feels like breathing is a hopeless view into the future where you’re a homeless dude charging dollars for the poems you wrote a moment before you stowed the things you owned into a shopping cart and you’re zoned out because you chose the high of writing over the road oft traveled: college grad; family man; suits and ties and wedding bands, pressing matters for a writer endowed with addiction but not enough talent.)

But there’s a break in the pattern. There’s a breath of fresh air. There’s a moment, no a fraction, where there’s no mention of despair.

It’s in the black of her eye, in the length of her skirts, it’s in the tremble of music she puts under my words.

She’s the waves under my boat

and if she stays

I remain


and if she wails

she’ll drown my sails

with her nails

at my throat.

We’ll be undersea, a slash of passion sets us free to ride the currents underneath, under sheets our lungs can’t breathe but her tongue does fine between my teeth, sweaty thighs and awkward knees, struggling to keep the speed, exhausted like we’re fucking to compete, gold medalists, we’re so competitive during these fucking sprees, the fun defines what life can be, what rum and beer have tried desperately to match, where drugs have failed to help me pass, when not a moment under clear blue skies could make me laugh, this girl has been my nicotine patch.

The only breath of fresh air. The only escape from my brain. The only flash of real life to keep me from going insane.

If I can only write one more thing,
let it be her happy ending.

(Pun intended).

Art By Leonid Afremov

Donald Trump

If his words are a prologue to his actions then we’re asking for disaster, we’re distracted ‘cause we’re laughing at his lack of tact but that’s just what he’s after, he’s mastered and crafted this personality of fascist charisma, apparently desired and insisted on by the average white American, he’s a terror and hysterically irrational, a national symbol of the unfair persistence against a system of equality, his standpoints are extreme, like his hair, and he doesn’t seem to care that he stares right in the faces of other races and raises them to hate him, he’s oblivious to the statements every news anchor has made about the stupid revelations we have created for other nations, we cannot sit this one back while we parade a mascot for America who’s racist and berates other places whose names he probably can’t even say, these are mistakes we’ve made with Sarah Palin, all I’m saying is that we deserve a president who can go one day without alienating an entire country and calling them rapists.

To summarize: there’s just some guys you can’t trust to drive the change we need right now in our lives.


Missing fiction. Here’s a piece for the Conceited Crusade based on the prompt “Recollection”.

Conceited Crusade


Gio woke up in an empty piano bar but the sounds of Gaspard de la nuit still rang in his ears alongside the horrible aftermath of a pleasant buzz. He groaned and leaned forward over the table with his right hand over his forehead.

The room was black. Lines of sunlight peeked past the thick, velvet, red curtains draped across eight rounded windows, each large like the arches of a church. Little café tables littered the room until they stopped at a stage where a quiet black Grand piano watched over like the statue of an old Chinese tiānzǐ. In the corner of the room, a man in a penguin suit stood equally still, his eyes the loudest thing about him.

From across the way, a chair scooted back and the sound echoed like gravel against the melodies that ghosted the place. Gio had stood up, although he still…

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Writing @ Starbucks

Sometimes it’s important to shut your fucking mouth, like in public places where your faces are busy misplacing the pastries you’ve paid for while the air escapes your veiny throat and what’s more heinous is the fact that you’re draped with the same shit that killed your uncle James, kid, and you don’t even savor it, you favor it gone in a second like you came with a mission to slay shit, to eat more food than a buffet filled with different stages of diabetic patients, my patience is thin and the more you linger the more anxious I am to flip the one finger on my hand capable of distinguishing me as foe or friend, you annoy me to no end, you’ve destroyed my trail of thoughts and that is my last strand of straw, you’ve ended all my plans to stay calm, I’m erupting from the skull like my cranium’s gone, you pathetic scu – oh, he’s leaving. Ah, back to writing.

Navigating Your Sea

This dark room
became endless
the moment we closed our eyes

every kiss you
leave on my skin
is like a drop of melting ice

every taste of
yours I get
reinforce my
ease, comfort,
the force
comes after
like a storm
or fire
like a whisper
comes in forms
of moans and
fun and anger
collapse, adjourned
for moments
while our bodies
conform to
desire, your form
is contorted
and I resort
to your thighs
like I’m holding
the ropes to a sail
and we’re floating the highs
and lows like a boat
and you’re steering us
straight for disaster
to thunder and lightning
drowning our bodies
in bubbles and tides high
currents deep enough to
lose our footing so we slide
into each other, like floods
we are consumed in the water
in the motions and moves
of two lovers, it’s beautiful
war as our bodies compete
for a truce
as our speed tops
and your jaw drops
and your eyes roll
and your moans stop
and the pitch of your voice
peaks and my hips
seek one final
lone thrust

comes from feeding
your lust.


Art by This Guy

A 13,000 words big dick

I’m writing this book and goddamn I actually love it. I can’t stop thinking about it. The words are shit and the pacing feels like an episode of The Walking Dead (fucking BORING) but hell once I gut it and sprinkle some glitter on it it’s going to read like a damn orgasm.

I’ve never been obsessed with my own work (which is probably big red flag #1) and it feels very conceited and blind. I feel biased towards it and have big dreams for the outcome. The kind of dreams society was supposed to have stomped out of me at this age, but yet there they are, bubbled up from my skull.

I’m about 13,000 words into it and I think I want it to be short. So even the millennial reader can pry their eyes away from an endless stream of GIFs to read the best story of their lives. I’m thinking 30,000 to 50,000 words. A fucking Novella, which sounds like novel and nutella mixed so YES.

Writing about how I feel about what I’m writing is some twisted Inception mental masturbation inside of a masturbation stuff, but alas. I’m like those rappers who talk about how big their dicks are but never yank the damn thing out. My dick’s about 13,000 words big right now, but the more time I spend with it the bigger it’s gonna get.