DESCENT INTO LIGHT: Mike Allen’s Home Page

The Strip Search stripsearch The Gate said “Abandon All Hope.” I thought I’d tossed all my hope away, but when I stepped through the Gate, it still pinged. One of the guards slithered out of its seat, snarling as it drew forth a wand. C’mere,

About six years ago my buddy Charlie Saplak and I collaborated on a short story that re-imagines the Greek myth of Sisyphus, condemned to push a boulder uphill in Hell until it grows too heavy and rolls over top of him — after which he

Sisyphus Walks sisyphus Sisyphus lifts the thighbone of a god Above his head (a bone thick and long as A felled tree) and begins his trudge Across the hard-packed dust. Spills of silver fluid blanket uneven stone, Not pooling in hollows but spreading in Thin

Another domestic poem, born out of nothing more than strange noises regularly heard at night outside my window in the very office where I now sit.  The poem’s approach owes a great debt to the wonderful ending of Thomas Ligotti’s horror story “Nethescurial,” which is

My short story “The Button Bin” is now available online in its entirety at Apex Magazine.

No One noone I do not hear a tapping beside me at the window. I will not raise the shade. I will not see eyes there, silver with reflected moonlight, the same eyes that flashed outside the attic window as I peered up the dark

A real-life version of this poem actually happened to us, years ago. A teller at our bank mistyped our account number, causing a deposit to vanish into non-existent account limbo. And of course when we wrote checks based on the not-unreasonable assumption that our money

Disaster at the BrainBank™ ATM disaster We’re sorry, we’ve misfiled your personality, and deposited your childhood memories in someone else’s account. We warned you: we’ve just upgraded, you must protect your own persona till the bugs smooth out. It seems you’ve far surpassed your limit

This poem means to be a reversal of the typical poet-muse relationship; I once called it an “anti-muse” poem and was corrected — by a YouTube commenter! — that it’s still a tribute, in its own way. And for some reason, I slipped in a

Giving Back to the Muse muse She wears a necklace of knives and eyes, a sash sewn from flags and faces, boots welded from bomb fragments, a belt of hangman’s rope. You fear she’ll see you watching but you can’t look away, not even once