Doom ship captain cackles overhead

I'm going to sit here in the dark and tell myself that every little thing is alright.

I'll fashion a big black rocking horse and ride it with a smile on my face.

I'll drink water until my stomach bloats, then eat bread to soak it up. I'll go hungry for days and be full.

I hope to God there's not a sinkhole that swallows my car while I'm driving to a new home.

When I wake up tomorrow, my entire body is going to feel like it's filled with sand. I'll walk with a hitch. I'll take eight steps to the bathroom, relieve myself, and stare into the mirror wondering why I never notice the hair on my face grow.

When I look outside, I wish the moon was close enough to touch then push away whenever it made me feel uncomfortable. I feel the same way about you.

There are times when I'm at work and I coil. Freeze, lock up. Stop thinking and just exhibit motions.

Right now I wish Sunday nights were a house so I could burn them down then drive away in a fishtailing car.

I want to go to sleep not knowing if I'll wake up. But when I do wake up the next morning, I can whisper finally to myself and breathe in until my chest hurts.

I wish I had this kind of flow and this kind of mind:



We can bag us a 'Benz and an Audi, too.


**

Done.

Darling giants and my inability to distance run.

There's something going on up there. Sure, a jam session. Maybe a concert. Something else though. I feel like one of those loonies on TV who can sense ghosts.

Look at that picture. It's metal. Form, content and function. Also, the bassist kinda' looks like Joe Betz, a college friend. I did a double-take and laughed for a good five minutes. Joe never came off as a metal guy, but rest assured, if somebody handed him an axe, he'd cleave some trees. Maybe an entire forest.

Thing is, music does stuff folks. You need to be taking it seriously. Maybe not like Mom's birthday or the termites that're eating through the kitchen baseboards. Pretend it's an ocean and you've never swam before. Walk in up to your ankles. Kick around. Splash some. Dig your hands into the sand and pull up a clump of loose soot so that all the water around you gets cloudy for a minute.

Think. Hum some bars.

Go out a little farther. Like up to your chest. What's scary is that you're going to be wading around. Floating on your back a bit. Spitting out mouthfuls of water that tastes like the dentist's office, and you'll look back. The ocean's carried you out quite a bit father than expected. You're scared sure, but what's the difference between five feet? If you get pulled under, you get pulled under. Regardless of how deep you're out, you don't know how to swim so why not just enjoy it?


**

My insides burned yesterday. Something happened with a wedding that I was supposed to take part in. Now I'm no longer invited. I don't want to get into details. In retrospect, I've actually just wanted to write down that something happened. Welp, so I did.

Yup. It's out in the open now. Let's marinate on that one for a while. I still don't know how I feel. Hurt, yes. But anything else? Who knows? I'll have an eight hour car ride in a few weeks to think or completely forget about it.

**

I was actually about to post up a really funny clip, but in the process, I got Rick Rolled.

Ha.

The Kansas City Experience: Sans Jimi Hendrix

Ribs.

I guess that's probably the best way to sum up my vacation in one word. Ribs. Like the polar opposites of the rib universe coming together (like Congress is supposed to be, right?), to form this numbing sensation in your mouth. First the rub, a lake effect drubbing of spices, powders and crimson dust on the slab. Smoked, cooked for what seems like eternity.

Then the sauce. My God, the sauce. Sweet, pasty, a light glaze. Habenero, maybe? Sour nook? Tomato based or vinegar based? Doesn't matter folks. Throw it in front of me at a table, give me some wet towels and I'm gonna go to work. Around 6:30, I'll have the tip of my tongue buried beneath my nail beds trying to extract every last molecule of sauce.

Need proof?



Bam. I murdered that slab without batting an eyelash. Excuse the poor lighting. That restaurant was dim. Like catnap eyes. Like TV glow from the hallway (Gates' is said restaurant, by the way, if you're ever in town. Place was righteous.)

**

Trust me, it wasn't just about barbecue (kinda'). I signed an apartment lease. I got my promotion at work and start at the end of the month out in Kansas City.

So, I'm moving? Yeah. It's official. And there's no anxiety. No stress. Not a sliver of it. What gives? This either means I'm about to make the biggest mistake of my life or go out there, and tear the city apart, super-nova 50 billion miles away style.

I mean, I've made lists. Everyone does it. You better believe Kansas City's writing community is near the top. Oh yeah, did I mention UMKC has their MFA program? And I've been talking with literary agents?

Hmmmm, are you catching on yet? Doubt it.

Let's try again.



He's a beast, he's a dog, he's a mother fuckin' problem.
Okay, you're a goon.
But what's a goon to a goblin?
Nothin', nothin', nothin,
You ain't scarin' nothin',
on this faggot bull shit
so let's call 'em Dennis Rodman.

Ding. Ding. Just let that marinate/fester/stew/whatever else. Think whatever you want, but you cannot sit there and tell me that cadence doesn't pummel you in the face for three straight minutes. He's on top of the world and I'm jealous. Every magician needs props, and he's got a full closet.

**

I'm hoping that Vitamin Water is cheap in Kansas City. Like those 10 for $10 deals. I can already tell my diet will regress back to noodles, Vitamin Water, cereal, crackers and sandwiches with a few pieces of cooked chicken thrown in for good measure. Honestly, I'm perfectly fine with that.

Another list:

Things I need when I move to Kansas City

• A couch (definitely looking for a Cragislist or Goodwill special)
• Flat-screen (I've seen some decent deals at Best Buy. Keepin' it below $500)
• Some kind of chair/loveseat thing
• Turntable
  
• Futon/bed (see 'a couch)

Luckily I've already hit up Ikea once. Cue the Flight Club reference.

**

Movin' date: July 26th. Phew.

Mini-update before super update.

Back from vacation.

Wow.

Uh, I need to go to sleep. Promise a huge update tomorrow/later today, since it's well past midnight.

Trust me, there'll be good stuff inside. Like, promotions and apartments and a move date and pictures of ribs.

'Til then. Enjoy this. It was pretty much the theme song to the entire vacation.

Tao Lin always blows himself.

I'm not even kidding. Look at his blog.  It's like one of those porno sites you accidently go to because you spell boobs wrong,  so it's just a bunch of pop-ups and really loud sounds of girls moaning and sucking on fat red dildos.

He wants you to buy his books, his pubic hair, MySpace page, etc. That's cool, I guess. At least he sells books. I don't even have a book to sell. Sometimes I wish I did, other times, I wish my desire to write would just disappear and I would be content with driving a snow plow in Montana. 

Brah, look how tough that looks. Snow flying everywhere. That could potentially have been like.... 15 snowmen. What you don't see is all the grade schoolers boo-hoo'ing as they watch Jack Frost's nose get turned into carrot splinters.

**

By the way, that last stuff was for Dan Bailey and Nate Logan. Both of those guys rule, and not just because they're on top of my blog roll. Shit, Nate, you haven't updated your blog in like two weeks. What's your problem? You too, Dan B.

**

It's my birthday in two days, and I'm thinking about staying in all day and burning a hole through something. Or writing. Or reading about writing. Or writing about reading. Or wiping this sweat off of my neck and legs. Or bathing.

I have no idea. We'll see.

Swimming with a kid.

I went swimming with a kid that comes waist-high to me. Our shorts kinda' matched: his were red with blue stripes, mine blue with red stripes. I took two steps back and jumped in, spreading my legs out to make the biggest splash I could. Water rushed from around me and spilled over the edge of the pool. It was still warm from twelve hours of daylight, used bathwater minus the soap scum.

The kid jumped in at a good angle. Everything looked straight, his body was like a bullet, red and blue streaks from shorts traveling down his leg, blending with the fence that cornered the yard. He stayed under water for as long as he could, coming up to take a huge gulp of air and he returned under water. I paddled for the shallow end and started bobbing.

About 8, the sun touched down on my roof. We talked in short chops, like the water passing to each end of the pool.

"So kid, are you in summer school? I don't see you out at the bus stop in the mornings?"

He bounced on the balls of his feet to keep his head above water. "Yeah, sometimes. Mom doesn't make me go everyday. I sit in my room and play Nintendo."

"Oh yeah?" I lunged for a pool ring and had it drag me back towards the ladder,"what do you play on Nintendo?"

"War games. I like to use the sniper rifles. They're quiet, but can usually take all the guys down with one bullet. Do you play games?"

I climbed up the later and squished my pockets, water spilling down my legs. The kid stroked a few times and floated on his back.

"Not too often. I usually work. I pack boxes in a factory, then drive them around on a forklift."

"Cool. Yeah, the war games are fun. There's this one where you're a ex-prisoner. You get to start World War III."

The kid floated towards the wall and I pulled him out by his underarms.

"Sounds like my kind of game. How do you start it? Do you push a red button?"

"Nah, somebody dares you."

We dry off then walk down the street towards his house. The sun slipped off my roof. I have to shield my eyes with an open palm to walk. Even then, not very straight. The kid is drumming on his thighs, making machine gun noises. Then his front door open, and he took off with sandals making the plastic clack on scorched asphalt. I turn around, shield my eyes from the sun, and contemplate trying to start World War III myself.

NBA Draft Day blog (that might only briefly talk about the NBA Draft...)

Asking professors for letters of recommendation is tough. Like.... super tough. This is how mine have went so far.

• Draft a crazy hybrid email/old-skool letter (notice the k? Shit's tough)
• Read it three times
• Edit it
• Send it, fold hands and pray. Rosary works, too. It'll help brush up on those Hail Marys

See? That's hard. Wanna know why? It's showing a professor your penis and asking them, "Can you look past that creepy vein, that dent in the tip, and say something good about it?" Your stomach goes all coaster hill drop with your eyes closed, hands clammy. It sucks. The kind of anxiety nobody needs.

I want to tell you who they are, but I'm not entirely sure about those kinds of privacy rules or whatever....but I can tell you I have openly endorsed them on this blog 1,724 times.

Phew. Let's just hope they can come through with some killer letters.

**

Apparently, high school coaches have more to worry about than prom night or underaged drinking. Reason #1873 why most people are deplorable and should've been one of those other 14,891,283 children that died on mom's stomach.

Joking aside, Ed Thomas was a fantastic, selfless individual who was dedicated to serving his community, family and school. Oh yeah, he was one hell of a football coach, too.

Lots of numbers in this blog. Sorry. It's actually been really tough not typing the same numbers more than once. I think that's what I get for not having an actual number pad on this laptop.

**

When you write, it's important to use words that don't suck. You know, like "walking." That's a horrible, horrible word. It's boring. What is it conveying?

Jillian walked into her kitchen.

Oh, I'm sorry. Were you writing a story? Sorry I couldn't tell. I was busy napping through the snorefest. Not kidding. Get that word out of your story. Study the dictionary, the thesaurus, I have no idea. Talk with people and pick up new, fancy words. They all don't need to be $2 words... but 68 cent words maybe? Hey, 68 cents can get you a Polar Pop, and that's just fine with me, as long as I get two squirts of vanilla in my Coke.

**

Started on my page layouts for the chapbook. Creating something like that feels good. I really can't show you the progress. Just imagine, please.

**

Oh my God. NBA Draft tonight. One of the three sports nights each year that I live for. Please, Chicago, let's have another memorable night like last year. DeJuan Blair and Wayne Ellington, maybe? Make a huge splash and trade up for James Harden.... please? Don't be skurred.

This is gonna clock you in the jaw like "BASH POW"

Etc. Yeah, just like the old Batman clips.

You ready for this, here it comes. Well, here it comes, August 2009.




Killer. 4 pieces of fiction. 15 poems. Hurray.

**

Pretend this is class, okay? Fifth grade. Call on me. Send me notes under the desk. Yes, No or Maybe? I dunno. I might doodle something cute, like a face with crooked nose. Oh, that means I love you in 11-year-old. Let's eat bagged lunches together at the bottom of a slide and hide behind water fountains, wasting time with our breath held. It's times like this that I'm glad our social hierarchy isn't based on height, but what we can fit inside our heads and hands. So, let's run with clenched fists to the cafeteria, shove the stale vegetables inside our milk cartons so we can have dessert, and run through the hallway banging knee-high lockers.



**



Pretty good. I'd recommend it.

When the river floods, just hike up your pants, alright?

Everyone has a dad. Your relationship with him is probably on par with September weather: low 80s one day with a thin drag of clouds, and the next day hovers above 30 with wind that never dies, hail that leaves craters in the roof of your car, and then, just after you can see twenty feet in front of your face, the humidity shoots up, water pools in your yard and chokes the plants. Have fun spending an afternoon uprooting roses and bushes and moving them to the front of your yard.

I'm pushing 23, and it makes my relationship with my dad off-kilter. I'm an adult. I work 40 hours a week. I have a car payment, my own insurance, two loans for school. Half the time, I buy my own food, even though there's a refrigerator filled with food 20 feet from my bedroom. Granted, many of those choices I made myself, but like most, I take after my dad, so I'm stubborn.

Dad's are like that big tree in your backyard. Say you're napping in your room. It's 2:30, no clouds. Sun feels like it's tapping a clenched fist against your window. Still, you're lying in your bed, eyes opened like the top of a can,  and its' dark in your room. That's dad. He's your face, crooked toes, slouched shoulders, unmade bed, dirty pile of laundry. And it's going to take you a long time to figure that out. Hell, it probably took me until I decided to move to Kansas City to understand that.

My dad mixes cereals that, you know, have no business being in the same bowl, but that's why I love him. He's reserved and close-lipped until he has something to say, and I wish I had that quality. I generally can't shut the fuck up. Dad's that Chinese proverb, "Those who know, do not speak. Those who speak, do not know." He's why I write. Half the time, I don't know. Writing is a mechanism used to understand the world we live in. Every other tool we have, the news, Internet, conversation, whatever else, it's all crooked. It's all jaunted. Sitting at a computer with a white page or at a desk with a pen that probably doesn't write. It's the only purity you have when you try and understand.

Yesterday I was writing a poem, and I was sitting there convincing myself, "This is what I want to do for a living. I'm going to make it work somehow." Then I started thinking about Father's Day. I wonder when I was born what my dad was thinking when I was lying there. I wonder if parents have notebooks they fill with checklists of what they want their kids to do. Like, I wonder if my dad wanted me to run a company, or a grocery store. I wonder if my dad figured I might turn out gay (didn't) or something else. Date a black chick, run marathons, collect basketball cards (I did do that). I'm not a dad yet, so I don't have a clue.

And I honestly have no idea what he thinks about me now. I've made a lot of mistakes and have done things against his grain. I'm sure there are times when I come home and he wishes I had an answer for half of the things I do, like spend time in my room writing pages of nothing. I don't, though. Just like he probably doesn't have answers to the things he does, other than, "Just because," or "It makes me happy."

That's fine with me. It works for us. Ultimately, that's all that matters, because that's love. Happiness. 

I love you Dad.

**

Uh, so this one is for Dad. 

This definitely works for me.

Absolutely fantastic.

**

Well
it's definitely no fun
to treat love like an afterthought.
You know,
like having a lost dog feeling
as I watch your car crawl up our street.
Hand on the glass
then the only thing I have left
is my finger prints as an outline
of a red sedan.

Instead,
I like to hold everything we have
in crossed arms
while they quake right before I fall asleep.
The words that make your eyes
ice with anxiety,
the pit of my stomach harden
because we're going to turn words
into four walls and the things
that fill the space between them.

Each night,
I try and remind myself
seconds before eyelids shutter
that we'll discuss these same things again tomorrow
with the same feeling spreading across my insides
like the crawl of dawn that'll wake us
and that's just fine with me.