Wednesday, April 30, 2008

I want to punch Tyra Banks in the face.

Her voice is just really irritating.

That aside, there are two days of classes left. I have two finals. One test, and turn in one paper. I haven't been writing too much poetry this week, mainly because I've just wanted to relax and take this week easy. And Grand Theft Auto IV came out, so I've been running over faces and jumping out of windows. Which is great.

I promise more poems. Soon.

Tyra Banks just said "It's her damn face." She sounded so fucking mad. Whatever, Tyra. Shut it.

Sunday, April 27, 2008

What men do in the morning.

He walks into a bathroom
with eyes wrapped in glasses
made of garter snakes. Bulbs
hung naked from bronze sockets
with no string to pull.

Their light was brown like the ring
of filth around the toilet. He runs
an index finger across his teeth,
the feeling of
blue fish belly when it’s pulled
out of a lake.

A tube of toothpaste is rolled up
like a wad of money and he
squirts a pea-sized circle onto
the bristles. The shower radio
is on an AM news station and the
reporter talks in gasps
about an eclipse that nobody saw.

He removes his beard with
a half-dozen smooth strokes.
There is a line of pastel islands
blotted on a long rectangle of
white wallpaper. Covered in
mouth grime, he puts the toothbrush
into a porcelain penguin’s flipper
and looked at his face. His
cheeks looked like they were
covered in bee stings.

Friday, April 25, 2008

Thinking about poetry in ten years.

What's a good poem? I can't remember having somebody say "Hey, that was a good poem," after I've done a reading. Even if the person is lying, it's nice to hear that somebody was at least paying attention. More people should be excited about poems and pay attention to them.

Thursday was my last day of classes, and it made me think about writing when school's done. It's hard to think about what'll motivate me. I always had classes and could say "This is alright, it can be workshopped." I'll even miss the fact that I got the same comments on every poem. "I like the images, but sometimes there are too many of them, or too many words."

It'd suck if I my poems stayed the same forever. I need to start trying new things with my poetry. When I move back home, I need to find a new group of "poetry people." And a place to read at. Oh yeah, and a job. It'd be great to get a job at a publishing place.  I'd take a decent job anywhere, though.

I tried writing like three different poems yesterday, but it seemed a lot harder than usual. That's the first time writing felt like that all semester, and that was really weird.  Two poems are my goal for tomorrow.

And watch the NFL draft.

Tuesday, April 22, 2008

Today made me miss school.

It was weird, today was the first day that I actually thought about missing Muncie and the college experience. I was in ENG 409, easily my least favorite class, just because everyone in there, besides like three people, are really fucking annoying. Well, annoying, or just stupid. Like, they never shut up stupid.

I was thinking about talking with Joe before class, and the fact that he was wearing pink fishnets and a thong under these really hideous shorts that looked like boxers. And I was thinking about Dan's poem we read yesterday in Mark Neely's class where he used the word "dickring" three times and it made me laugh. 

And I was thinking about how irritating this one guy is because he can never punctually say anything: he just has to drag shit out for like three minutes, instead of saying it in fifteen seconds like any other normal human being would. Yeah, and the Wig Mistress is in there, too. I'm pretty sure she'd be one of the two or three worst lays imaginable, right up there with Joan Rivers (just because I don't think she could grab her ankles if I asked her to, you know, just for a more pleasurable rear entry experience for both of us,) and probably Meg Ryan for the simple fact she was in a movie with bone in the title and it wasn't pornographic. I'm pretty sure I could think of worse people, but right now, Meg Ryan is fairly nauseating.

But yeah, I don't even know why I was upset. It sure as Hell wasn't because I'm going to miss Muncie. This city can bite my sack. I just think I'm going miss all of these people, even the irritating jerk offs. It makes me think about why I'm looking forward to moving back to Southern Indiana. I honestly don't know why. I bet in another year, I'll want to leave there, too.


On a completely different note, I took two pictures of my dick today, but if I posted them, I think Blogger would close down my page, which would suck. My dick looked awesome, though. A lot of people would be jealous.

Saturday, April 19, 2008

What's near a Norwegian Hospital

There’s a mother in a Norway
lying face down in a hospital bed.
Her son spins a brass ring
around her swollen finger
causing a clear fluid to seep from under
her yellowing finger nails.
Doctors come in and out
of a door creaking in its hinges,
scribbling on pads of off-white paper.
One mumbles something blanketed in vowels.
One says “Mother…swelling, liver….”
and walks out, digging through his pocket
for a tongue depressor.

The son walks to the window and tugs at a cord.
There is a field on the western edge of the hospital
surrounded by a long whitewashed fence.
He thinks about how this looks like American farm
and how bad he wants his mother to die in her sleep,
instead of facedown with her mouth filled
with pillowcase.

He tries to look past branches covered
in a mossy filth so he can count the spots on a bird’s eggs.
Bird’s egg spots, the color of his mother’s skin.
Texture of a reptile. His stomach felt uneasy,
like how those baby birds will feel with their
feet perched on the soiled green branches,
pumping blood into their wings for the first time.

Thursday, April 17, 2008

Published stuff.

I got my poem "Talking about Bodies" published as a feature poem on the Literary Tonic poetry journal. Check it out here.

I'm in Chicago for my Grandmother's wake and funeral, so I might not be doing too much updating over the next few days. Although, most of my school stress is done (kinda), it'll be nice when this weekend is over, and I can concentrate on the summer.

But I think everyone feels that way.

Monday, April 14, 2008

It's somebody's birthday today.


That wonderful person making the hot face in that picture with me is my girlfriend Brianne. It's her birthday today. Sometimes, she does ridiculous things like fart in the morning while we're waking up, or know all the words to every single musical... or complain about not being able to beat Adventure Island, which is probably the easiest video game ever.

All of that doesn't matter, though. Brianne loves me, a lot. And she makes sure to remind me, a lot. And that doesn't bother me. She makes me feel special. So since she makes me feel special, I bought her these for her birthday.


I figures since she buys me all of these fancy presents, the least I could do is get her diamonds. It's her birthstone, after all. Plus, she's cute and has red hair. 

Happy Birthday, Brianne. I love you.

Sunday, April 13, 2008

Thinking About Animals.

When we were kids, Clay and I
would collect coins tarnished with age
from a fountain and ride the bus
to the Lincoln Park Zoo. Clay would
swing from the grab handles and
talk about how big the sea mammals might be
and how he wanted to see the shapes of rats
inside an anaconda’s stomach. I stuffed
the coins inside my pockets and considered
what makes a bird a bird and what lets
a dolphin swim underwater and not drown.

One day in June, we walked through the gates
surrounded by statues of extinct animals. Their
claws are long and dangerous. Clay and I
ran down the paths covered in mulch to the
huge buildings that smelled like dirty bathrooms.
I never imagine a polar bear being lazy or
having the same name as my dad, and up close
their fur was an off-white, like a broken light bulb.

We got bored with the polar bears and ran to the
primate building, a large glass pyramid surrounded
by trees with plastic leaves and the ants that crawl
on them are plastic, too. Inside the building, apes
covered in the thick hair found on brushes
swung around like Clay on the bus and grabbed
their feet while rolling on their backs. A group
of kids on a field trip rubbed their oily hands on the
thin piece of glass that separated us from primates,
mocking their syllabic grunts.

I was by myself with a gorilla standing six inches
in front of me. He rubbed his pale palms on his
round stomach, then turned around
and squatted in front of me, digging into a stump
with a pointed stick. A dull ocean
of silver hair ran from his neck to his bottom.
I saw a beetle or some other bug with small wings
bow through his silver ocean like an overturned boat.
The gorilla prodded the bug with the end of his stick,
causing its guts to spill out like a smashed grape
His brown wrinkled and made me think
that only the kinds of bugs that
crawl on our skin make us different.

Riding a bike in summer.

I know a girl named Lonnie
that rides a green bike with a basket.
The sidewalks she rides down
are covered in crushed acorn caps,
and flattened yellow cups from a church picnic.
Her tires buckle under cracks and when
Lonnie goes down the big hill, her denim
skirt hikes up to mid-thigh.

At the bottom of Dannon Street, she
sees Dennis beat a stick against the side
of a fire hydrant. His polo shirt is unbuttoned
and he’s angry about his haircut. The small
penguin on the chest pocket shuffles his
feet through bigger tracks in the snow.

Lonnie’s braids fall against her shoulders
and beat on her back when she comes to a stop.
She explains to neighbors that her hair is auburn,
not red. “I got it from my mom.”
When the street lamps come on, she parks her bike
against the tree Dennis beats. Lonnie picks
at chunks of bark with her finger nails while
flakes of red nail polish fall into her lap.
She thinks about changing out of her skirt
and into a pair of jeans that fit last year.
She’ll let down her braids, grab a stick
bigger than Dennis’, and whack it
until everything but the trunk falls
into the street.

Friday, April 11, 2008

Readin'

I had the reading last night for ENG 409 at the Art Center in downtown Muncie. I mean... besides the fact that my partners didn't show up for the reading, it went surprisingly well. I went first and thought my reading went alright. Plus,  yesterday gave me an excuse to get a new tie and a baller new hat.

I also have my summer finally figured out. I should be out of Muncie on the weekend of June 14/15, so the countdown is officially beginning. That also means that the job hunt needs to start picking up, too. I need to tweak and update my resume.


TAMPA BAY RAYS, BIATCH!

Wednesday, April 9, 2008

Here is the second poem.

Stars are confetti in space.

Imagine if Mars was a giant party favor.
God could hold it in between his thumb and index finger
and pull the long, red cord from the underside.
Since space is a vacuum, there’d be no sound.
Jupiter would remain large, bored and uninterested.
Venus would show no arousal of suspicion.
Pieces of paper float out past planets in other galaxies.

From Earth, we could all sit in a circle
and watch stars being made by a giant, muscular forearm.
A girl with glasses might ask, “What is he celebrating?”
Another guy wearing jeans would ask why God doesn’t have tattoos.
I will cover both of their mouths with my palms.
From Earth, we can hear stars being made
because Earth is not a vacuum.

Imagine if Mars was a giant party favor
but no one was there to celebrate.

Here are two poems.

Mother Trapped in a Boat
Or A Rowing Mother.

Imagine Mother in a rowboat.
The oars are heavy and damp with salt.
She moves them through the water
with her thin arms, her elbows bending
like the rusty fulcrum of a barn door.
He bangs are pulled back with the few parceled
strands of grey so she can watch the shadows
of large sea mammals and speckled scales
swim at arm’s length below her.

Mother doesn’t complain that
she’s trapped in the middle of a body of water
rowing a small brown boat in a sundress.
She complains about the smell of the water,
about a buoy that can’t break away
from the chain that tethers it to the ocean floor.
She’s thirsty and licks the sweat away from her lips.

Mother is out to sea in hopes to find
a message in a bottle. Or a map to a place
that isn’t on a map. As the moon casts
a blue shadow on the boat, she places
her head on folded hands
and watches a piece of driftwood
filled with knots and holes
sink into a school of silver fish
that shine like the ring around her finger.

Sunday, April 6, 2008

I pledge allegiance... to the Tampa Bay Rays?

With my 100th blog post, I'm going to officially declare my allegiance to the Tampa Bay Rays. I remember in 1998 when they were a new team with the Diamondbacks. I don't know what it was. Maybe it was because I knew they were going to suck really, really bad, and I thought it was funny. Maybe it was because their original roster of misfits was laughable (a 40-year-old Wade Boggs, Fred McGriff, and their ace was Rolando  Arrojo). I don't know. But I've always passively watched them. Maybe not as hardcore as the Cubs and Angels, the two teams I routinely root for.

This year is different, though. When I saw beat the Yankees in convincing fashion, I cheered. Not because I hate the Yankees, but because I was genuinely happy about this team. I'm absolutely in love with the roster. Carl Crawford is one of my five favorite baseball players, and the fact that he continues to get better is just scary. He's a lock to hit .300 and steal 50 bases. B.J. Upton is another future all-star with .300/30/30/100 potential. Not to mention, they have Evan Longoria, one of the top position player prospects in the game today. 

On top of that, they have some quality young pitchers. Scott Kazmir and James Shields both have ace stuff. Especially Kazmir, who has three full seasons in the bigs under his belt... and he's 24. Matt Garza and Edwin Jackson are both young and shown flashes of solid pro potential. And their bullpen may not be "Lights out, hang 'em up after the 6th inning," but Dan Wheeler, Al Reyes and closer Troy Percival are all seasoned veterans with big game pitching experience.

So why should I get excited about a team that's never won more than 70 games in a season? Potential? Because I like rooting for an underdog? Honestly... I have no idea. I do know that I'm absolutely in love with Crawford's skills. He's a tough guy who brings an old school flavor to the plate every single team he's up to bat. At 26, he'll surpass 1000 hits and 300 stolen bases this year. I love the fact that this team is going to absolutely piss off Boston and the Yankees all season long. I already made my predictions this year, and still don't think Tampa Bay is going to rattle off 90 wins and sneak into the playoffs. I'm just hoping that with all of their potential, things start falling into place. I'm a sucker for potential. That's why I root for the Cubs.

Post #99

So the poetry gala was on Friday night. Lots of fun. I got to hear some great poetry. My two friends Joe McHugh and Indiana's Poet Champion Joe Betz both placed second and third, respectively. Props to them. Some guy who I've never met that had this fancy voice won. He read a poem about a pocket watch. I honestly didn't pay any attention to the poem. I just listened to his voice.

There's this asshole I was playing Halo with yesterday that made that stupid "(Insert nonsensical event happening) makes Baby Jesus cry." I've never understood this statement. I don't think an infant Jesus would cry because something CRAZY happened. He's probably crying because he's a fucking baby and he's sitting in shit or something. Or he's hungry.

Tuesday, April 1, 2008

Talking About Bodies

My girlfriend is a radiologist
who talks about what she sees inside bodies.
Men with lines of cancer that drag through their colons
like chains hanging from the hitch
of a truck that diesels its way towards civilization.
Or a pock of emphysema.
My girlfriend says she enjoys using machines
that show color,
because, as she explains:
“Emphysema is brown like unmolested dirt.
Free from insecticide. Only it’s killing you.”

We lay on the couch when she comes home
with the History Channel on mute and talk about bodies.
I ask her what she thinks the inside of my body looks like.
She answers, “A magazine. Full of bright, vibrant colors.
There are people talking about fashion
in your lungs. Editorials about Yo La Tengo
in your liver. A dammed river
in your penis. Your intestines meet at an impass,
like a two belts tied together to fit around a waist.”
She says my brain is a rain cloud
hovering over a body of water. Reciprocal.

I like to imagine myself carrying on a conversation
with her behind an x-ray screen. I wonder if she can
see inside the words I’m saying. I wonder if words have
an anatomy.

Meta-blog

I'm writing this blog because I'm in class and Dan told me to.

I still don't feel all that good. I think I might have the flu. I actually hope that's all I have, if I even have anything. It sucks being in this class because all of the "work" for this semester is technically done, so we're just sitting in here, gobbling dildz (dildo, plural) and reading our stories that everyone's heard a million times.

This day sucks because I keep feeling like shit, and then ten seconds later, I feel better. I think I'll just get naked or something. Oh, I wrote a poem a few days ago. I'll post it later. I plan on reading it at the gala, along with two others.