I've been spending the last few days imagining your body inside-out.

Maybe I have. Maybe I haven't.

Actually, I've been trying to decide what poems I should read and if I should wear slacks or something else. Who even uses the word 'slacks' anyway? Trousers is even worse.

The reading in Muncie will be great, I'm promising this to myself. I'll have chapbooks available for purchase. I feel like I need to be selling myself like this. Maybe somebody will get desperate and buy one. Or fifteen. They might need to clean up pet waste.

Lately when I bite my nails, I think about what biting my nails means. I don't do it when I'm nervous, which is supposedly when people do it. Maybe biting your nails doesn't mean anything, and the person who hypothesized that it's something deeper is just full of shit.

I think two of my cousins are visiting from Chicago this weekend, and I have Saturday, Sunday and Monday off, which means three things: drugs, beer and video games.

Score.

I have started on my next chapbook. The reading is soon.

I sure have. I have a few titles floating around. I think there might be a lot more fiction this time around. That could be a lie, though. Who knows what'll be in it. My only goal is to make it at least 75 pages. Everything else will be a bonus. Like finding a wheat penny betweeen the couch cushions, or giving yourself a haircut and not clipping skin off your ears.

**

I need to shave my beard before I head to Muncie for this reading. The feeling of anticipation is punching me in the jaw. Chances are, I'll be wearing a sweater. I'll probably drink a new beer and cheer when people finish their poems. I know that isn't professional, but I won't care. I'm not getting a lower grade for "excessive celebration."

I hope there are dozens of people there.

**

I'm giving this man directions at work, right now, on how to print something from his laptop. I hate him for this. I hate his stupid polo shirt, his stupid glasses, and the way he rolls his pant legs up past his shin. I hope he doesn't have friends, family that loves him. I hope he has a terrible addiction to something deadly. I want his body to betray him tonight. Women will become aware of his impotence. A virus needs to overtake his brain like a drafting race car and pummel everything he's ever known.

Seriously, fuck this guy. Quit asking questions. Trial and error, my friend.

Presents. Tribute thread. Scene from a movie or maybe it's just loud music from the record player. The Bible.

I got some great presents today. I'm sure you did, too. Chances are, if you're a parent, you bought your child/ren some fantastic toys that made them really happy. I remember when I was seven, I got this indoor bowling set. I set up all the blue pins in the front, the green in the middle, red in the back. I rolled the plastic ball against the hallway walls and clapped when it hit the headpin, causing them to explode all over the kitchen. Vases were knocked over a few times.

This year, I got some Volkswagen things. I got some non-Volkswagen things. I didn't want to mention Christmas because that's just redundant, but I did just mention it.

**

People like cars. It doesn't matter if you hate your car because it takes fifteen minutes to start in cold weather just because you're too lazy to track down the small vacuum leak behind the intake manifold. Maybe you're just indifferent. It gets me to work, downtown, to the bars you say. Sure, everyone's car does that.

But this guy's car is different. You don't need to know a God damn thing about cars to understand. Just click on the link. It's flash fiction with pictures. I want this link to help get the thought through your head that fiction and narrative exist outside of your fucking cannonized literature, your anthologies of poems and sonnets, your how-to-publish your fantasy novel guides. Fiction exists outside of pages and books.

**

My dad is downstairs in the basement listening to Cream and other music from before I was born. It's almost too loud. I can't imagine him down there nodding his head, plucking the strings of a bass that's not plugged into anything. It makes me imagine a scene from a movie where a family comes home from dinner at some sports pub, and they hear music. The middle-aged son walks downstairs and sees the back of his dad's head. He's sitting on the couch. He walks through a cloud of smoke. The TV is on mute, a woman's mouth moves. She's not showing her teeth.

He gets in front of his dead and half of his face is missing. His arms are cradled at his midsection. A snub-nosed .357 lies with the barrel facing up between two couch cushions. Cream starts getting louder. Eric Clapton plays a solo, and the son's mouth opens to scream but nothing comes out. Credits start rolling. 

My dad's probably not dead though, maybe just sad. It's his first Chirstmas without having his parents. That kind of sucks. Same with my mom. They were both alone today in a crowded house.

**

I got my first copy of the Bible today.

Poetry reading in Muncie. This weather is crap. 7 Things (from Dan Bailey)

So, how awesome are poetry readings? Pretty awesome. And they're even better when you're performing in one. And multiply that awesome-ness by 50 or 60 if you include some of your friends who read equally awesome poetry. What should this tell you? I'll be performing at a peotry reading in Muncie. At Motini's. January 7th from 9:30pm until somebody passes out drunk or falls over from excessive bad assery, which will probably be around 11.

Here's the current list of performers:

Joe Betz
Dan Bailey
Nate Logan
Joey Minutillo
Peter Cavanaugh
Jess Degabriele

I wish I had links for Joe and Jess... but I don't. Why not make one up? I could imagine Joe Betz having a really sweet blog, but I just don't know the web address. Either way, you need to come out if you're in the Muncie area. And if you aren't, make a road trip. Do something violent on the way, like ramp over a billboad while cops chase you, Duke's style.

**

At least all of this rain isn't snow. I can't remember the last time I had a rainy Christmas. It's warm, too. I'd imagine this is what Christmas is like in the Northwest, only without running on the beach throwing wrapping paper into the air.

**

Dan Bailey, world's coolest person, posted up a list of seven things about my past that I'm contractually bound to post.

1. When I was two, I cut my thumb open on a glass bottle. It required two stitches. My mom said I cried a lot less than most toddlers. This means A.) I'm not a pussy, and B.) She could be lying. She isn't, though. The scar is still on my left thumb. After 20 years, it hasn't shrank. It's a small scar, but probably looked huge on a two-year-old's thumb.

2. The first time I smoked hashish I wanted to disappear. I was with a good friend and his girlfriend. I remember he cut off a small sliver of tan Pakistani hash and balled it up with some pot and packed it into a vaporizer chamber. I took a few hits and didn't feel anything. After the vaporizer got back around to me a fifth time, it felt like 50,000 ants were as slowly as they possibly could up through my feet, my thighs, my chest and my neck, until they all covered my brain and died at once. I walked around a table in the basement for an hour without stopping. I was spouting off random baseball trivia and I recited my old address in Chicago over and over again. 2918 North 73rd Avenue.

3. Every time I see somebody join a religious group on Facebook, it upsets me. Doesn't the name "1,000,000 Christians worship God" sound really redundant? Just like the phrase really redundant.

4. Whenever I heard creation stories back in Sunday school, I always imagined God standing in a factory by himself, surrounded by baskets full of limbs and eyes and hair and penises. He'd walk around the room, grabbing handfuls of parts, assembling them on a shitty old workbench. All of the worst people who're born with defects came at the end of the day because he was tired and just trying to fill his quota for the day.

5. When I was five, I got in trouble twice for swearing. Both times for saying "Fuck." The first time, my mom was trying to wash my dity hands with scalding water. I screamed fuck, and had to stay in my room until my dad got home. He spouted off a huge list of words that I was never allowed to say, even though I've probably said them all 10,000 times. The second time, I told my cousin Scott to "Suck my fuck." My sister and oldest cousin tried to tell on me, but I derailed their attempts when I buried my own head in the sandbox.

6. I've only been on an airplane one time. It felt like we were taking off forever.

7. During the sixth grade, my cousins would spend the night at my house every once in a while. One night, it was raining really bad, and the wind was blowing like 60 miles an hour. I was scared, and made everyone go in the hallway and cover their faces with pillows, just in case all of the windows blew out and impailed us with glass.

More things published. Cold weather bullshit. Bull shit can be one or two words, cool.

One of my poems was selected to be in The Broken Plate. That's pretty sweet. I was an editor on the magazine last year. This was the first year outside submissions were accepted. Mark Neeley is the faculty member in charge. He's an awesome guy. One time in class he got really pissed at me, but I was high. Probably being a huge dick. Ask Dan Bailey. He was there.

So it's really cold outside. The kind of cold that makes your skin burn when you wear jeans you pulled out of the dryer. Those jeans shrank a size. It rubs the top of your ass the way your ex- did. Finger tips feel like sand stuck in your toenail bed. Ouch. Whatever, though. It's supposed to be 54 on Wednesday, and fucking 61 on Saturday. Mother Nature likes supplying allergies, hives and bloated sinuses. What a wench. It's her business.

**

You know how some "radical people" (just type radical people into 'Google,' it might make sense) blame music or Grand Theft Auto on young kids killing their classmates or for punching their girlfriend in a movie theatre? Well, I never believed that shit.

That is, until I listened to this album:

This shit skies above you like Kareem's skyhook and belts you right on the jaw. Try running away from this album, I dare you. It's Anton Chigurh asking you to step out of the car. It's  wind blowing an apple tree bare. It's a lethal does of something.

Here are a few album recommendations:

Yeah. Bam. Buy this one, son. And this one.

I want to be that raw throat inside you that makes it uncomfortable to talk or breathe

My beard is getting long. It was helpful today. I was outside and with the windchill, the temperature dipped below zero around 2. I brought a new Jetta home today. A new old Jetta. New to me. Old to the previous owner. This Jetta will run again someday soon. I want to paint this Jetta a fantastic color, make it loud and unavoidable to anyone who's interested in it. Bringing a new car home was like a middle-aged single mother adopting a foreign infant, and rocking it to sleep while singing songs in a language the baby will never understand.

Only some parts of my body are cold. Like my right upper arm. And my back. Everything else is pretty warm.

I want to be a football coach whose face turns red from yelling on a cold day. I'll grab the quarterback by his facemask and get spit on his face when I make it clear to him that he needs to have more poise. He'll hate the word poise when I use it and he'll use my emotions as a sparring partner. I'll want to punch his face or choke him in front of everyone so I can make something an example of masculinity or toughness. There will be no winner or loser.

I've met everyone of my Facebook friends at least once. It's scary seeing just part of their face in the small squares. I don't want to meet any of those people and say, "Hey, you look different than you look on Facebook." That's not a flattering thing to say, even if it's true.

Capicola on sesame bread was for dinner. That yellow cake with chocolate frosting was for dessert, but I ate it first. The meat was so thin it was see-through. One of the seeds was stuck in my teeth up until I wrote that last sentence. I drank Sprite, but it was kind of flat.

I just took like a twenty minute brake from writing this post. I'm watching a commercial with some guy washing a dog's face in a sink. The dog didn't even look dirty. Oh well, most of us bathe when we feel dirty. Apparently there's a new Robocop movie coming out, which makes me feel dirty. It's time to shower.

I haven't been updating lately and that saddens me, but at the same time, I'm glad I'm alive

So, I haven't been updating everyday. I had a nice streak going where there would be something to read on here each day, but that feeling started to go away like two weeks ago. That doesn't mean there hasn't been a lot going on. Although, I've always thought of using a blog like a journal where you just write down things that happen everyday is kind of pointless. Most people don't care when you take a shit or if a friend died or if you're snowed in your apartment and you want to climb on the roof in your flannel and start screaming like you're being attacked from the inside-out by people you can't see.

I have been doing things, though. Lots of working. It's been nothing but bad news at work. FedEx is getting rid of a lot of things. They aren't matching 401k, they closed a store in Elizabethtown. Nobody gets good news and that's unfortunate.

This blog is turning into my favorite pillow. I can go a few days without being around it, but when I come home and see it on the bed, I jump head-first into it and bury my face, breathing in the fabric like it's the last air in the sky.

I'm going to write children's books about my cat. My girlfrend said it would be a good idea. It's been dead at work today, so I started scripting things. My cat will probably do anything. Other people should take the same approach my cat does.

**

It's like this song was written right now as a response to our economic plight, but not really. Either way, listening to it has been the highlight of this day.

**

I miss people. I want to be surrounded by the same four or five people all the time. I want everyone to be talking at the same time just so we hear something. I want those people to feel the same way I do, or at least know they've thought about having these feelings.

I'll be with those people tonight. My family is going out for my sister's 20th birthday. I want to eat a bowl of chili and drink some beer from a sweeating glass and get tired halfway through dinner.

Another one of those people will be home from Florida next week. Oh yeah, and Christmas is next week, too. I want presents. Everyone wants presents. They want to make a mess and wear new shirts and pants.


I think this post is over, for now.

Melvins. Sunday morning. Goodie Mob.

First this:

Then this:

If I saw this live, I don't think I'd make it 10 minutes through the concert. This is so metal. Awesome.

**

I woke up this morning at 9. Found out a friend from high school had died in a car accident. That's been the theme of the week. Waking up and getting bad news. I don't think it's possible for me to go a week without having an existential crisis anymore.

Just in case you have an existential crisis, the internet has all the answers.

**

They're awesome, hence the word "Good" in their name. Well, maybe that's not true.

Keep listening to music, please. How about somebody call me? I just want to talk and catch up on things. We can talk about writing or whatever.

Bad Religion. Crushed finger. When it rains, somebody gets a BJ.

I'm listening to Bad Religion at work, their '80-'85 collection disc and it's fantastic. The store is empty. There's lots of yelling. I haven't listened to this album, or any Bad Religion really, in a long time. I still know all the words to every song.

In high school I listened to Bad Religion every single day. My sister had a "How could Hell be any worse?" t-shirt and I always wanted it, even though it was way too big for either of us. Back then, I ate Dairy Queen five times a week. I'd come home from work covered in fryer grease, sesame seeds and smell like unwashed crotch. I'd get naked and lay on my bed, listening to Bad Religion. Sometimes the Germs, sometimes Bad Brains, Misfits, Dead Kennedys, Wire. But always Bad Religion.

I had abs back then. I loved different people back then and all I could grow was sideburns. They had no shape and I'm kind of ashamed to say I had them. All I cared about was coming home, hitting my bass as hard as possible and sing along with music. I was terrible at both and I didn't care. I just wanted somebody to hear my voice.

My cousins Bob and Vince moved to Florida with their family over the summer. Both were in a few bands together. Bob said he's moving back this summer, and Vince might be, too. We're going to make tons of noise and play concerts. I want to jump off stages again without a shirt on and get paid to have fun. Right now, I get paid to make copies. Occasionally fax things, pack cell phones and vases in boxes and send them in airplanes across bodies of water.

Bad Religion supplement:

**

This statement is true. It's raining somewhere right now. Somewhere else, somebody is getting a BJ. A big, fat BJ. Me? I'm sitting here reading Euro Tuner. I decided to give up on poetry this week. Maybe I'll pick it up again next week.

But for this week, I've concentrated on other things. Work, bank account stuff, being a grown up. I hate it, but I haven't written anything decent in two months or so, and it kind of makes my body hurt. Whatever.

Bring the ruckus and other things.

I woke up this morning and immediately felt the need to listen to "Bring the Rucuks." I had to wait until I got to work to hear it.

Inspectah Deck says this in verse three:

I rip it hardcore, like porno-flick bitches.
I roll with groups of ghetto bastards with biscuits.
Check it, my method on the microphone's bangin
Wu-Tang slang'll leave your headpiece hangin.
Bust this, I'm kickin like Segall, Out for Justice
the roughness, yes, the rudeness, ruckus.
Redrum, I verbally assault with the tongue.
Murder one, my style shot ya knot like a stun-gun
I'm hectic, I wreck it with the quickness
Set it on the microphone, and competition get blown,
by this nasty ass nigga with my nigga, the RZA.
Charged like a bull and got pull like a trigga
So bad, stabbin up the pad with the vocab, crab
I scream on ya' ass like your dad, bring it on...

You couldn't write that if you tried 10,000 times. It's the Miss Lonleyhearts of hip-hop.

**

Ball State lost their first football game of the season last night in horrendously anti-climatic fashion. It was like watching that squatter who won't leave your apartment tear through your pantry and eat your favorite snacks, leaving the wrappers in a pile next to the trash can. I'm upset.

**

I want you to spend three or four hours rummaging through this thread on the VWVortex. Tons of fantastic things inside. Also, some not-so-fantastic things. I guarantee you'll find your new favorite car inside.

**

I just took a break to eat my lunch. It's fajita nachos, which are delicious. I eat them every Saturday. This blog is over for now because I'm hungry and need these nachos.

I don't feel happy when you smile, alright. Feeling down and beneath dirt.

hey let me paint your nails.
alright i said. we sat in a room
with dust, chairs and not much else.
you hummed a song and i listened
to your voice get softer as you got tired.
i listened to cars outside rumble
over manhole covers.

i watched the lump in your throat
move like a sick pet. it moved
slow and helplessly over
the sounds you made
it whipered and had
a dry nose. i felt finger nail polish
run off my cutical.
it dried into a red rock.

on the last two fingers you grabbed
a cigarette off the end table
sucked it down with puffed cheeks
and blew smoke so the dust wouldn't be bored.
you kept talking to me and
the dust talked with the smoke.

your voice almost disappeared.
it was the hum of a fan or
something inconsequential.
you rubbed my forearm
and smiled
i saw this out of the corner of my eye
and looked at the smoke and dust
still talking. they were so close
it made the room stretch out
into the street.
walkers came to the door and listened
they agreed or disagreed
who knows. i just wanted your smile
to go away and the walkers' smiles
to stay on their faces
until their cheek muscles ached
just because they were a part of
a moment i never wanted.

**

I still have a few of my chapbooks left. I read through it twice today when it slowed down at work and the work made me disappointed. There were changes I wanted to make to every single poem, two of them I wish never existed. If I ever write a book I'm afraid this feel will happen everyday until none of the things I write even exist.

This makes me want to write a book because this blog would eventually not exist. Crazy.

Checking this out would be good for everyone involved. Internet in limbo. Steve Malkmus + Jicks.

I know a guy named Nate Logan. He published a book. Check it out. Nate writes good poetry. He gives great readings and he also has a fierce beard. At least, he did the last time I saw him.

Either way, it's exciting. 

**

I hate the feeling I get when wireless internet stops working. Tons of anxiety. Like a doctor is walking into a room holding a clipboard that's holding bad news. His words are short, empty and scatter your head like shotgun mouthwash. 

Earlier, webpages were loading in blocks and I hated it. I pulled a pillow over my face and pretended that the internet didn't exist. That didn't work.

We need internet police to ensure the sanctity of speedy web deliver. I need to read my blogs and watch my ESPN videos daily, damn it. I almost spelled it dammit, but seriously, fuck that internet meme.  

**

They need to tour close to Louisville soon.

One time, they said "Willie was found not far from the scene. He was panting like a pit-bull minus the mean."

Bam. +1

What I'm doing right now isn't too important.

Let's just say I'm fully clothed

but cold.

My nose is leaking like something 

from the ceiling. 

I can feel the breeze from outside

inside this room. Windows 

are locked tight.

"Fuck the police" is playing

and it's putting me in a pensive mood.

I want to call everyone in my address book

and make them listen to the first chorus

because that's all they could stomach.

"I don't understand this."

Then Eazy E will say,

"My identity by itself causes violence."

That makes perfect sense to me

since most of us are dangerous

after puberty.