You might be bigger than me, so Imma' wet 'cha.

When I touch the mic, it's never too hard for me.

**

Hi. Promise you this, today's a day to take the back road to work. Keepin' your car right in the powerband when you lull through neighborhoods. Honk at everyone on your way to work. Nod or point your index finger to say hi, salutations, etc. Be cheerful today, just do it. Be like Nike and just do it. Do it in sweatshops.

No, but seriously. Today's a nice day. For somebody. Weather's nice. And who knows, their heart might not've been lillyput daisy stepped by a girl playing Lincoln Logs with your emotions or whatever. It'll be a nice day for somebody. They'll take out the trash and hear their favorite song while getting gas. Their cell phone bill paid on time. Two mouse clicks then bam, it's paid without getting off the John/throne.

**

Hi, so it's my day off. I squeezed it to make lemonade. I read blogs, magazines, a book. Not the entire book, slivers of that book. My nose was page height, left hand machete-wielding bam bam CHOP through those verbs, hewing them like overgrowth, bramble.

Now I'm currently blogging, blogging at its finest. See, but I need to know how to get this thing read, man. Why aren't your cousins or that guy in Beruit reading this shit? Do I need to hit up dad's medicine cabinet for some Stetson? What's a sucker gotta' do? Nude pics? I'll do nude scene, $250 up front. No lie, no lie. I'll do it.

Why do people let Sam Pink interview them and not me? Why don't I interview you? Why doesn't Sam Pink interview me? I want my fucking turn, God damn it. I want people to catch their breath with both cheeks puffed every time they navigate away from this page. I want clammy hands to sop, lungs to whoop and shudder click clack like camera lens.

Remember this blog post for what it is.


**

Alright, so it's time to be so serious about graduate school. Dad spilling MGD during halftime pissed. I'm going to be Tsunami 2004 deadly. I will not take no for an answer.

Call home Holiday Inn

You know, it isn't very often that you find a three-foot piece of plywood at a thrift store that somebody cut and painted to look like Mario, buy it for $1.50 and hang it on your bedroom wall.

Wait a minute....

Those shoes are fantastic.

***

That's all, for now. I have plenty to say, but am not exactly sure how I need to be saying it. Not yet, anyway.

Hmph.

Talking underwater

I feel everything I hear

sounds like talking underwater

at the pool as a child.

Hair suspended, face covered

in a muzzle of bubbles

and even though you know

Sam keeps saying hey hey

two dozen times,

you keep mouthing what.

Both breach,

fill your lungs until your chest stings

and go back underwater to mouth

hey heys and whats.

Freestyle rhyme #1

Oh my God! Back up,
I drank the elixir.
And right after that,
hang above your head like a light fixture.
Swinging like a noose,
I'll flicker like eyelashes,
or nose dripping snot
and your paycheck without the dashes
or decimals.

So next time you want to step up
and use your words like ammo
better dress up in your finest redneck camo.
And don't forget your tree stand,
or close your eyes, sucker.
Otherwise, sweat drips down your face
like the sweat down Bud Light
flutter like the bird who can't close his beak.
I'm sure I'll catch your sliding across hoods
like Starsky or Hutch,
or Waldo and some "Where he at?"
I'll catch you in my grip like Iron Sheik and his camel clutch.

Wah wah, heard you shriek when your girl made you go flaccid,
so go pop some candies and antacids,
pop open those books for some studies
call over your buddies
to drive over stoned with some Sluripes or Icees,
and when I step up the mic,
we'll have about 10 or 15 crises.

Don't ever get to comfortable.

This is where I sleep, what I come home to. I'll have more pictures when fewer things are in boxes. The Volkswagen toys are unpacked. The bed is made each morning. I even bought jars for flour and sugar. No chairs in this apartment, however. Not one. A kitchen table, no chairs. That says a lot about me and how I prioritize.


**

Babyface said it in a Lil' Wayne song. I'm saying it right now. Not as a piece of advice, the birds and the bees talk. Just something to say. Maybe consider. People have shoveled plenty of advice in front of my door since I've moved. Face to face talks with only the counter between you. Lots of nonsense, throw-away words, etc.

"Make sure to meet people."

Uh, what? You can't avoid doing this. Promise.

"Are you eating enough? I remember when I moved I wasn't eating. Buy fruits."

Okay, I'll do that. I heed. Raspberries from Wal-Mart. They were even fresh. And I've been drinking cranberry juice again. My kidneys are thanking me.

**

So what're you reading right now? Me?

This.

Imma' just say this: Wow-wee.

I'm back, officially.

I needed that two weeks off, folks. No worries, I was writing, reading, listening, etc. That two weeks, I was putting shit together like k'Nex.

Like this? Like thattttt.


**

Starting a life is hard. You have to start paying attention to things you'd regularly ignore. You buy expensive vacuums with filters instead of bags. Filters? Those are for fish tanks and cars. I've spent money on pots and pans, baking soda for the fridge. Spent money on toilet paper, and money I've spent on things has ended up toilet paper. I've bought new records.

Skrilla. I bought myself a gigantic TV, photos to put on my wall, frames to put them in. Blankets, towels, an ironing board to hang on the back of my door. Conserve space! This is like...this is like 700 square feet.

**

I know I'm getting older because I'm devising methods to vacuuming. Patterns, you see? The carpet needs to look a certain way when I'm done. Half comb-over, half bedhead. My music gets louder as the night wanes. I supply bass as if it were warm water for showers. I'm a water heater VIA bass.

I obsess over MF DOOM like your mom may have been over David Cassidy. He climbs in your ear like the whole ball of wax. MMMM, see, here's the thing about hip-hop. Well, music. It's all a throwaway. We've heard it all. Everything's been done. Albums about food, albums with no sound, no lyrics, about Oprah, whatever. We've heard it. But DOOM....um, DOOMMMMMMM, he just, he does it. Everything is an infant with him: brand new, sunrise, freshly sealed lamination around the poster.

Please readers, wade your way into hip-hop. You need it. You need it a lot more than you need a new Grisham novel, or a Misery movie. Fuck that stuff.

This is what you need:


Just like the air your breathe, the food that spoils in your fridge, he's necessary.

Also, I'm working on a hip-hop essay. We'll see how it goes.

Product of a sore neck.

Like being in a room
so still, you can see dust
resting on the carpet
waiting to be swept up by cautious step.
And your breathing is heavy
yet melodic. The carpet now flaked with dust
shows lines from a vacuum
four hours after the fact.

Despite the fact this sore neck
makes me walk large
and think in gusts,
I'm still able to remember
the way our conversation ended last night.
Your voice trailing off inside
short sentences over the light ring
of mattress springs compressing
and the only thing that would've made it better
if it would've happened today
so I could've been surrounded by
naked white walls,
alone in my apartment.
I would still wake up cradling
the phone between neck and cheek
hoping you would do the same.