Collecting diamonds and some worthless stones.

Let's study illness one fiber at a time.

2009-09-23T21:25:00.002-04:00

We get sick. Isn't that bull shit? Ears breathing like the air beneath beds of coals, a matted orange, almost spray paint red. The look on your face is the same one you make when you toss up popcorn behind the backstop and try to catch it in your mouth. Swelling, the pool float that's emptying air through the hole you made trying to jackknife over it at the bon fire last weekend. Your stomach is the line at the loan office or the first baseman when he throws his glove at the dugout right after a rain delay starts.

Screw being sick, damn it. It makes me work harder, and that makes no sense. Should be doing much, much, much less. I feel better with a shirt off when I'm sick. I feel more attractive sick. Maybe 'cuz I'm vulnerable. I want a woman to look at me with the fox caught in a trap look. The look that first baseman gives the field while he watches the mound well.

**

But that's me right now, um sick. Tons of ice on the neck, groin, etc. Baseballs' the real cure though. So is Bonnie "Prince" Billy. He's from Louisville, folks. Guess that's something I can be proud of. Along with Hunter S. Thompson. And Tom Cruise going to Male High School. Or was it Trinity?

But no. Louisville. Good place. I've been thinking about the things I never did there. I never ran by the river. Since I've started running, it just seems like the right thing to do. You know, even though the river is pea soup flowing south. Sprinkle in some shit, a few upturned fish, toilet paper, etc., and you've got the Ohio River. It's 'aight. Nice place. Far from here.

**

Care about reading? Welp, either click on the blog roll link for Sean Lovelace, or why not hammer on this one? He understands. Not only understands, but can communicate that understanding. It's key, folks. Just read it. A lot of your questions will be answered. I know mine were.

**

Done for now. Read my Facebook page, there'll be a new note up there. I'm thinking about publishing more things on there, kind of spreading out my writing a bit more.

The Emmy's are on tonight

2009-09-20T13:25:00.002-04:00

I mean, I don't know what to think about this. The only reason I even know the Emmy's are on is because of a commercial. Thumbs up to their marketing department. Uh, thumbs down for me not knowing? Like, shouldn't I know about the Emmy's? Isn't it supposed to be a crucial part of pop culture?

Honestly, somebody fill me in. Do the Emmy's even matter? None of my favorite shows are going to win anything, so maybe it doesn't matter to just me, and everyone else has their blankets wrapped super tight, ready to be like, "WHAT THE FUCK!!?!?! HOUSE SHOULD'VE WON. HUGH LAURIE IS THE MANNNNN."

Hugh Laurie is pretty funny, though. With all of those crime shows, uh, can somebody explain to my where every fucking city gets their own version. CSI: Boston or whatever. Fucking NCSI: Boca Rotan. WHO CARES?! Crime is the same everywhere, minus the cool gangs and tattoos.

**

So, football is on. Beer open, beer sweat on the coffee table. Cat asleep on the remote so I couldn't change the channel even if I wanted.

**

New Levi's commercial. Love it like I love their jeans. Doesn't seem campy like the red label Gap shit. Not talking shit about the Gap, no worries. My closet is still crammed shelf-to-shelf with argyle. I can't find a link to this damn commercial. Thanks YouTube.

**

Manuscript is out. Got a fantastic response from Joe Betz. Waiting on others. Improve improve improve. Always look to improve.

It's like watching "Straight Story" only not totally boring and up it's own ass

2009-09-15T15:18:00.003-04:00

Closer.

That's what my graduate school manuscript is. It's closer. Closer to where it needs to be. It's actually readable now. You can formulate an understanding from it.

And maybe if I tagged you in that Facebook note, you'll be getting a copy of it soon. By soon, I mean hopefully tonight. I'm, literally...for the first time in my life, putting everything I possibly can into this. Everything. I'll be invisible when I'm done. Organs no more. Soulless. Cease to exist after I send this to you.

Help me. Salvation, please. Give me salvation.

Here's the hum of all your electronics and appliances murmuring at once, or something close to that.

2009-09-12T23:49:00.002-04:00

Tonight I've decided that I'm never going to write a poem for somebody I love/care about/know again. It's never gotten me anything. Generally, they're poorly written. Not so much sentimental, but they aren't me.

I'm sordid. I write in images. Some people. They negotiate meaning, if that's even possible. Like, "Here, let's shove you this direction. Just a few steps this way. Get it? See, here's the meaning. I drew you a map."

Me? No. I'm the choose your own adventure book. My sentences short, muddy. I try to create understandings. Usually fail. Still, it's what I want to do with my life.

But not for others. Not even for myself. For the sake of storytelling. For communication. Oral or written tradition. At this point, I don't care. It's faux-happniess. It's waking up and avoiding cold tiles on your way to the bathroom. Only using the pea-sized dollop of toothpaste, brushing and feeling fresh without rinsing or mouthwash.

I feel like I'm finally at a point with my writing where the rationale is there. And huh, saying "rationale is there" is kind of meta-fictive. That's always intrigued me.

Ahem.

So, I broke a rule. Twice. Never draft players from your favorite team to a fantasy team. Greg Olsen and Devin Hester. Ruined season, here we come! Not just a nose dive, but cliff hanging then grabbing the wrong rock. Whoops, no rope. Sorry.

The real start of the football season is tomorrow. And you know that means?

Running.

Shower.

Six packs, lunchmeat, and surround sound.

Success.

Hey HOOOOOO, CHICAGO BEARS!

The elements of surprise/fun and what I'm doing before and afterwork

2009-09-08T12:28:00.004-04:00

Not much for the second one. It is September, though. Time to scour. I'm going to turn into one of those people that implants the harvested hair follicles back into Uncle Ted's scalp so he has more confidence in women. Now he'll have the teller from the bank, Sofie, you know, the one that wears the gaudy blouse, she'll be eating out of his hand. To the pub for a round, some cheesebread, and then whomp, the new sheets are broken in.

Test that thread count, Uncle Ted.

No, but um, it's time to work on poems and flash pieces. Five of each? Sure. Sounds 'bout right. That's a nice, square number. Five. Are you working on anything right now? Let's trade. Thoughts at least. Maybe work? I'm generous. I'll wipe your work twice, front to back then vice versa.

What does vice versa even mean? Is that Latin? No, is it? Wikipedia, plz.

**

So, how about we climb inside a moment and have it take us yellow taxi cab streak downtown to the harbor where we can skip rocks and coax every foam bubble and fermented drip of backwash down our throats and talk about every woman who's ever disappointed us in one long, confused breath?

Let's do it.

I think I'm going to start dedicating poems to everyone. Poems and stories. That poem was for some jerk.

**

Quality beer? This one. Yum. Excuse my corny face. I had a few of them in my system at the time. Six pack for $6.50, yes please.

Bottoms up, internet.

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

2009-08-31T15:53:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-26T12:52:00.004-04:00

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

2009-08-20T12:56:00.002-04:00

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

2009-08-19T13:01:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-08-17T16:51:00.005-04:00

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.

2009-08-14T13:04:00.002-04:00

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.

2009-08-01T18:14:00.004-04:00

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.

Leaving without a kiss goodbye

2009-07-27T10:48:00.004-04:00

Car slides to a stop like earth down muddy hill.

Girl gets out, runs inside.

Guy, still in car, pressing palms into the steering wheel.

He adjusts the volume, newscaster's voice booms

and falls apart in a hiss.

Soon the pressed palms turn to an index finger

drumming on pant legs with that

Come onnnnnn, come on vibe,

and he watches her shadow move

with some holding a Roman candle anxiety.

Relationships sometimes get to this point,

jamming fall clothes into grocery bags

during March. You leave the toiletries behind,

half used or whatever. Dog food stays under the sink

next to the brush clumped with damp hair.

She leaves the faucet dripping into a saucepan.

He revs the engine a few times.

She returns with a fistful of bags.

As she pops the trunk,

he can't help but think about how replaceable

one can become.

Until then,

he'll use her smiles like a floor mat

and breathe in deep enough to fill both lungs

each time she walks by.

Plugs/blowing a few egos plus other things

2009-07-23T23:25:00.002-04:00

Check out Robert Woolley's stuff. He understands. Fantastic pictures. See, like I don't know the conventional wisdom for photography. I might understand what makes a picture better than another picture, but I can't express it.

However, he can.

**

Welp, you can also check out this. You can't fake this shit. You just can't. Especially around the two-minute mark. J. Mascis' guitar goes church choir during the sermon. Eyes straight forward, hands on the lap. But the rhythm section plucks along, negotiating around the pocket of nothing.

Absolutely epic piece. Top 10 song ever. Period. Tear the genre walls down, this song is king. It's school house bully dominating the monkey bars.'

**

Probably the best thing I've read today can be found here. In case you didn't hear, or just don't care about sports (and if that's the case, I've got a giant fuck you sitting between my legs), Mark Buehrle pitched his second career no-hitter. Oh, and this one just happened to be a perfect game, only the 18th time this has happened since 1900. Yup, there've been a lot of baseball games played between then and now.

Phew. I still DO want to know how he does it. I will definitely say this: if Mark Buehrle pitches at this consistent level for another 6-8 more years, he definitely deserves real consideration for the Hall of Fame, and I'm not talking Brady Anderson or David Justice consideration.

**

Way too much going on. Not enough words to explain it. I move Saturday. Updates will probably come sparingly or even in great waves, depending on the internet situation. I feel like internet should've been capitalized. Oh well.

House warming gift, Not shaving pact, I think I broke my toe.

2009-07-21T21:22:00.003-04:00

My job does have its perks. You know, like being able to fashion a fantastic black/white picture of Tom Waits and mount it on black foam core, with a quarter inch boarder.

Mmmm. This needs to be framed. Red frame, maybe? I think so. Remember how I shit talked Bob Dylan and said there were better song writers? Ahem.

Proof:

It's dinner time. Um, looks like cereal.

Taller than you as to dominate the NBA/Office basketball league

2009-07-17T10:38:00.002-04:00

Man, I always want to be the tallest one in the group. Think of it: you'd be able to see over everyone, so if something cool was happening at the end of the block, you'd be the first to tell everyone. If you ever went to a hot dog stand, you could be like "Shawww, POW," and reach over a few heads to grab your dog slathered in cheese sauce and mustard.

Uh, so ignore the fact that this guy looks pretty annoyed. It's cool. I definitely dig his sweater and tie combo. Green/red is always righteous, even without the yellow to complete the stoplight.

**

I'd also like to be able to run long distances. Can't though. We'll I guess I could. I think the longest I had ever ran, even when I was in fantastic shape in high school, was like two miles. I was never much of a distance runner, which means I'd be terrible in a horror movie if my character had to high-tail it through the woods or around a lake that stretched off the screen.

Can't help it though. I have bad posture. Feet roll outward, my strides put me on the balls of my feet, I move gimp-footed. It sucks, can't stand it. Running, to me, would be the quintessential getaway. I could always ride a bike, see, but I don't want that kind of help. I'd like to just go. I don't even need a fly pair of shoes (lied, yes I do. I have a closet full of them).

I also don't think I have the lungs for it. Breathing is key, I'd imagine. There's a right and a wrong way to execute it. Maybe when I move, I'll try this.

If Jimmy John's has gift cards, why not send me one before I move? That'd be great, friend. Thanks. Do it.

Oh yeah, moving. 8 days. Christ almighty. What a ride I'm about to take. This man did say it best, after all:

Buy the ticket, take the ride.

No, I ain't got nothing to be scared of.

2009-07-14T22:45:00.000-04:00

Ain't it the truth. And sometimes, that's all we need.

Doom ship captain cackles overhead

2009-07-12T23:44:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-07-10T11:36:00.005-04:00

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

2009-07-09T11:45:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-07-09T01:28:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-06-30T23:24:00.003-04:00

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.

2009-06-27T11:16:00.010-04:00

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...)

2009-06-25T09:20:00.004-04:00

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"

2009-06-22T22:54:00.004-04:00

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?

2009-06-21T10:20:00.004-04:00

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.

2009-06-21T01:16:00.005-04:00

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.

Let's shake hands and forget about tomorrow.

2009-06-19T22:24:00.005-04:00

This is generally on loop when I get home from work. And by generally, I mean I've listened to it in its entirety twice today. It's a story, pure and simple. Um, a persona. I'm a proponent of persona. We all have one, especially writers. Ahem. This album is so disarmingly honest, genuine and authentic in both its production and consumption. The word play is on fire, you're going to constantly be hitting loop to hear DOOM spout gem after gem. It's noir. A movie, bad guy vs. bad guy. You hang on every beat in drenched-face anticipation, every single word is somebody's thick fingers ringing tighter and tighter around your neck.

The best hip-hop album of the last 10 years. Easily.

**

I don't even need to explain myself here. Umm, a smart-ass, dry witted milkshake who lives with a carton of fries and a meatball that turns into an igloo, hotdog, and bridge.

Supplement.

**

There's this one girl, too. I've talked about her a few times. She has a blog. We've been "together," whatever that even means, for three months today. She's my best friend. She's probably the only person I've ever met that instantly makes me feel better when I see a picture of her, when she texts me, when she leaves me a voicemail.

I've been in other relationships, all of his have. There's an unavoidable desire to rate your partners. We both do it, subconsciously, sometimes incorporating each other to help do it. A majority of the time, it's a refreshing chance to offer your current situations perspective. Other times, painful reminders of mistakes, blown chances, whatever.

We're humans. It's instinctive to squat over maybes and grunt until you either forget about them or decide they're worth keeping in a satchel. It's our fault. Anxiety folks, hello, there it is. Baggage. It's why we need to travel with what we're wearing and what we can fit in our pockets. And I think now, finally, after two-ish years of trying to get myself to board a train and go, I've finally gone.

I'm in love, and that's all that matters. I've found a nominal sense of love and understanding. I'm contempt. I wake up, piss and think about love. Love for music, writing, Master Shake, Katlyn. Um, those things matter. Like, there's a see-saw in my head. Those things are on one end, and a the word love, in that terribly cliche Warhol font is on the other sider. It's even four different colors, how cultured!

But they're sitting dead even. The wind doesn't sway either side. This would be a boring see-saw for a kid. I'm glad I didn't have the mental capacity to care like this in high school. To care about the random people I had sex with, or even my last relationship. Being able to live in the now is extremely liberating. Honestly, I don't know how many other people can, probably because it rarely works.

For me? Shit works. Thankfully. We're moving, we're happy, I'm content. And just like that awesome scene in Babe at the very end when he stands with the farmer, and everyone is screaming and cheering because he was able to lead the sheep into the pen, I'm sitting here in my bed saying, "That'll do pig. That'll do.:"

I didn't move to the city

The city moved to me,

and now I want out

desperately.

So please, let's shake hands and forget about tomorrow.

Shut your windows on your birthday

2009-06-19T02:50:00.004-04:00

For real, I've woken up four times in the last two hours. Can't sleep. It's warm in here, this fan is doing nothing except circulating air that has the same feeling as that greasy lotion feeling ten minutes after the fact.

So, I'm in bed. I'm naked. I think I'll turn on music.

Group Home. Okay. Great album.

This blog needs to be noticed. It needs to be a big deal. Huge, epic. Leaning Tower of Pisa finally straightening out big. Do you read this blog? Well, link it on your blog. That's cool with me. Think of this blog as an extra puzzle piece, the one that got shoved between couch cushions at that Halloween party. You can finally snap that piece of the clock face into place.

Phew. Rest easy. Oh yeah, link this shit. Seriously. Please. Link it. Don't make me pout. Too late.

**

I hate Bob Dylan. I don't like his music. I could name 20 song writers who eclipse his shit.

Ready? Go.

Something beautiful happened in the church house,
but it didn't have to do with God.
And something beautiful happened in the court house,
but it didn't have to do with the law.
Something beautiful happened in the theater,
but it didn't have to do with the play.
And all this beautiful is smuggled like a secret
and it doesn't have to be that way.

-Q and Not U

Sorry B, you couldn't do that if you tried. I mean, read that two or three times. Yeah, I know. Hair in the pasta. Dropping the dog food in the hallway. No more toilet paper and you just crushed half a Crave Case with Tom.

Bam. The song has relevance. It's not like a Dylan song where it only matters in the context of the 60s. Wah wah, like a rolling stone. Sure. Who cares?! Beauty's been supressed for thousands of years, Bobby. We're all oppressed. Black, white, purple, genderless, tables, lampshades, etc. Fuck this Vietnam trip, it's about things. I'm pretty sure our man William Carlos Williams said it best:

"No ideas but in things."

And there's a shot to deep left field........it might be.....it could be.....GONEEEEEEEE.

Let's demolish Bob Dylan together.

**

My birthday's comin' up. What'd you get me? It's okay, I'll take gift cards. You can stoop that low. Just don't except an action figure from me for Christmas, prick.

Wonderful people, I'm thankful that you've found me.

2009-06-16T11:55:00.003-04:00

Uhhh, yes please.

**

Hanging out with Mom before work. Maybe some lunch. Question of the day: hot or cold sandwich? Mound of veggies or slaughter house pile with aus' ju/ROY G BIV lakes of sauce, and maybe someeeee lettuce.

Yeah, sorry this post isn't orbiting around writing or something a little more exciting. But, um, you know... sandwiches, they're crucial. Tried the Sweet Onion Chicken at Subway last week. Not really a fan of their stuff (seriously, microwaving room temperature lunch meat? No thanks), but it really wasn't too bad. All in the sauce, though. This is why I harp on those condiments, folks. They're goin' to make or break your lunch.

So next time, skip over that Hunts or Red Gold bull shit and go straight for Heinz or Tabasco. Drizzle it in a smiley face, the shape of Illinois, whatever. Take it to heart. Act like it's the most important decision you'll ever make. Fuck the kids' names, the type of hardwood floor in the guest room, sliding rear window on the Silverado or leather. Ask yourself this: honey Dijon or Dusseldorf mustard?

The answer is both.

Um, a tidbit. Um, um, a smidgen.

2009-06-14T13:29:00.003-04:00

Well, I have a manuscript. 45 pages of poetry. 21 of fiction. Say, you wouldn't happen to know anyone who wants to, ya' know... publish it? Like, maybe an eBook or something? Maybe some kind of super Midwest literature anthology? Let's work on that, together. So just like Shake-N-Bake, you can say that you helped.

So, did you get that? Know any agents? Are you an agent? Like what you see? 10 dollars for 10 minutes? Yeah, I'll hike up my skirt for you, talk dirty, put on the transparent jelly plastic high-heels. I'll do that.

**

Lazy Sunday. Super Nintendo. Tortoise. New albums, etc. A sepia/B&W picture with a "develop this old film" camera day. My eyes feel like big windows and the two men dressed in white jump suits who wash them are tugging the ropes to go down, so my eyes keep closing slowly.

**

Transcripts came in from Ball State. They'll be sent off tomorrow. Then hopefully by the end of next week, everything (except for the GRE scores) will follow in suit. It's scaring me. 80 degree roller coaster drop. Mom's footsteps in the hallway and there's no way you can shovel all the weed back in the baggie before she opens he door and goes Planet of the Apes on you and your three friends.

Please tell me that everything I've been doing will be entirely worth it.

Cul-de-sac: Part 1

2009-06-13T17:29:00.010-04:00

Roland Davis died sometime last night.

I awoke with a strobe of blue and red resting on my eyelids. Rain pattered and dragged like heavy boots down a cracked window, water collecting in a long oval along the sill. My dog shuffled his hind legs at the foot of my bed. A nervous ring of morning circled the brown of his eyes.

There was a nervous synergy in Roland's driveway. His wife stood in a purple bathrobe, hair bunched and pulled to one side. There were officers peeking over her shoulder, handing her clipboards. She'd occasionally nod or shake her head. Neighbors pushed their children in strollers on the opposing sidewalk. Some stopped at the nose of the ambulance, gawking. I noticed a child clap her hands then rub the base of her feet.

The mechanical groan of a garage door opening coupled itself with steady rain. I adjusted myself and walked towards the window. Two EMTs sandwiched a blanketed gurney. They moved like sentinels: rigid, empty, with a long gate. More neighbors clustered near the ambulance.

Winds churned. My TV timer clicked on. I moved to the bathroom and returned to the window with a strand of floss. A strong gust blew the cover off of Roland's body. His widow gave chase. Two children followed in suit, running across the grass with wet noodle arms, hoping the sheet would come to rest near the bird feeder.

I had only seen two dead bodies in my life. Both were pushing 80. Their caskets were long, smooth. Shaped like fancy appliances. Inside, the bodies looked glazed, almost wet. The dignity had deflated behind their chests. Roland was different, though. He looked like he was floating on a thin layer of sleep. 10 minute nap, maybe. He couldn't have been dead for more than three or four hours. His skin still had a pink sheen to it.

I looked out at the crowd. Nobody was talking. The two children returned to the open doors with the sheet and the driver quickly placed it over Roland, tucking one end under his feet and the other under the back of his head. The driver lifted both arms slowly from his side over his head and mouthed "Up." The EMTs propped up the wheeled legs and rolled the gurney into the ambulance.

The widow pressed her palm against her forehead and climbed in back. Doors clicked shut. The crowd thinned out into the streets. One child hung his arms across a mailbox and watched the ambulance hum slowly up the street with its sirens and lights off. The hollow look and silence made me think about the three, four times I awoke startled the night before.

Julia on Julia and Me

2009-06-09T11:23:00.006-04:00

I don't like the way I apply lipstick,

alright? My lips, they're just too narrow,

bottom lip curled

like bottom of the pile plantain.

Top lip the trail of black left behind

by a struck match.

Still, they're like us.

Companions, people in love.

Two things close together

or touching, even if they

grow tired of each other.

And I don't know how I feel

about this, our relationship

you know. There are too many times,

like right now, where I look into

my compact mirror and practice smiling

because I can't help but wonder

how you feel about

how I apply my makeup.

I've got a hive of bees. I sneeze and pull stunts like MacGuyver.

2009-06-08T19:19:00.005-04:00

I've started the graduate school crunch. The vice grips are on the University of Missouri-Kansas City. I'm not going to let up, ever. Sorry. I'm going to this school. Sent out the warning calls to a few former professors. Looking for letters of recommendation.

So yeah, did you get the hint? I'm moving to Kansas City. I want out. I want Louisville to turn into an escape, not some guilty vice. I drive to work everyday, look at the skyline and say, "That's it? Where's the spires that super heroes could fly around? Where's the sewer drains belching steam so the roads won't crack? The buildings don't seem desparate. The Ohio River is too dirty 'round here, and that just doesn't sit well with me."

It's time for a change. A real one. Already sent in my application to UMKC. Preparing my writing portfolio over the next few weeks, hopefully getting some of those letters of recommendation, taking the GRE, etc. I want to live somewhere quaint.

**

Alright, I'm gonna dig up all the David Carradine facts I can. You know, since he's dead now, it's gonna be all Hoover Dam and flow super slow with power until something major gets loged in the wall, pushes slow like mother's labor then BOOM.

You know... like this one. It's a start.

**

Okay, I was going to post up an article about nudist gardeners, but there weren't any visual suppliments. Fuck that, right? Right.

Coming October 2009.

2009-06-07T19:43:00.002-04:00

Hello, Kansas City. From a future resident.

Come over here, I'll show you how to fake it.

2009-06-05T18:10:00.002-04:00

I had a great idea for a blog. Now: it's escaped me. I think it was about the books I've been reading.

**

A few goals for tonight

Mad shower. Not mad, like Sweedish Chef chasing the hen. But mad as in, "No dirt will survive." My body feels like sewage plant.
Bark at the moon, Ozzy-style.
Play Super Nintendo.
No Chinese food.
More water (at least three more glasses, my insides are sandy)
Sleeping in a semi-circle

Alright, so I'm broke. Not shocked. My salary is river breeze: through your hair and off in ten different directions by the end of the day. No good. I mean, part of it is my fault, which is fine. Live and learn. Part of it is the economy. Part of it is the economy not letting me get a better job or take risks. Shittttt.

I want to go back and watch me spend money that was never there. I want to be standing behind myself whenever I blew 2 grand on carburetors, a throttle linkeage and a transmission. I mean, who does that? Seriously, a husband cringes when he does that for his wife's Camry, minus the carburetors. You add the carburetors, and that's bad math, sir. Maybe if I was able to be six inches from myself, it'd make a lot more sense now. Because, as I stand here at my work computer and type this, I'm making this really wry face. Probably photo-worthy, but no.

Wait a minute....

Alright, I don't judge people on their sexual activity, but umm, isn't auto-erotic asphyxiation supposed to simulate being choked? So like, my man David Carradine was pretending to die, then he actually did? Shoot, I'd say mission accomplished.

I'm really, really sick of seeing Jack-In-The-Box commercials when there isn't one within like 500 miles. Quit it. Your food doesn't even look good, suckers.

For Mark Wallace.

2009-06-03T18:05:00.007-04:00

There's definitely a closeness between us,
yeah, a closeness,
the kind expressed with the rings
an empty glass of beer leaves on a counter.
The kind of closeness
that can only be explained with me
thinking about us being friends before we were friends.

So, if we would've been friends during junior high,
I'd invite you over to show you
the long list of metal I downloaded on Napster,
and we'd listen to ...And Justice for All on loop
with my bedroom door locked,
dominate dungeons on Diablo
while spending two hours trying to burn a mix CD.

Even if I would've known you before last summer,
I would've called you at two in the morning,
to tell you the same story that,
"Yeah, the part of my head right behind my eyes
really hurts. Burns, even. I don't know why it always hurts."
I'd thank you for listening,
come over and tell your mom she's a babe.
Come over the next day and clean your pool
and empty your fridge.

We'd go in your room and talk
about girls we love and had loved.
Like, you could've talked about
that time you and an ex
were coming home from the movies,
ready to lay on a ripped futon,
rest your head in her lap
and have her hum something Top 40
until your eyelids went clunk.

But no.
Instead of the humming,
the ripped futon nap,
she decided to try and go down on you
the same time a deer limped bow-legged
from a ditch, dropping its shoulder
right before the hood of your Celica
bent inward like a folded accordian
going for soft crecendo.

And in that instant,
what scared you the most
wasn't the penis dangling
in your ex's mouth like live bait
or the B-movie hatchet face
the deer made against your windshield,
but the fact that you realized
your windshield wipers didn't work
as you flipped the lever up and down
trying to scrape the clumps of hair from your line of site
so you could putter home
and nap.

I want to have this kind of power, or at least succumb to it.

2009-06-02T09:44:00.002-04:00

Could you imagine being in front of that stage, trying to comprehend that kind of power? Deer in the headlights, maybe? Sideswiped by a drunk at the bar with a half-opened palm/fist concoction that makes your face all kneaded dough. Yeah, I really can't either. Hell, this picture is making it hard for me to breathe. I'd imagine each chord would melt the fibers wound together to make the strings on their instruments, then float through the air like some Noble gas, downing people like the plague until it got to my skin and made tiny cuts, Crucifixion whip-style, until only air was being pumped through my veins.

Lots of new music lately. I'm going to wager that....50% of it was produced by DJ Premier, 10% is from England, 15% was produced between 1980-1986, and the rest can't be categorized with really generic stats like that.

Okay, I use ellipses a lot. Sue me. Please, take me to court for it. It annoys me that I do it. But, it's like, I do it as a way to carry a train of thought.

So, I'm going on vacation with the lady. July 3rd through the 7th. Kansas City, then Chicago. Umm, barbecue? Yeah. Pizza, and hot dogs? Ikea? Maybe a baseball game? Yes. Lake Michigan with shopping? Duh.

Somebody please, I need a new job. It's a sinking ship.

The best thing Apple did was add the "Pop Art" feature to Photo Booth.

2009-05-30T16:14:00.003-04:00

Well, that's not entirely true. The 'sepia' tone always look spot on though.

I'm trying this new thing with the books I own that I never finished. I'll pull one off the shelf, open it to a random page and go. It's worked. Well, once. It's like trying to create flash fiction out of somebody else's fiction. People should start writing like this. They need to think, "Alright, so if somebody reads half the book, can they pick it back up at some point and just... read whatever in it?"

Man, this new Iggy Pop? Fuck, I know right? Great. Definitely better than that... "other" Stooges album. I'm still pretending that never happened. Hindenburg of should've been really good music. Damned from the start.

I just spaced out for at least a half hour. And I just did it again for another five minutes. Blogging is so hard whenever you had three hours of sleep. Oh well. Distraction. Here comes my new shoes:

Love 'em. And just like Smacks: dig 'em.

Shit's classic.

2009-05-29T21:55:00.003-04:00

First off.... this:

That right there.... it's, "Mom, I need twenty bucks for the mall," shit. It's two sodas coming out of the vending machine. Wham. Your day is better. Thank you, karma.

I wasn't supposed to be alone tonight, but that's the case (as of right now). So, I'm saving myself. Mmmm, vinyl collection. Like cracking open two, three sodas and only gulping a few times. The Doors Greatest Hits is on right now. You can look at the disc and tell it's probably been played six or seven-hundred times. Still sounds smooth. Really, really light hiss, like when the waiter is like, "How much parmesan?," and you say, "That's plenty," after only two or three strokes on the grater.

Quit being soooo conservative.

So, Doors are still rolling. It's a joint that never ends. The bottomless beer. Wait, hold on a minute, that keyboard solo is about to tear through my basement and eat my being.

That was justice right there. Jim Morrison is kind of like every good thing: dead/will come to and end eventually.

Weak. Thanks reality.

Yeah, that's a real gun. Dude, look at that picture of me! I look so fucking tough. Too bad that gun wasn't firing. Trust me, there was a clip in it. Full clip. Somebody needs to Photoshop a huge, hand-rolled cigarette in my mouth, or like.... a bullet actually coming out of the gun. It'd be enough to freak your mom out. Hard.

I'm not that tough of a guy, though. Don't let the gun fool you. Or let the gun fool you, and gimme' your money.

Sometimes friends do shit, and you're just sitting there on the couch thinking, "What the fuck?" That's kind of happening to me right now, think of it as reality television... or reality blog.

Drama. Sucks.

I wish I wrote all of these songs.

2009-05-27T21:36:00.003-04:00

That's right. Every single one of them. Or even wrote the lyrics. Or a chorus, a reprise. I don't know, I want to feel like I've touched every single person that listens to them in some way, even a really small.

My God, let me mix your master tapes. Christ.

Theory for mix CDs, etc.

2009-05-26T09:07:00.004-04:00

So, the worst part about making a mix CD for somebody is that after you burn it, pop it back in your CD player/computer to make sure it works.... you always end up wanting to keep it for yourself. That's the case with the last one I made.

I made rules:

1. Soul Coughing songs are okay.... not Mike Doughty solo stuff- Couple of reasons why: he actually used an anagram of his name (Haughty Melodic) for an album title. That either means he's really, really smart, probably too smart for his own good, or one of his drunk friends scored big during a stupor. Either way, I could never get that lucky, score one up for jealousy.

Second reason: listen to his solo work... he the kid

standing on the high dive at the summer pool with a line twenty kids long jeering him to make a funny face and just jump in. Sorry though, he's got flamingo legs. Shaking in opposite directions, afraid to make a half-flip too much and land on his side. Come on! Jump you wuss. Quit being scared and just go for broke. That's what Soul Coughing was about. Doing a jackknife for 20 feet up and over rotating, but it didn't matter because the splash was big enough to get all the moms by the vending machine wet. Kids gasped in at the same time, tugged their pockets filled with water. They gloated, they saw chubby Mike make a day worth writing about in your journal. "Soft Serve" will definitely do that. "No Peace, Los Angeles"? Hardly.

2. Exclude any songs you've ever listened to having sex- See, the problem is you're setting yourself up for bad memories, blue balls or both, especially if it's for a lady friend. What if you listened to "L.A. Woman" while you pounded a former fling into submission from behind? The thought crawls from the back of your head. Yikes. You're stuck in the car with this girl. No air conditioning, the smell of burnt oil. On your way to Chic-fil-a. Well... what now? You want head but, pal, it's not going to happen. You can drop all the hints you want. Nip this one in the bud and actually make a separate list of all the songs you can hear over the sound of your bed frame shifting itself loose.

3. Never have two hip-hop songs back-to-back- Damnnnnn. See, I really messed up on this latest mix with a Lupe Fiasco/De la Soul/Slick Rick trifecta. What sucks is that all three of these songs are so fantastic that you find yourself cutting through them three or four times on loop and never listen to the seven songs after it. A quick fix would be just hitting the shuffle button.

4. Make sure the mix is at least 10 songs- Seriously, why waste a CD? It's pointless. Stretch that shit out. A full 80 minutes, please. I'll even take some filler, like an interlude from Chronic 2001. You know, that "Pause 4 Porno" song where it's just a bunch of people having sex.

5. If you can actually proclaim a favorite song, leave it off- This'll help avoid any argument that might arise when you blurt out how much you love the song on a road trip. It's a fight you won't win, sorry.

6. Back to Slick Rick: he better be on your mix- I don't even care if you just put "Adults Only" on every single mix you make, that song is on point. Quick tangent....I wonder who produced that song? I'm looking at the album credits and DJ Clark Kent and Kid Capri are both listed as producers. Maybe Ringo Smith? I know he did some production on this album. Christ, I have no idea. I'll PayPal you 10 dollars if you find out for me, no joke. I'll even include the 3% fee. That's love.

***

I have other theories. Sometimes you need to just keep those to yourself. I need a vacation. I just had one, but it was just an "extra weekend day" vacation. I need a "500 miles away from home with your cell phone off" vacation.

Love might be

the worst thing in the world. Maybe because there'll be a time when you realize there are a finite number of things in existence that can be arranged in an infinite number of ways. Just like a sentence can go on forever, just add a comma.

You'll be sitting there one night. I know it'll be night. Something will happen. I don't know, you'll be listening to a song, she'll get up and move a different way to the door. You'll cough and she'll turn over and break your heart. I don't know, I just know it's going to happen. It's going to eat you insides.

Hope/pray/have faith in something so you get beyond all of those things and propose. Like hide your ring in a rose, boys. Hide it under the pillow, by her toothbrush, on the dash of her car, put it around your cock. Who knows? Either way, you're going to make her cry and she'll say yes and you'll show a large group of people how in love you are, because it's the way things are.

All I know is, I'm in love, and the only way I want it to end is if my heart stops beating. I want to outlive everyone in my family and be there alone in a room holding her hand, my organs oxidizing because I'm like 140-years-old, and cars hover and sound like blenders moving through the streets. I found somebody I'd build a house for, play Monopoly with, take the trash out in the rain, groom the dog, clean the toilet and shower back-to-back, clip their fingernails, make mixed CDs for, eat seafood, watch the Food Network, etc.

Don't look at my face, it's all covered in soot.

2009-05-24T19:42:00.003-04:00

First this:

RIGHT THERE, THAT'S A FINE SONG. Sorry for all-caps. Either way I get screwed.

Well,

we started a band

and things didn't end well.

Remember?

Van broke down

on the night we were supposed to

unveil our lounge act.

So, instead of

panties dropping in the front row

and the record execs said,

"Now that'll fill some seats

at an east coast venue."

We pushed a maroon Econoline

into a K-Mart parking lot

and cleaned the dust from a Marshall stack

while tuning a Gibson,

drinking bottles of Genuine Draft

that floated in two-day-old cooler water.

Sitting in a circle,

humming the songs

that were supposed to get us laid.

A post which spreads goodwill.

2009-05-24T14:16:00.004-04:00

Much needed three-day weekend. Lots of lying face down and deep sighs into pillows. Arms around girls and hugging, all of that stuff. I haven't been reading your blog much lately, sorry. By this, I mean the folks in the blog roll. I tried to read them daily, faithful to potential updates and what-not. Maybe some good links or posts, I dunno, I don't want to miss any of that, etc.

Wow, my girlfriend just walked in here. She's gorgeous. I might've mentioned this before.

I've been watching a lot of cooking shows. I have a girlfriend to thank for this. She always says, "I like cooking shows, dancing, and shows about really fat people."

I'm usually the exact opposite, especially the food shows. I hate when it's people racing around to cook food that nobody would ever eat. Ever. Like, beet-flavored pubic hair sauteed in cod liver oil, placed on a plank of driftwood, and then seared with Rice Krispies. Fa' real, give me a cheeseburger. You can't fuck that up.

Or can you?

Failure. Gimme' the lettuce.

Here comes everything at once, alright. Ready, go.

2009-05-19T00:01:00.004-04:00

I'm in love with this girl:

Right now, it hurts. My insides, my chest. She's sleeping 30 miles away and it feels like I watched someone climb into a make-believe vault of everything I've ever known, every thought, every truth, every well-fitting pair of jeans I ruin with coolant and grease, and auctioned it off.

Luckily, she forget a hoodie at my house. I have it pulled over my face, villain-like. It still smells like her. When I miss her, I listen to music that I know she wouldn't like. Like right now, I'm listening to Trans Am. I had them on a few days ago, and she put her head on my shoulder and said, "There aren't any words."

In my head, I was thinking like an English major should think. I was trying to think of six or seven excuses for why the lack of lyrics are exciting, but I just smiled and said, "I know."

So, I'm in love. It's written on my face. On this blog. It's written on this hoodie I have wrapped around my neck like a cat. It's after midnight and I'm sitting here hoping you know exactly how I feel. Like, maybe you've felt it before or you feel it right now. That's great, I hope you feel that way/felt that way and you want to find that person that makes you feel this way and put your arms around them. Maybe talk about whatever you talk about. Soccer, the way wind gathers dust and dirt and gives itself a body. All that is nice, just talk to them. Talk to them until your sentences run together.

Mannn, I can't keep listening to this. It's making me feel guilty. I know exactly what face she'd be making if she was here.

So, here's a hint for what I bought you.

2009-05-11T12:57:00.002-04:00

Sometimes people deserve a present,

a gift or whatever you call it.

You can wrap the small box

in the comic section,

putting The Wizard of ID

and Beetle Bailey on top

because they're the only funny ones.

So, now that your copy of the Lexicon Devil seven inch,

or your red cashmere scarf

or the movie tickets are wrapped,

handwrite a card.

Not something phony you fought

a plumber and a cornerback to get.

Something meaningful,

with words crossed out where you misspelled marriage

or used the wrong your.

Keep them guessing.

Don't drop hints,

that's the hard part.

I drop hints

like backtrack bread crumbs

and it always fucks me over

in the end.

So this time, I'm going to give you something

you can't wrap

or fit in a bag

or buy online.

I think I'll give you me beacuse

I am a present you can open

again and again.

Riding tandem leads to love.

2009-05-06T09:17:00.004-04:00

To me,

it doesn't make much sense

that I try and describe

how I feel about you

and maybe how we feel about each other

through poetry.

Words are inadequate

when you're sitting across from friends

piling up breadsticks and neatly placing

cups of sauce into rows

and after everything on the table

looks like a commercial shoot:

forks and knives held in loose fingers

like drawn weapons,

children are doing the laugh-track laughter,

even the lighting makes you feel phototropic.

A friend who's been gone for months

navigates a straw around ice cubes

and tries speaking through a mouthful of ice tea:

"How're things with that girl, the new one?"

My stomach stomach starts to hurt,

the "standing in line, holding it too long" hurt

that also doubles as the

"love makes you hurt inside your stomach" hurt.

"We're great. We ride our bikes around the park."

He puckers his lips and swallows tea,

"That sounds about right... bike rides lead to love,

at least, that's what they'd lead you to believe."

I stared down at the sauce

and felt like our relationship might need a second opinion

from they,

or something.

I think,

because what my stomach feels

and what he said were so right

and so perfect because they weren't planned,

unlike those bike rides.

Oh, look how steep that drop is.

2009-05-05T10:56:00.002-04:00

So, how about we play mother and child and I can tell you what I learned today?

Sound good? Alright.

You need to save that Fudge Round and eat it after the chicken pita is just crumbs and the bag of chips is just a bag split open at the bottom. This is the part of the week where I eat lunch at 10. That way, I don't get hungry at work.

Okay, that last part was a lie. I always get hungry at work. There's also a point during my day where I look at the clock and force myself to find things to do. It's the lull, the tide is fifty yards out part of the day. The store is empty and all you have is one running Xerox humming and dropping the bypass tray down so it can hold 1,000 copies.

I stock pens, I dust things without dust. Sometimes I'll go in the bathroom, sit on a toilet and send text messages. Yesterday, I pretended like I was sending packages to a bunch of different countries and cities and got myself a shipping rate. Don't send anything to Africa. It's way expensive.

Some people write fiction well. Other people write poetry well. I can't do either. Raymond Carver could do both. I think that's why he's one of my favorites.

Bam. That's proof. That's a fantastic poem. Don't even try talking shit, because you'll end up frustrating yourself .

Remember those two collections of Carver lit I bought a few weeks back? Yeah, those. I'm still chugging along. It's been enjoyable. I've found myself able to read them and go, "Uh huh, I like this," when something exciting happens, instead of, "Oh yeah, I see what he did there." At some point, I'd like to get back to the second one. Not right now, though.

You love that. We both love that.

2009-05-03T16:47:00.003-04:00

So, I am listening to this album right now as loud as my laptop speakers will get without hissing and belching white noise. It makes me think of three things:

1) This being the most bad ass album in the entire world when I was 15.

2.) Dan Bailey. Him and I are so about this album. I think Nate Logan is, too. We cruised around Muncie and talked about this album while we bought beer in Friendly Package.

3.) This is still one of the most bad ass albums ever.

Come on. I can barely handle that shit.

When I drive my new car, it's like nothing else outside of the car is evening happening. There's no sound. Things don't move. Other cars can't pass me. I feel like I'm driving a missile and every time I park, it detonates. Shrubs wilt and splinter, people turn to dust and the wind carries them into separate piles of widows, widowers and orphans.

I walk inside, do whatever business I had, then continue driving. My car screams like danger and loss.

That's just fine with me.

The Bulls lost last night. It's okay. I have the rest of my life to wait patiently for another NBA Title.

This is the time of year where everyone is all like, "Ohhh man, it's time to graduate." Wah wah, cryin' like babies.

Already done ittttttttt. Miss it, though. I wanna' walk back into the Robert Bell building with some anthologies in one hand, a water in the other. I want to sit at a desk and talk about texts. Then I want to walk back to a small apartment with low ceilings, call some friends and blow out the candle I left lit all day. Blowing it out and watching smoke squeeze out an open door or cracked window is the best feeling in the world.

Can I go home and change first?

2009-05-01T09:56:00.002-04:00

"You destroyed the things I loveeeeeeee."

Mr. Krabs just said that on Spongebob. He is seriously the biggest asshole of all-time. What a greedy prick.

The Kentucky Derby is this weekend. It's never been anything to care about. People need to look at it like sex: regardless of how exciting it is, it's going to eventually end. Probably in three minutes.

The Touch and Brush? Jesus Christ, people are lazy. It upsets me because you know the jerk who invented that thing got a huge payment when some stupid company bought the patent rights. Now he's driving around in a Mercedes and tipping ladies at the strip club with fives instead of singles.

It's the first day of May. Go celebrate.

Everything I love cannot fit in a bag.

2009-04-28T00:31:00.002-04:00

There are so many things going on in my life right now it feels like when you're at Sears and you're watching the huge display of big screens and they're all on different channels, but you still feel like you know what's going on in every single show.

I'm gonna go 700 Club on ya' ass!

That really doesn't mean anything, I guess. Isn't the 700 Club a Evangelical TV show? I think that guitarist from Korn was on there. Awww, too bad that 'K' isn't backwards, writing Korn without it just doesn't seem authentic.

Wikipedia might clear that up, but I'm too lazy to do that kind of research right now.

I'm thinking about people right now. I want to visit Muncie and my family in Chicago. I want to go to a Cubs game and make a beer last all afternoon. I want the sun to set while I'm on the beach with people I love and not care that my shorts are getting wet or my sandals are floating away because you can buy another pair at Old Navy for three dollars.

Just forget that was your favorite pair of sandals, okay?

I do things that make the man on the moon blush.

2009-04-24T13:10:00.002-04:00

I had a story festering for weeks. It was like that dead animal you pass on the road everyday on the work commute. Nobody comes and cleans it. It just becomes less and less. On Tuesday, it's minus some lungs then the next day half a face and less and less flies because there's nothing else for scavengers to eat. Birds swoop in to peck at fur and pebbles.

That was my story, roadkill. Now it's something. A draft, 600-ish words. It's the bear in the cave, head parallel to a skid of flint. Just resting. It's about a man who transports livestock and poultry to slaughterhouses across the country.

Exciting isn't the word to describe the narrative, but it is the word to describe how I feel to be writing a piece of fiction again. I feel like that widow who's giving sex another chance.

There are times when you just need to sit there. Maybe you're brushing your cat, maybe you're at working pushing buttons or tuning a guitar or reading the Bible. I don't know. But you need to just stop and think.

I did this today and realized that I'm happy right now. At this very moment, I'm happy. You need to remind yourself of this because math and talking and shaking hands are just going to muddle things.

I'm thinking about growing a fu manchu. Should I?

I wanted answers everywhere I went

2009-04-21T09:34:00.007-04:00

Therefore,

somebody sat in a cubicle

and punched numbers.

They crunched, used equations

and slide rules,

took dozens of coffee breaks.

Finally,

everything they thought

for weeks

was shoved into the box

and wireless internet was born.

That was a poem. I like looking at it and being able to identify it as such.

You can tell a lot about a person just by knowing what kind of porn they watch. Are they the kind of dude/lady who just scours those free websites and watches the minute clips? Or does that person totally buy the subscriptions?

We need more of the second person, mainly because sooner or later, they're going to share some of those full-length vids with you. It's called generosity. This is the era of high definition, folks! Leach those people. Get their 1080p anal scenes or whatever other crazy shit they're into. Bananas-in-the-snatch dominatrix fellatio or whatever else.

I read Sam Pink's blog today and was completely satisfied. While reading it, I felt like I was watching a mother breast-feed in public for my personal arousal.

There are several things I'm working on right now. Poems and songs and resumes and everything else that fits neatly in other categories. I can't wait for you to see the end result and go, "That'll do."

Because it will do. Do a lot. You're going to regret a lot of things. So now, I'm gonna go all NOFX on you and say, "So long and thanks for all the shoes."

Some potential voicemails plus other things.

2009-04-20T09:48:00.002-04:00

Hi, thanks for calling Joey's phone. Sorry I can't answer it. I'm busy trying to jump up and touch the ceiling in every room in my house with varying results. I either need another growth spurt, lower ceilings, or madder hops. Leave a message after the beep.

This is Joey's phone. Next time you get pulled over for speeding and the officer asks you how fast you were going, pull your sunglasses to the tip of your nose, equip your best Cockney accent, and say, "That really depends... how fast were YOU going?" Chances are he'll freak the fuck out and just run back to his car, arms flailing and just cry in the seat and wave his cars at passing traffic. Leave a message.

Music is going to make you feel better. I promise. If you have a rash or a swollen prostate or whatever, it's like a handful of pills the doctor puts in your roast beef sandwich when you're not looking.

Moving to a house soon. Maybe sometime in May. Maybe sooner, probably later. I'd say May or June. I'll be living with my two favorite people in the entire world. Two people who I'd donate organs to or sponge bathe them if they were incapacitated. I would split atoms or drink from a dirty glass filled with day-old coffee for these two people.

I bought two collections of Raymond Carver stories last week while I was on a break at work. I walked over to the Boarders on Fourth Street and rummaged. I hate they way their collection is organized. Poetry and fiction are intertwined. Poets and fiction writers were living all over each other. Their words were touching and it was just impossible to make decisions. Well, until I saw Raymond Carver's cache. When I get paid on Friday, Annie Proulx will make a few charitable donations to my bookshelf.

Oh no. I was just wowed with sleepiness and I have work in an hour and a half. Shittttt.

I'm going to make this tile floor spotless

2009-04-17T10:01:00.003-04:00

Alright, so there's this burning inside of me. It's not a rash or an STD or other illness. Not appendicitis or cancer or something else. I really don't know what it is or what it pertains to. I think it's a good thing but have spent the last few days trying to discover what is it or where it's coming from.

I should know my body well enough. Obviously, I don't. There needs to be some sort of map or diagram to help me figure this out.

I told a customer at work that I was a writer and they asked enough questions to fill up those buckets maidens took to the well each morning. Three times. I enjoyed that. She asked who my favorite writers were and I gave her a few. Then she asked if I had noticed that Actor's Theatre, the place that my work shares a large, living all over you building with, was sponsoring a play about Wendell Berry's life. I said yes. I plan on seeing it sometime soon. It's based on his poems.

This got me thinking about somebody getting a hold of all the poems I've ever written and turned them into a play about me. Immediately after that, I called a few people and picked their brains. I needed to know if this had any substance. Could it turn into anything special or something that would woo ladies or win me a large trophy or a broach or lapel pin in the shape of a quill or ANYTHING exciting.

Everyone writes for fanfare and if you're sitting there telling yourself otherwise, you're just full of clam dip.

Supplement. The essential ingredient of clam dip:

No MSG? Madison Square Garden?

Everyone who reads this blog knowsssssss that it's National Poetry Month, and if you're a good lil' writer, you're scrounging up words from other poems and your online thesaurus and churning out a poem a day.

Me? Not so much. Maybe 7 poems this month. Although, I have been thinking about poetry a lot more this month. I bought some collections, some chapbooks. I've written poems for people and thought about writing exchanges.

Speaking of "those things".... Dan Bailey has a book coming out later this year. I mean, seriously? I love Dan Bailey the way somebody loves their meticulously maintained lawn or the couch downstairs with a body print in the cushions.

This blog is over, I'm going to go hug my girlfriend.

Falling asleep in the cul-de-sac

2009-04-13T09:48:00.004-04:00

Last night, you crawled into bed,

kissed my forehead and asked how I felt

about falling asleep next to you while it rained.

A car rolled through the cul-de-sac

a handful of times. Water from catch drains

sloshed dirty onto the lawns right before

automatic sprinklers turned on.

You whispered it again and I told you

Give me like, five minutes to think about that.

I was hoping you'd fall asleep or turn on the TV

and forget about asking. All four corners of the room

were lit from the revolving door cul-de-sac car.

It's tires drowned out rain against the window

or the stray cat batting at low branches on a bush.

I guess it's good and bad, you know?

You pushed your head into my shoulder and

took a long breath.

"I don't know what you mean."

The newscasters talk about a grand opening,

I know this from a montage of pictures.

I watch their mouths move with no words coming out,

just showing teeth and smiling.

There are nights when I have to sleep alone

and I ball up t-shirts and shove them in my pillowcases

so they feel more like a body. I'll wake up three or four times

and use the bathroom or get a drink. Then,

I'll lie awake and listen to music just loud enough to hear

over breathing and hope somebody walks into the room

to watch dusk and dawn say hi.

Well,

you fell asleep. That's alright with me,

as long as your promise to be awake

around 6.

The bottoms of my feet are itching.

2009-04-07T01:16:00.002-04:00

I had to work late today. I had a feeling that would happen.

Now, I'm listening to Outkast. The days is getting better right before it's about to end. I'm not looking at the monitor while I type this, so if there are typos, I'm sorry. My face is buried in a pillow, the cold side of a pillow.

It's the best feeling in the entire world.

I want to tell you, whoever is reading this blog right now, exactly what I'm feeling and what I'm thinking about and who I'm thinking about, but it doesn't seem possible. I've actually typed a few paragraphs that just aren't making sense.

I have somebody in my life that gives me the bungee cord is stretched all the way and everyone on the bridge is gasping because their eyes are making them believe the cord will snap but their heart knows that the cord is going to just flex and contract until everything around them stops moving feeling.

A girl can do this to you.

My eyes feel like that little triangle piece that floats around in the blue water of an 8-Ball and tells you how many women you'll sleep with. It's time to close them so the triangle stops spinning.

This post will be long, guaranteed.

2009-04-03T18:03:00.004-04:00

It's going to go on and sweep, like something Kerouac wrote. I never liked him, but wrote two papers on his work. I had a 'phase' where I was interested in Beats. Not anymore. I don't think I could finish a Ginsberg poem. Every male poet has a hard-on for his sincerity at least once during their life. I had a birth as a senior in high school. It died. Then another kid as a freshman in college. I read Howl like fifty times. I always hated how he edited the word 'crazy, from the poem, in reference to his mother.

Whatever, Ginsberg. Go scratch.

**

So, I heard somebody shit talk Yo la Tengo and that upset me greatly. It was while I was in Starbucks getting a latte' for myself and something with chai for a co-worker. I don't remember what this person said, but it was definitely total bull shit. My stomach tied itself in a knot and begged to die. It was limping like a gruff hound whose stomach sags and gets nicked by rocks. It was awful, almost like somebody was bad mouthing your folks.

**

Today I finally listened to Heartattack and Vine from beginning to end, which means I've now listened to every single Tom Waits album. Ever. I'm not sure what this says about me. I've never seen him in concert. I'd probably pay upwards of $500 if I got the chance to see him perform.

**

Opening Day is Sunday. It doesn't seem probable for me to put how this makes me feel into words. All I know is it's baseball season again, and I get to think of fantastic hypothetical situations, such as: would I rather face 1984 Dwight Gooden, 1999 Pedro Martinez, 1968 Bob Gibson or 1966 Sandy Koufax? That's like choosing between acquiring AIDS, heart disease, brain cancer or some virus that eats your face from the inside-out. You know all are inevitable death, it's more of a question of which one is going to be the most fun to die from.

Knowing that I actually saw 1999 Pedro Martinez, I'd probably give him the nod. Back then, hitting 98 with a chest-high fastball was a frequent occurrence, and when he'd pull the string on that curveball, the best hitters alive would look like toddlers trying to hit a wiffle ball off a wobbly tee. Oh yeah, he had a slider, too. And two change-ups. A two-seamer? Sure. It'd stiffle righties.

I think the scariest part about 1999 Pedro Martinez was his strikeout-to-walk ratio. 8.46 to 1. Yes. Not a typo. 313 wiffs compared to 37 free passes. Are you kidding me? And he only gave up 9 long balls. I need to dig up some vintage videos of Pedro dropping hammers on professionals. I mean, there was a time in Pedro's career (1997-2004) where he could've probably told each batter, "Okay, here's the sequence: Belt high, wheelhouse fastball, a circle change, down and away slider, and we'll try out another barn burner and see if you can catch up to hit.

There could be video game shit going on: people could slow down time, Matrix-style, and he still would've collected 300 strikeouts. The man can throw a baseball through a Froot Loop. He was that cerebral. It's a shame that in the twilight of his career, the man can't even get signed to a minor league contract.

**

One of my favorite things in the entire world is using the bathroom RIGHT after somebody cleans it. Not to be a dick, but it's like: it's comforting, you know? The toilet water is kool-aid blue and the soap is full and nothing else really matters, you can just piss or shit in a clean bathroom. It's weird whenever you use a bathroom at somebody's house, and you know it hasn't been cleaned in a few weeks.

**

The American Analog Set is a great band.

**

Let's curl up on the couch
so you can whisper something useful
or lovely.
It's your chance to stop using
the thumb-sized Post-Its
and the soft talk over the phone
while I press concrete at work.

We can just sit here
with my arms across yours,
and you can talk
talk until my ears get warm
from everything you say.
Then, sooner or later
we can fall asleep
to have time to think about
what we both said.

**

I like the prospect of us waking up together every morning. With bad breath and bad hair. Almost naked, cold feet, runny noses, the small bacteria strings that float around our eyes and whatever else. I've said that about other people before, but I never looked at them when I said it. Those other times I said it they were insincere. But so were those people.

**

I got that promotion at work. Kind of exciting.

**

I told you this blog would keep going. It's almost painful to keep writing. None of this seems pertinant.

**

I'd like to eat something with Tabasco sauce on it for dinner. Don't even care what it is.

**

This blog is over. For now.

I don't watch many movies 'cuz I can't sit that long.

2009-04-01T09:54:00.003-04:00

Perhaps this means you have a bad lower back

and watching Ben Affleck pretend he's a police officer

is your way to measure spinal health.

When he cradles his dying partner,

shouting that pertinent line

the one that you bring home with you

in your pocket, it means time's up:

the nerve pressure is too much.

Lower back quakes,

music gets louder

and you slouch in your seat

like blowjob teenagers.

Walk of the theatre, some guy in the corner

is cheering and waving his fists.

This ailment makes you discover stories

in other ways, like creating them yourself

or experiencing the mugging on the park bench

or the woman giving birth on the subway.

You're Ben Affleck.

Spending $150 dollars fast

2009-03-29T14:18:00.002-04:00

Hood comes up,
smoking engine like a bog at sunrise.
I dig the back of my head into the tire
and draw sighs into the air.
Cars rumble past.
Twenty minutes later,
a tow truck coasts around you
and cups the bumper like a sick child.
It grinds and pulls the car upright.
Both disappear beneath an overpass,
the car spilling its insides on the road.

Doin' jump kicks and parlor tricks while wearing spurs

2009-03-28T10:16:00.003-04:00

So, updates happened sparingly, almost not at all. Lately, they've happened regularly. I needed perspective. I needed to miss the blogs I read, so I stopped blogging. It never occurred to me how that was supposed to grant me perspective or distance from anything. In fact, it alienated me.

Things have changed. Like cars and girlfriends. Both are new. Both made me reexamine what love is. At this point, I'm not entirely sure how to love either. I'm trying, though, which is probably the most important factor.

But yeah. New things, lots of them. I might be getting a promotion at work. New (better) schedule. New store. More money, maybe? Won't count on any of those.

My dad's not working as much. Thanks economy. He doesn't like to be bored, so he sits at home and stretches all day and makes faces at the TV. He just wants to work. He's a truck driver, and sometimes I thnk they're more important than doctors or politicians. I want to see what my dad looks like driving a semi through a mountain range. He probably looks furious and has the tip of a cigar hanging from between his lips. This image would be a great album cover.

Visual supplements of change:

78' Rabbit ABA Turbo. Fast. Green. Roll cage. Turbo. Wooshing. Backfire.

Gorgeous.

Also notice that I cut all of my hair off. It happens. I was well overdue. I don't think I'm ever going to let my hair get long again.

I think I said that at one point before. I'm a liar.

I'd like to go to Muncie soon. I need some sort of vacation again. This makes me a terrible long distance runner. I'd need to stop four times during a race to sit in a lawn chair and drink from a straw.

Oh well, I'm good at other things.

Everything gets laminated.

2009-03-27T19:54:00.003-04:00

Some people call it old age.
When your legs tremble like splitting earth
and the only way you can get around
is from the assistance of something with an engine
or something with a battery hum.
You take sepia photographs of your parents
cuddling on stairs and laminate them.
You wear them on a laniard around your neck,
you choke tears when you glance down,
patting your chest with a sweaty palm.

I cracked open a beer and
nurse a small layer of foam.
My wife sits cross-legged on the floor
jockying the waistband of her pants.
She thumbs through pictures.
Water drips into a dirty pan in the kitchen
and every few seconds she looks up at me
with a bent four by six in her hand,
her eyes saying, "Please go shut off the faucet."

The head of my beer disappears
into long gulps of tan.
There's a stack of upside-down pictures at my wife's feet,
and the drips turn into a thin whisper of dishpan ping.
She hands me a small binder.
"Why not look through this for some pictures?"
I draw the bottle to my lips,
"I have nothing in my life worth laminating."
She lets out a fake yawn,
"Maybe you're right."

Watching the sunset hurts sometimes

2009-03-25T18:32:00.003-04:00

You know?
It's like finding old celery in the crisper
but not knowing how old
until the stalk is lathered in peanut butter
then chomp.
Two weeks too old.

It hurts
because sometimes you're alone
in a park, picking at your flip flop.
The sky turns Easter.
Clouds burn and shrivel.
You just want the day to end,
then the Earth spins backwards
trying to milk forty-three more seconds
out of the day
and all you want to do is crawl into a mountain
of Ikea and breathe in down comforter
like it was the last six molecules of oxygen.

Other times, you're with the girl you love.
You aren't paying attention to clouds
or a sunset.
Imagine the sun whining, it feels neglected.
It wants your girl
or at the very least,
to be watched.
The sun wishes it had a lap
so the girl could fold her pigtails behind her ears
and cradle hands
and let out drawn sighs into your legs.
Enjoy this,
because somebody's jealous,
even if it's just the sun.

Project homes for birds.

2009-03-24T16:23:00.003-04:00

I'm making a list of my favorite things.
At the top, I'll scribble crunching leaves,
not because it's semantically ambiguous
but because doing so burns my the bottoms
of my feet. My heels chap and smell like
campfire after a few minutes.

Crunching leaves is like gathering up clothes
that rest in a pile inside an open closet
and pulling on loose threads around the neck
until the shirt is a scarf that barely covers your neck.

And when that scarf turns into one long thread
I'm going to let it go and hope it blows across
yards and a bird can use it to make a nest. See,
the leaves are gone from the ground,
they're all part of nests. They're shelter to mothers
bading wings around a chick's shivering head.

Okay. Maybe I'm selfish that I destroy potential shelter
for birds. The leaves.

So, this is a conversation that's happened somewhere before.

2009-03-13T15:16:00.008-04:00

Okay, so let's talk about some things that make us wonder.

Wonder about what?

I don't even know. I had this girlfriend a few years ago who would speak in a made up language when we had sex.

Did she know any other languages?

No, just English and that made up one. It wasn't the Charlie Brown grown-up speech, or a roll of pennies in a blender speech. You knew the words mattered to her and made sense.

Neither of us are smart enough to make our own language. Have you ever wanted to travel to the middle of the Earth?

Not really, I hate cars, and buses. And whatever mode of transportation might bring me to the middle of the Earth.

Just think about it for a second though: if like... theories and science are true, wouldn't you just get to the center of the Earth and flat there forever because of gravity and inertia?

Those are Scrabble words to me that're worth a lot of points. But yeah, it might be fun to be stuck somewhere for a while. You'd have a lot of time to write an apology if you needed to.

Yeah, I need to apologize to a few people. I tried to drown my mom's dog last week. It kept chewing through my shoelaces.

How'd you try to drown it? Did she stop you?

No, the toilet kept automatically flushing itself, so I gave up after a while. I did end up spending five minutes brushing my teeth. My gums felt like a rainsuit after I was done.

That's always a good feeling. Do you ever want to just run until your joints freeze up and your feet swell from all the sweat that can't escape your body?

I actually don't like running. I don't own running shoes. In gym class, I always ran in sandals. My arches are terrible.

What's a good arch or bad?

A foot specialist could probably answer that.

You know what movie I hate more than anything?

Adventures in Babysitting?

No, Forrest Gump. I love how your face scrunched up when you said Babysitting.

It's probably illegal somewhere for you to not like Forrest Gump. What could you possibly not like about that movie? It was flawless.

You know the scene where Lieutenant Dan got his legs blown off?

Of course.

I didn't care at all about that scene. I was supposed to. Somebody was mutilated, and Bubba died and I didn't even care. I'm pretty sure the first time I saw that movie, I walked in front of the screen and went to the bathroom.

Poor manners.

I know, I'm probably the only person who didn't feel something. The ending sucked, too. I wish that feather would've been sucked up into a plane turbine or something.

But then the ending would've meant nothing.

It already meant nothing to me.

But not to everyone else.

What's your least favorite car that you've owned?

Back in high school I drove a Probe. Black... it was a stick shift. The hood had a hole in it and whenever it rained or snowed, the top of the engine would steam like a restaurant grill. It ran until I got rear-ended on my way home from the movie theatre a few years ago.

Well, how could you hate it? Sounds like a dependable car to me.

When I was leaving senior prom, my date had her period on the seat. She ruined it. I don't know why, but I loved those seats. When I just didn't feel like dealing with my family, I'd go sleep in that car. After that, I couldn't do it. It was like the car was haunted.

I would've just bought a seat cover.

That’s not the point. The point is a girl’s crotch exploded on my seat. The only part of the car I could tolerate. I wanted to burn the car.

And the girl?

Didn’t put out. Kinda’ ruined prom for us both.

I never went to prom. I just stayed at home and welded.

Welded?

Yeah, it’s the best feeling I’ve ever had. I soldered, too. Have you ever made something out of nothing?

I don’t think that’s possible.

It’s entirely possible. That’s what welding is. Turning waste into resources. Remember shop with Mr. Tosch?

I skipped twice a week.

That day he brought in all of those scraps for us to turn into furniture was the best day of my life.

All I remember about that class was making the electric bird feeders. Mine killed birds.

You’re such a masochist.

It was entirely on accident.

Doubt it. But seriously, I made my parents an entire patio set for the campfire. They still use that shit, it hasn’t rusted.

The man’s nails were piss yellow. That always freaked me out. I think he was Jaundiced.

Your attention to detail is nauseating. I always thought that his “worthless class” was the least “worthless class” we had to take in high school. Remember that business prep class?

The one where I drew dicks all over my resume?

Flip books. Every day in the corner of that text book. Every single day.

Nothing wrong with that. Although, I’m glad we had to take it. It was almost like having back to back study halls.

Thinking about that class is making me tired. Do we have any more chips?

Baked Lays or those lime tortilla things?

Either. At this point I’ll take anything with sodium. My insides are wilting.

I love running my finger around the base of this bean dip jar. I feel like that plastic diver in the aquarium.

Can you imagine how wonderful his life is? Like that scene in Life Aquatic over and over again.

I cried during that scene. It was so sad. He finally won.

I know. Angelic Huston is such a fox.

A fox?

A fox.

City next to a dam

2009-03-09T19:58:00.005-04:00

I did not give up

this spot on a dam that acts

as a grey shoulder to a round-head city.

At dawn, the head tilts

and empties its lungs of sighs.

I'm a non-migrating bird

preening wings, molting in a small pile.

I'm the overseer of a manmade slab

that chokes out electricity to two-room houses

in the bedroom community of machine metropolis.

The city is filled with naked trees

and people that move likes cells

that nourish something larger

than an organ. Maybe the lower half

of a body or the whole body,

keeping a sick body alive with slugging cars,

red cell cars that fight black illness

and the rub the sleep from your eyes.

I sit on the dam,

feet tucked and wings primed to fly,

feathers piled to my breast

watching the streams of water

colored the same as dirty sky

flow away from each other.

One towards a sighing city,

the other to nourish a coughing,

vulnerable man.

This sounds way corny, but my life is a poem. Yours is, too.

2009-03-04T19:57:00.007-05:00

Let's break our lives down
into the individual words we've said.
Then,
things might make more sense.

The first time I had sex would be
a six word sentence
filled with interjections and a whole
lot of prepositions.

Okay, it's yeahhh,
it's in. I told the girl
she was amazing at least fifteen times,
I hope she felt that way about me.
She never said it, though. She didn't say much.
She stared through, yes, not at,
but through my dick, like a telescope.
I wanted to know exactly what she
saw or how she felt about what we were doing.
Sex is a business,
but it'll never go under,
because you give somebody something
like virginity or an STD
and you'll never get it back.
It's a gift-giving party, it's
everyone's birthday when you have sex.
Everyone who's having sex
is having a birthday right now.

I chose to listen to the Doors. Movies
make it seem like sex and music go
hand in hand. This must suck for
noise bands. Nobody will ever
rip sheets and stain bedspreads
to their kackle.

So back to words.
My sex life is six words
and yours could be a novel
or a slightly longer sentence
and if this means nothing to you,
well I'm sorry. This poem will mean something
to somebody, regardless of how they feel
about sex or me or poems.
They're going to injest these words
like a dustpan skimming the floor
of a closed bar, scooping up bent bottle caps
and mushy gum
that fell out of lesbian-make-out-mouths.
Go ahead, trademark that last line,
it won't bother me any, just words right?

Some people are great with words,
their words turn into poems.
If an indivdual could own words,
James Wright would own plenty.
He knew what order to put them in,
seemingly at any time. I'm sure he wrote
bad poems, too,
but they were still filled with words
in the write order.
That's all poetry is.

It's what you hear after eight hours.

2009-02-21T22:20:00.005-05:00

I slammed the key to the apartment on the counter and motion towards the refrigerator for a beer.

I come home every night to bed frame knocking against a thin layer of drywall. The desk in my room is covered in vinyls on top of their sleeves and cheeseburger wrappers. I need to write something. I need an orange.

The kitchen light hums with electric pulses, strobes of white energy. There's a pad of paper beneath a bowl of week-old fruit. I peel a navel orange with my thumb and the cap of a pen and shove wedges in the front of my mouth. They get quite every few minutes, changing positions or grabbing a bottle of Astroglyde in clumsy fingers. It's hard to be forced to imagine roommate's genitals.

My mom sent me a vase of flowers last week. I was sick. I had an infection drained in my knee. I've limped all week and walked crooked through doorways and up flights of stairs like a lowland gorilla. I want to consider these flowers as a Valentine's gift instead of a pity gift for a son who can't effectively groom. An ingrown hair that turned ROY G BIV.

I start scribbling lines on the notepad. The orange is gone, peel open like a detonated hand grenade. I want the beers from the fridge to come to me, they'll make noise that drowns out the sex. Maybe I'll turn the TV on. I want to watch the Maryland basketball game. I want men to move with raised hands, move like the tops of forests in April wind.

Outside the engine in my Fox is stuck. Like stick in a bike spoke stuck. Turn key, nothing. Lights come on and flood the frontside of our place like a busy dock belching cargo across the country, but the engine is other-side-of-the-moon black.

A door opens. A toilet flushes. There is coughing and laughing. I want to limp back to the fridge for another glass of anything brown, just so the vacuum of cold air spilling from the door seals drowns out what I listened to for twenty straight minutes. I hear a door shut again and hurry to the fridge.

Today is music day on this blog. Plus other things.

2009-02-16T19:58:00.003-05:00

I'm going to go through my iTunes and rate random albums accompanied by a paragraph or just a few words or maybe a sentence. I'm not sure.

Madvillain: Madvillainy

10 out of 10

This albums is perfect, absolutely, 100% perfect. I bought it for nine bucks at a used record store and completely lost it. Your first listen is like eating your favorite cereal, and every single bite is crunchy. What I love is that this actually operates like an album. There are no singles. It's a story, a narrative. It's bad guys versus good guys and I wouldn't have it any other way. The best hip-hop album of the last 10 years.

The Black Dahlia Murder: Nocturnal

7.4 out of 10

Close, but not quite. It's fast and hard. "What a Horrible Night to Have a Curse" is an epic metal single. But other than that, the album runs together like under-the-hood fluids in a parking lot fender bender.

Blur: 13

9.0 out of 10

Blur made one bad album. It wasn't this it.

I got tired of that a lot faster than I thought I would. Rating music makes me feel uptight. Still, I like recommending things. We need to just share musical tastes.

I have no idea where this blog is going anymore.

Cool dudes lists, volume 1

2009-02-13T19:07:00.003-05:00

Okay, so it's the "thing" to do in hip-hop. Making remixes, that is. What I want to do is write one fantastic hip-hop record. Record it, mix that shit hardcore and release it. Babes are going to eat it up. Asses are going to clap at my concerts, people will be drinking seven dollar mixed drinks. Ice and foam will spill on clevage. Seven or eight guys will get laid because of my concert, guaranteed.

Is clevage spelled with one or two e's? Somebody post an answer to this.

After the world tour hits, it's remix time. Like one two, buckle my shoe shit.

The remix. Some are going to sound like Daft Punk, just because that's the trend right now in hip-hop. It's alright, though. Somebody's bound to drop something epic this year.

So, I'm thinking about Dan Bailey right now. I want to be inside of his face when he writes. I want to be Dan Bailey when he starts a poem and when he ends a poem. What do you think his body feels like when he gets to the last stanza and just says, "That's it," when a killer line falls out of the tips of his fingers and goes onto his computer screen. He probably freaks the fuck out because he knows he just killed it.

"Killed it." That just sounds tough, like it's my attempt to chest bump you and knock you off a bar stool. My attempt to posture with drunk talk and flex my forearm so that one vein pops out. Instant gratification.

I want to be there when Dan decides to wear his pair of shoes that look like my one pair of shoes. That's a vague statement, mainly because I collect shoes like women collect shoes. By the cache. I swim in them like Scrooge McDuck.

Earlier at work I hurt my back again. I was lifting something, then my spine felt like crack the whip in third grade. I sat down and turned on the Germs radio station on Pandora. Brianne came in with ice packs. I feel a little better.

It's still Germs radio-time here at work. Darby Crash just knew how to get it done, it's probably why he killed himself.

I just hooked another dude up. He was like, "I need to get these Cheese-Its and this CD and other stuff to my girlfriend, pronto." She better love those Cheese-Its, they were the white cheddar kind, and I really wanted to open the box and take a handful.

This is my jam right here. Hurry up and come home, Bob. I need music.

Count the lines on your ceiling, please.

2009-02-09T23:18:00.002-05:00

Have you ever wanted to shrink down and go inside somebody's body to find out what made them hurt or how they work? I want to do that to myself right now. My body keeps hurting in different spots. First my right side, then inside my lung and now in my neck. It feels like the veins in my neck are a highway and everything is at a standstill. A plumber is standing on the hood of his F150 swinging a pipe wrench at passing cars, screaming about lunch or marriages.

I need a haircut. It's at the point where it either needs to be cut, or it needs to grow for another 6 weeks so I can write about this same thing again.

I hate when I want to post something on this blog, like a link or whatever, and I can't remember if I've already posted it or not. I think it's bad that I'd have to check to know.

So what kind of music do you like? I like to categorize music based on how fast it is. Right now, I'm listening to a song that churns dirt and moves like tank treds: slow, crushing bugs that had no idea the tank treads weren't just a small sheet of clouds moving westward. This song is like a machine, and I want to open it, remove a part, and see if it still works.

Bricki-di-roaw!
Steppin' out the crowd throwin' bolo's.
Flicki-di-flame, owh!

Twin chrome .44's
Loadin' it up, packin' it back, ready to splash for real.
Spit flows out the gail, God tried to bail
It's hectic, 4-5-6 gimme ya grips:
that's more dollars in them tongues in them go-go chicks.
Bitch I'm drunk, pumpin' slugs out of canon
Shot ya after-party down with Meth and Red in
check it, bricks and Shaolin, NO JOKE!
And when I hit the pussy,

call me Daddy Long Strope.
Or Ana, I'm hittin' pigeons out in Atlanta
Banana--Split, HOT TWO...SPIT! OOH SHIT!
Spickin' ya rippin' ya four or ya funds
I wet ya like a 141 waterguns
Cocky like Rocky, got ya scared to death!
So hold on ya bitches, cuz here come RED-METH!

Somebody somewhere is trying to write something that fantastic. Or trying to create a beat that rolls with that cadence. Hip-hop is poetry, I'm going to keep saying it. I'm like the pushy corner preacher rubbing his bible. I'm persuading you to come and I get the 2-for-1 soup and salad or the pasta buffet. You're hungry, right?

My girlfriend is fabulous.

2009-02-07T21:06:00.002-05:00

This title really has nothing to do with what I'm about to write about, but it's still the truth.

So, I came home from work today with three packages from three different countries sitting on my bed. Things for Volkswagens. Ironically, none of them are from Germany. Carburetor manifold, new Euro light switch and a brand new upper glove box.

It's sad, I have four keys for one car. They all do different things.

The Jetta is getting exciting. I want to finish it. I want to say I created something that moves people.

I need background noise in my life, pretty much all the time. Bob Knight talking about basketball, trumpets, my cat scratching a litter box, puking, crying, I don't care. I need sounds all the time. It's almost impossible for me to fall asleep without a TV or a fan. Even somebody snoring. This is a problem.

Tomorrow, I'm going to look at apartments with Brianne. I have a feeling we'll be settling on something soon. I really want a garage, but it isn't going to happen. Right now, at least.

Next, I'm going to think about driving over animals in the road. Sometimes, they might not be dead. You get tricked. You feel bad about nothing, not a damn thing. They're just tricking you. Those rodents.

I want one of these vending machines at the rest area about thirty miles north of here. Fuck Twix. I would drive up there once a week with my laundry quarters and feel good all the way home.

My insides are a crowded interstate going east towards narrow states.

2009-02-05T22:17:00.003-05:00

Wow hey, let's do something awesome like write a script to a love story. Okay, sound good?

Yeah, sounds good.

So it'll be a great script. It'll be a witty script filled with short sentences. I wonder what the montage will look like a sweeping long shot, maybe? I want a song from the 60s with a bluesy rift to play super loud and the main character will be smoking an unfiltered cigarette. He'll be holding it like a dart and press it into his lips like a pill coated in bitter yuck.

Hey yeah, that sounds like a great opening to a movie. My goal is to have a theater filled with teenagers getting BJs to this shit. Everyone will want sex or a have a sloppy midsection 10 minutes into the film.

I need to start drinking 10 glasses of water a day again. It made me feel better, no matter what I was doing.

So, holy shit, this Lakers/Celtics game is great. If you're not watching it, I don't think you're prioritizing your life very well. Marv Albert just referred to a player as "chippy." That description is a piece of crap.

Pitchers and catchers report to spring training in about 10 days, and that gets me so pumped up. Baseball season, yes.

I want the motor that's in the room directly below me to grow legs. I want its insides to rumble after fresh lubrication, after a bottle of Lucas is poured onto triangular lobes. On their metallic insides, a little face smiles and wants to spin and churn power.

I'm waiting for... maybe two weekends after this next one. The motor is going to be alive. Power is going to shift like to plates of naked earth moving below your feet, pushing once tall mountains into a pile of iron and crunch.

When this Jetta is finished, I might believe in God. And by that, I mean myself. I created something, I might get the same feeling a parent gets watching their kid smash a wet tennis ball off a tee over the chain link fence that runs along the back of a subdivision.

Fuck yes, the arena music in the Lakers/Celtics game is "Machine Head" by Bush. That song was the shit in the fifth grade. That crazy person driving super fast on the Ducatti motorcycle. Bustin' wheelies and endos on chumps because nobody's stopping me.

I want this blog post to keep going on for a lot longer. Although, I have little else to say. I'm trying to find more places around Louisville that have poetry readings. Fuck open mic nights, I want an actual reading.

Right now, I want to feel like this:

I wish there Super Bowl was a person, because they'd get a nice thank-you letter.

2009-02-02T18:59:00.003-05:00

The Super Bowl made me $450 dollars richer. This means more Volkswagen things faster. I'm addicted. It's like breathing. I don't even bat an eyelash anymore.

Aside from the fact that I won a lot of money on a game that I didn't even participate in, the game was absolutely fantastic. A nail-biter all the way to the final five seconds, which wasn't remedied by the fact that I had money riding on it. Not to mention.... "the catch."

Ben Roethilsberger to Santonio Holmes. Honestly, after last year's helmet catch, I really didn't think we'd see a more exciting Super Bowl for a long, long time. I was wrong. Great game, and I'm wealthier to boot.

It didn't snow today. It better not snow tomorrow. I have plans to get to work safely.

The Super Bowl is important for everyone.

2009-02-01T20:29:00.002-05:00

This is the most important day in about.... 150 people's lives. They work for today. Spend summer mornings jacking weights and grunting like free-roaming horses for sixty minutes. Today, it's important to me, too. Not as important as Super Bowl XLI, where I watched one of the only sports teams I could ever care about flounder away a chance to hold a silver football welded to a stump over their heads.

Fuck.

Well, I have $450 riding on the game. Go Steelers. Without the money riding on the game, I'd never root for them. Hate the team. Their defense is sleek, like a GTO. Powerful, only flashy on straight-aways. Juice in every gear. Steelers 31, Cardinals 16.

When I visit friends' blogs who have me linked, I feel like a dick clicking on the link. What does this mean? It means you should click the link instead.

These damn wheels are BBS knock-offs. Any idiot can tell.

This should make you want to drive a bit slower in bad weather. Christ, slow the fuck down.

Apparently, Michael Phelps smokes pot. It's official. We could definitely hang out.

If it snows tomorrow, this upcoming week will be the same as last week. Weak.

The Jetta is coming along nicely. Deadline is March 8th. Mannnn, this is getting interesting.

Okay, this is just an epidemic.

2009-01-30T17:08:00.005-05:00

I've never taken this seriously.

By this, I mean the weather

or the piles of snow and broken asphalt

that divide our lanes of traffic

for the next week.

See, I created a relationship right there,

I assume we share roads

and drink from the same glasses.

I want to imagine you and I

on opposite ends of a city

pushing our weak domestic cars

through narrow alleys,

trying to find an open restaurant.

We'll pay in left over laundry money.

At home, you sit bodliless on an l-shaped couch,

a voice slouched into a burgandy pillow.

You belch space so your stomach can fit

two more handfuls of chips. Maybe sometime

after 10, you'll here a Miles Davis ringtone

and answer Hello hun because it's me.

I won't comment on your diet,

or try and guess what show you're watching

between the circular motions of your hand

skating across the round of your stomach.

A few minutes later we start talking

about tackling the driveway.

My hands start to burn

when you say shovel. We keep talking.

You go into the hall closet and pile up

rubber boots with old dirty water in them,

ripped scarves and a brown knit helmet

that rests above your eyebrows.

About two hours later, it happens.

I park the Taurus near the mailbox

and we shovel. My pile grows faster.

After an hour, I can see asphalt

and cracks with weeds sprouting.

I stab the spade into a rocky pile

and head towards the door.

Your shovel scrapes bare rock.

A few coughs fall with heavy flakes

and I close the door thinking

about the fireplace that needs to be rebricked.

I think we should make changes, right now.

2009-01-28T20:14:00.002-05:00

I want my life to turn into a sword from a role-playing game: it needs some upgrades.

Snow storm was awful. First ice, then snow, then both at the same time. There's at least 8 inches of snow, covered by an inch and a half of ice. Trees are hanging like red zone huddles, with their tips touching the ground. We have three fifty-foot maples in our yard. Huge branches fell onto the roof, on the overhang in the backyard, on my dad's truck. We have no power. No hot water. I need to bathe, my balls feel like swamp leg, gross and slow.

My phone works intermitantly. Did I spell intermitantly right? Probably not. My hands hurt from moving limbs and scraping windows. I think I'd like to buy a generator and an ATV after this ordeal.

These setences feel awkward. Like, it feels like somebody else is writing this. These words sound terrible.

I didn't sleep last night, I tried to read but couldn't. I've messaged Volkswagen friends. One of them had a tree fall on his car while he tried driving to work. The front of his car looks like your insides.

Pot would be nice right now, so would a Grolsch. I had pizza earlier. I'm not sure how long my house will be without power. Oh yeah, I'm writing this from Jeffersonville, I made it down to my mom's flower shop. It has power, and heat. I'll be sleeping on the floor for a few days.

My knuckles won't stop throbbing, my fingers feel damp on the insides. This is something I don't understand. I hope you're reading this, that means you still have power, wherever you might be.

2009-01-24T11:30:00.002-05:00

I'm listening to Black Flag right now. Yeahhhhhh, No Values and White Minority. Also at work. I've helped three customers over the last hour and a half. That's awful. I'd say the most productive I've been is eat my pizza Lunchable. I've chewed on my thumbnail, too.

Wait... two people are coming in. This blog will continue in a few minutes.

I'm back now. He picked up an order. I like customers like that. They're like the first time you had sex: quick, too much talking with zero action. They're in, they're out.

**

I applyed for a postion yesterday with the Louisville Bats, the AAA-affiliate for the Cincinatti Reds. Aside from Volkswagens, baseball is my favorite thing in the entire world. The position is for a stadium operations intern. If I end up working for a professional baseball team, I'll probably have a heart attack everyday at work and have to be revived. I don't think anyone would give me health insurance.

**

I want to know why every old punk song talks about surfers and skateboards, even the guys who're from the Midwest. We don't have oceans here.

That last line would be a fantastic book or story title. Don't take it from me, ass.

Wouldn't it be crazy if we had to copywrite our lives? Sometimes I think it would be a good idea. That way, people wouldn't dress like Eminem or bleach their hair. I'm not trying to take a stab at Eminem, I just hate his stupid haircut.

I hate that there are at least 100 covers of "99 Luft Balloons." Fuck that stupid song.

**

I need to start reading a book. I haven't finshed a novel in a long time. There are three sitting on my bookshelf half-read. Sometimes I like it more that way.

I'm going to provide you the future and other things.

2009-01-22T16:24:00.004-05:00

Keith Law is like Raymond Carver: low on the horizon. He strikes with few words, but those few words are the entire dictionary. He knows exactly who is going to be five-tool savvy, who's going to crumble like crumbs under sneakers. He knew Nick Markakis was going to be king before anyone else knew how many k's were in his last name.

So, if you care at all about baseball's future, this link is necessary. Like water or a nice down comforter.

Today has been great so far. Those days don't happen often. There are new wheels from a Porsche 928 sitting my Golf that're for the Jetta. There are Volkswagen parts ready to become something large, black and powerful this weekend. Plus, the weather is fantastic. I didn't wear a jacket to work. Hopefully I won't need one tonight, because it's buried beneath the wheels in my Jetta.

I have the Australian Open on for background noise. What I like about tennis is that fans always scream, it never stops. A rally could go on for three minutes straight, and they're going to freak the hell out as soon as somebody scores a point. The commentators are always so calm and suave. They know exactly what needs to be said. It reminds me of when I had my kidney stone removed and while they were giving me the anesthetic, there was a nurse who was humming a Cowboy Junkies' song. That was the last thing I remembered before I woke up and had a stint string hanging out of my penis.

One thing I can assure you is that Im glad I haven't had a kidney stone since then. My doctor told me after you get one, it's much more likely that you can develop another one. I wanted to get rid of both my kidneys when he said that.

Accents are sexy. Always sexy. On women, at least.

I'm gonna go Mick Foley on your ass.

Us versus Vermont

2009-01-20T18:30:00.002-05:00

This is the title of the book I'm working on. I started writing fiction today. Maybe for the first time in almost six months. I've found it so hard to make stories work. This makes me appreciate good writing.

I found that talking about writing before I finish is bad luck. But I can't ruin the trend. It's going to be stories about Vermont. But I've never been there. I hope you won't be able to tell.

**

Right now I'm at work. Most often, I'll updatet his blog at work. Not out of convenience, but because I'm bored, always.

**

I've been consulting the weather often. For one, because I don't want shut-in days. I don't want to become the igloo that made an Inuit proud. I don't want to be on that bridge when my arms remain tired after scraping windows and blowing breaths from puffed cheeks so I can see out my rearview mirror.

GMail asked me if I wanted a map to my own house when I checked my email earlier. I said no. What a stupid question.

I'm waiting for Facebook in hi-definition. Notice how I omitted the -gh from high. That's so suave. I should write advertisements. I want to be the one who rots your brain by designing thirty seconds of bliss. I want to be the guy dragging pencils across ashy linen paper, drowning out the watermark. I want to be the mastermind who picks the cute faces covered in blue and gray textiles that make your pants drop, your lebido gird, and your face shrivel from drinking the soda.

Today I had the urge to drive up to Muncie. Obviously, I didn't.

**

This blog is over. There's a customer in front of my face. I can smell their gum and the things that are wrong with them.

Don't confuse this for praying after a game.

2009-01-19T17:29:00.005-05:00

My dog is jumping up and down right now. I can hear here through the floor. She keeps barking and I'm afraid she'll jump too high and come through the floor. What would be awesome if she landed on the treadmill that's next to my couch and start running on it.

I want to find a better browser option than Safari. Firefox sucks on Macs. I'm afraid to use Opera. Boo. Google Chrome needs to come out for the Mac, I want to try it.

Today I went shopping. I bought some video games to add to my collecting. They are now cleaned and in my container. I also bought some records. There used to be a fantastic vinyl booth at one o the flea markets in Louisville, but it closed. Because of this, I haven't added any new vinyl to the rack in a long time. I wanted some Prince, but I didn't find any Prince.

Here's what I bought:

Are these albums burning your insides? Probably. You need to own these. It doesn't matter what format. You can even have them on laser disc, or written on your walls.

Someone on ESPN just said they have wide receiver syndrome. That sounds deadly.

I'd like to get a new bass. Maybe with my tax return. Or maybe with your tax return.

It's cold on the underside of the Earth.

2009-01-16T18:35:00.003-05:00

I have decided on the graduate schools I'm going to persue later this year. I've narrowed it down to five that would give me a never-ending boner if I got in, and five more that create an equally-as-large boner. This tells me a few things:

** I'm probably going to be reworking the same 10 poems for the rest of the year and that really doesn't bother me one bit.
** It might become tedious to start harassing teachers about getting letters of recommendation. Although, it'll probably be sweet to read letters that are fellating your best attributes.
** I might vomit a few times when I think about a board of individuals reading my literature and an essay about me and base me on "merit" and "potential."
** The thought of gradaute school excites me. I want to be in a small classroom with other people drinking Starbucks, running their fingers through unwashed coconut menthol hair, and nodding their head once somebody makes a great point about "last night's assignment." I'm practically crying just thinking about it.
** My beliefs that I belong in an academic insitution until somebody pours dirt over my embalmed face is pretty much true. I don't belong behind this stupid counter looking at this jerks jacket sit on a counter while he tapes a box together and ships off a pair of sneakers to his wife in Boulder.

I'll need to become more ruthless. Cerebral. A rusty bear trap covered in anthrax. Graduate school is a competition. Sure, I'm competative. Like... at Madden and with my Volkswagen stuff. But writing? I'm an optiate float when it comes to writing. I want everyone to do well. I want everyone to write the greatest piece of literature of all-time and get to be on Oprah and talk about it while breastfeeding mom's get excited about plot and the way my jeans are rolled up.

When I send out grad school applications, I'm going to include a knife with test scores and everything else that I shove into an envelope. I'll carve, "Cut up shitty manuscripts, please" into the handle.

Tonight, I'll probably have nothing for dinner, and eat nothing tomorrow for lunch. My body needs to eat its excess and celebrate that there's enough of me to feed on.

You've acquired abs. I won't mention Dan Bailey in this blog, despite his fantastic everythings.

2009-01-13T09:30:00.004-05:00

I want to reacquire abs like they're some kind of special skill you get from killing a dark wizard in a role playing game. I want to slay the ab monster and take his lumps and place them in two rows on my stomach. I'll invited people over for a taco dinner and they can grate the cheese on my abs.

Actually, right now I'm talking to a few people online. My body must have terrible circulation because my hands are cold in different spots. Like a chain of islands who's getting pelted with rain on its side the always faces the sun.

I'm living in one of those moments where I have 10 things I want or need to be writing about, but none of them are going from the back of my face out my fingers and onto the screen that you're reading. I'm also living in another moment where this dirty cup hasn't moved from my room in a while. It should just go away, for real.

Right now, I feel like both of those people. The man, because he's turning a knob hard, trying to show that nun what's up. And that nun because she knows in about 10 more years, some dude will invent Pong, and she'll dominate her monastery until God decides to give her cancer or touch her with an AIDS dick.

That last line was so tasteless.

I wonder what Tony Blair does now that he's no longer Prime Minister in England.

I've been thinking about how great it'll be when I live in a house with two other people. We'll be making music all the time and raising our voices to scare off the things that haunt us when sound in the room disappears. We will stare right between each other's eyes and know that everything will be alright, even if it's only some of the time.

You should go listen to some sweet R&B, nod your head, lay it back on a pillow, and stare at the ceiling until it's morning. Do it, please. I don't want to be the only one doing that.

We call this town Leonard.

2009-01-11T08:41:00.010-05:00

I live in a small town

where roads disappear behind hills.

There's one restaurant

between two stoplights

and people dine behind navy-colored shades,

scooping slivers of steak and vegetables

onto tortillas and cradle beers

that stretch up towards lamps

long after the bar tender waves his hand

for last calls,

and the lone bus boy drinks

leftover bourbon from a stubby cocktail glass.

People tear through the town circle

towards other cities. Suitcases

slide along the bench seats of trucks,

clips bang on door handles. Fire

funnels from a cracked downpipe,

singes pavement behind tires

that whine on loose gravel.

They feel the buildup

going to a town housed by people that reach

more than three digits. In anticipation,

they make sure to pack extra soap,

a cooler filled with longnecks. A red Bronco

pulls up to a naked firepit. The driver gathers scraps,

while the loan woman pops off caps with a bent nickel,

passing them around a circle. Gusts of wind

blows the orange fire around in limp wisps,

voices disappear while a Vietnam veteran

who calls his shorter leg Little Buddy

talks about the time he went into a town

days away and sat around the same fire

with the same strangers.

Great quote. Last night dominated like the '76 Reds. I will open your ass with great force, so stop screaming.

2009-01-08T19:18:00.002-05:00

I had a customer in the store today for about 90 minutes. She just left. She was here faxing insurance information. We literally talked about everything. I just wrote a list of everything we talked about, and it included everything in the world.

Before she left, she said this:

"Working third shift messes up your entire body. And it makes you ugly."

She speaks the truth like a preacher wishes they could.

**

Last night was one of the most epic nights imaginable. More epic than Godzilla. The reading was fantastic. Everyone had great literature to share. When I got to Muncie, I went straight to the mall and bought a pair of shoes to quell my fashion vagina. Also, I wore my Blue Jays hat, which made me want to drive right back to the mall and buy a few new hats.

Dan Bailey was drunk. He drank some Mickey's and a Zatec, which is probably the oldest beer in the land. I think the label said, "Since 1006," which is equivilant to drinking brown holy water. We walked from Motini's through the streets, and Dan was screaming like a ghost was inside his body. He was also displaying some sick agility, which probably led him to say, "I'm the most agile person in the world." Dan also said ass nuts a few times during the night, which was fantastic.

I read 8 poems, two of them I wrote that day. I'm not sure how the audience felt. A lot of people stared at me like I had a leg growing out of my face. I cracked some jokes when I read, and I think people may have liked those more than my poetry. I remember making an analogy that the stomach pain I felt due to the beer that was consumed "Pre-reading," was somewhere in the neighborhood of my dad getting ass raped by a cybernetic man.

Despite being totally pumped that Muncie greeted me with tons of fanfare and great people, I found myself not wanting to leave again. I missed all the potholes. I missed living in a shitty apartment with shitty people that do shitty things and leave their shitty dishes in the sink for me to not clean the shitty things off of them. It's pushing me closer to wanting to apply to graduate schools for next year. I had been throwing around the idea of taking the Praxis so I can get an emergency teaching license, and then take the necessary courses to get my Secondary Education license and teach high school. I still might do that, but reading my poems for twenty minutes made me want to get back in a classroom and write poems all day.

I miss that a lot.

**

I'm making myself write a poem a day again. Otherwise, I feel like I'm wasting my life.

Sorry, I have to end this thought because a prick just walked into my store and I'm going to disembowel him and use his face as a urinal.

Here is my caravan: a silver car.

2009-01-07T11:01:00.004-05:00

Right now I am preparing to drive to Muncie. First showering, then I'll stare at a closet full of flannel and expensive jeans and decide what to wear. The baseball cap I choose is really important. It's like tying off the bull's balls before a rodeo. Like unwrapping the cupcake first, then filing your mouth with frosting.

I'm looking at a pile of poems and don't know which to read. Maybe I'll write something new.

I expect to be greeted by veiled dancing women, some Persian rugs and maybe a chest full of jewels. Or maybe just a cold beer. Any of those things would be nice.

Sometimes I want to be a train. Other times something else.

2009-01-05T16:35:00.003-05:00

It'd be great being a train. You'd have momentum posing as steam and smoke. People would call it pollution, you would call it sweat and the afterbirth of working for ten straight hours. It pours from your gears and the stalks that churn you forward.

So, I think you should drink Vitamin Water. Never in my life have I drank something that instantly obliterated thirst. Like you're outside shoveling or trimming the cracks in the driveway, and your mouth tastes like what you'd imagine friction and despair meeting together and creating some soy-based dish.

See. People usually have to get through an entire glass of cold water before they're no longer thirsty. This stuff? It hits your lips like Dick Butkus pounding Larry Csonka right into frozen dirt. It hurts, then relief.

Now I need to go upstairs and pull one out of the fridge.

Damn, no grape ones. I settled for the XXX concoction: blueberry, acai and pomegranate. My insides are on holiday.

I'm going to be doing a lot more reading this year. I'm promising this to myself. I'm open to suggestions. Or you can just mail me books. How about you do that? Mail me 350 papercuts waiting to happen. I think I read two books last year. Maybe. Two novels. Tons of short stories and poems, but you can't keep track of those.

When I was a kid, I wanted to write some stupid song about a celebrity and get it on the radio. What about Rosa Parks? Shit, Outkast beat me to it. She was all pissy about the song, too, which makes me mad. It's a great song. Don't believe me? Watch this.

See, I knew you'd change your mind.

I shaved my beard today and now I need a haircut. Also, I'll be in Muncie Wednesday. Get ready.

They're sharing a chair right in front of my face.

2009-01-02T20:01:00.003-05:00

The title to this post is a literal representation of something that's actually happening as I write it. Think of it as meta-fiction. Er, meta-blogging.

I just had a tough conversation. It'll be tough for a while. You know the conversation, you've had one with your mom or your neighbor when you hit his mailbox backing out of the driveway. The only thing that ever comes out of it in the end, is my body feeling a bit lighter and I have to pee. Well, that's not entierly true. Nobody knows what's true about conversations.

When my grandmother died in May, my dad inherited her Hyundai station wagon. It's silver and has less than 35 thousand miles on it. Driving it around and merging it between a Land Cruiser and an S-series Mercedes leaves a feeling of inadequacy. The car is something you can't see on any map, a breadcrumb you mistake as an island. It's alright, though. In this car, people just let you drive.

It's been driving me to work. Granny listened to the Beatles a lot. When I sat down to drive it to work last Wednesday Let it Be was on, and that's all I've listened to driving to work, running errands or getting food.

Well, until right now:

Muncie poetry reading on the 7th. Please be there, if you're anywhere close.

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

2008-12-30T17:50:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-12-27T11:25:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-12-25T20:12:00.006-05:00

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)

2008-12-24T13:10:00.002-05:00

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.

2008-12-22T23:12:00.003-05:00

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

2008-12-21T23:55:00.002-05:00

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

2008-12-20T13:02:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-12-14T11:18:00.005-05:00

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.

2008-12-09T19:48:00.005-05:00

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.

2008-12-06T13:09:00.003-05:00

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.

2008-12-02T19:25:00.004-05:00

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.

2008-12-01T22:06:00.006-05:00

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