Let's study illness one fiber at a time.

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

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

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.

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

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.

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

**

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

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

**

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

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

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

Remember this blog post for what it is.


**

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

Call home Holiday Inn

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

Wait a minute....

Those shoes are fantastic.

***

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

Hmph.

Talking underwater

I feel everything I hear

sounds like talking underwater

at the pool as a child.

Hair suspended, face covered

in a muzzle of bubbles

and even though you know

Sam keeps saying hey hey

two dozen times,

you keep mouthing what.

Both breach,

fill your lungs until your chest stings

and go back underwater to mouth

hey heys and whats.

Freestyle rhyme #1

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

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

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

Don't ever get to comfortable.

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


**

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

"Make sure to meet people."

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

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

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

**

So what're you reading right now? Me?

This.

Imma' just say this: Wow-wee.