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.

I'm back, officially.

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

Like this? Like thattttt.


**

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

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

**

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

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

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

This is what you need:


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

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

Product of a sore neck.

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

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

Leaving without a kiss goodbye

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

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.

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

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.

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

Doom ship captain cackles overhead

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.

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

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.