Saturday, October 23, 2010

october 23, 2010

I only know (what I know)

there isn't anything we can't accomplish
huddled inside this wet cave
likes apples packaged in plastic
or the suffocating cigarette butt
choking for air at the bottom of the ashtray.

I only know what I know
and I'll never know
if that is enough.

who will unveil the answer?

portrait of a dog

a dog lies languidly
in a black leather chair.
he opens his eyes
when my shorts rub against the couch
and shout muffled cries
into smoke stained air.
the dogs shuts his eyelids
as I crouch back down,
hovering over words
that leak down an orange sunrise.

Thursday, October 21, 2010

Thursday, October 14, 2010

new book for sale in november!

The book will go on sale in November!  I do everything I can to avoid exclamation points but neglecting one now would mask my enthusiasm.  November November!  I cannot say when exactly because minor tweaks are still being worked out but November it shall be.  It will be priced no higher than $10 and I really hope you buy it if you're reading this.  It contains beautiful artwork and photography and the first 50 copies come hand delivered by a newborn puppy/newborn kitten/Usain Bolt (whichever you prefer).  Please tell your friends, family and enemies who may care because this means a lot to me.  I write for no other reason than to write; it keeps me sane and it makes me feel alive and it's a medium of art I want to push.  Without fresh voices we'll continue to be told the previous sentence requires a comma after sane instead of discussing how making it a run-on shows inspired apprehension.  Literature is not dead and I hope to prove it.  My second book, "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64," goes on sale in November.  Stay tuned for more updates.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

october 12th, 2010

A cut-up written with Erin Dillon.

a start

He’s terribly petrified to laugh in public. Nothing about his private life possesses honest, homegrown confidence. Even when he drapes himself in polished pearls and heavy mascara his masculinity pokes through garishly. He hides behind himself with fearful pride.

Standing in line for the ladies room this evening results in provocative but ultimately degrading looks. Quickly he flees. His dress trails behind him as he elbows his way through the crowd of expressionless mannequins. “Why do I need their approval?” he questions angrily as he exits out the side door.

“Hey Jim, get a load of that tranny dragging it’s cock between it’s legs. Wah ha ha ha!” The anonymous drunk smirks before stumbling back to the bar. Your protagonist chokes back tears and waves down a taxi driver wearing a confused face.

"Where you go?" asks the scraggly cabbie in a demanding yet friendly tone.
"Home. Fountain and Curson."
"Okay, I take you home. Where you buy that dress? I like very much."
He hears the question but sits surprised for several moments. Finally a smile grows above his chin and he tells the driver exactly where it was bought. This pleases both of them.

Thursday, October 7, 2010

fuck it

october 7th, 2010

As much as this blog reminds me of how little anyone cares I'm back.  So fuck you non-readers, I don't need you.  It's too easy to abandon this outlet I once felt optimistic about.  I need some sort of motivation to keep writing poetry and an empty blog is encouraging.  So I'm doing this for me, as a reminder to get off my ass and type because it keeps me sane.  Fuck writing though.  Fuck it.  This art gets such a twisted, pretentious and misunderstood reputation.  We hand musicians and actors stacks of money wrapped in golden-plated ribbons instantaneously and without thought, then we encourage them to water their egos until they grow into unstoppable mutants only to grab a fresh bag of popcorn and applaud each disastrous decision so we can witness a fall from grace.  Meanwhile we ignore literature... or to be polite, we overlook it.  And the ones who work in the writing business continue to place it on a ridiculous pedestal far too high for you to reach.  That's how I see it at least, as some exclusive club led by arrogant fucks who jerk off to the thought of denying membership.  Here's some free advice young ones: start practicing how to be an asshole now and you'll be rich and lonely long before you dreamed!

Anyways, how about that for cynicism?  Kids my age are trained complainers, don't you forget it.  We can bitch and moan with the best of them.  The trick is to complain with hopes of change and work towards one day being only slightly bitter. 

To finally make a point, I have a new poem to post so here it is, I hope you enjoy.  My next writing project is undetermined but keep your eyes peeled for my new poetry book "Jack Defeats Ron 100-64."  It will go on sale in the very near future and I am very happy with it, I really am.  I can only hope it shows.  Well, here's some new writing.  I will post new stuff when new stuff comes to fruition.  Goodnight.

false predictions

I almost died this past weekend.  I was almost run over by a temporary addict who swerved in my direction driving up an empty incline behind my apartment.  The love of my life was only a couple steps ahead, surely in danger if the worst had occurred.  It was as if Lady Death had penciled us in.  Our names were scribbled down but not finalized in ink.  Perhaps we were substitutes, fill-ins for potential mistakes.  Whatever we were I now sit here smoking cigarette stubs by the window, stinking up the room and reassuring the sticky, pungent smell it has a home.  I didn’t plan it this way, I didn’t plan any of this.  I was always the first to finish my multiplication tests in elementary school.  I was supposed to be something important… at least in the eyes of the superficial.  I was supposed to be successful and innocent.  I wasn’t supposed to be here smoking cigarette stubs by the window, drunk and confused on a Tuesday night.  I wasn’t supposed to be jagged and introverted and constantly seeking solitude.  What were you supposed to be?