november 27th, 2009

It's only Friday and I haven't had to work since Tuesday, so today I'm posting a mad lib I did that is "...childishly absurd, wildly irreverent, and hilariously honest-- yet undeniably thought-provoking and monstrously emotional at times.  A fantastic accomplishment for the brilliant young poet's poet," says The New Yorker.  I've never been anything but modest, ever, but those words speak so much truth it twists my bowels.  

downhill ski race

From the moment the downhill inebriated baboons leave the gates until the second they mise across the finish line, the ski race is a John Madden’s toilet-pounding experience!  The skiers must navigate a slanty-eyed, demanding course, crescent kicking over giant mounds of Jessica Biel’s sternum known as “moguls” and maneuvering around plastic epileptic puggles planted in the snow, which create a more challenging Austin Powers Boothe.  If that isn’t tough enough, the racers have to combat the elements-- the cornea mine shaft-chilling cold, the blinding snow pap smears, and the placenta-esque winds racing up to one hundred Korean dealers per hour.  Only the result of a downhill hyperactive napalm marinara sauce are predictable.  It seems that, year after year, the same team wins this combustible panda.  Must be something in its penis fez!

november 25th, 2009

a new friend

blue brother is getting jealous

I can see it in his eyes

blue brother cannot print as well as red royal

red royal is more precise

red royal is in better shape

red royal is quieter

sexier 

gaudier

so blue brother hides under his shell

and assumes his day has come

but blue brother fails to realize

sometimes I want to be messier

louder

and cruder

blue brother has nothing to fear

I loved him on day one

and I love him now

he was my first

and I will never forget

november 23rd, 2009

this is a cut-up I wrote with Erin Dillon...



north from delancey street

If the sight of a wet mirror turns your bowels sour, you have been bitten by brutality. Suffering men with tranquil smiles and Bambi eyes will taunt you from afar. What you need instead of impulsive masturbation is a manic moment of casual chatter with all the booze in town. Silver Ferraris and raucous one-night stands with hummingbird floozies will solve nothing. And we've chosen you to sit between our hyenas and jackals and urinals because only you can murmur futility unknowingly. It is a circus of danger; a death wish you mush accept.

november 19th, 2009

brother 100

I have been neglecting my baby blue typewriter.  He sits patiently on a cushioned chair outside my closet all day and all night.  He does not complain, he just gathers bits of dust and allows the smell of marijuana to latch onto exposed pieces of metal.  He’s in great shape.  It’s clear he puts a certain amount of validity in personal appearance.  He is good to me and he never asks questions.  He never goes on endless rants, gazing at me every other point to assure I am paying attention, glossing over my fake laughs because deep down I must be loving the story.  He doesn’t interrupt me and if my joke bombs he doesn’t laugh.  Maybe next time kid, delivery was a bit off.  He lets me type on him whenever I want and he doesn’t mind falling asleep to music.  We get along.

pepper rabbit

I just finished writing a blurb for a friend's band, Pepper Rabbit, and I post it here because they make damn good music and chances are you've never heard of them.  They have two EPs on iTunes (as well as many other services) called Clicks and Shakes.  Do your brain a favor and give them a listen.  You can visit their myspace here:

www.myspace.com/pepperrabbit

The forming of Pepper Rabbit is a glorious tale of pre-pubescent competition thrown blindly into a blender with Mr. Peanut and unexpected friendship.

Xander Singh first met his future musical partner Jean-Luc Laurent in the Gobi desert during the 37th annual Worldwide Hide and Seek National Tournament of Champions.  The epic showdown lasted 14 days and 17 nights, finally ending after referees found each opponent sucking their thumb, shivering under what they thought were leopard-print Snuggies.  When ordered to shake hands and acknowledge a tie, Xander and Luc, in their hallucinatory state, ran towards each other at full speed and collided in a hug formation, bonding them for life.  They walked home together, stride by stride, eating sponsor-provided honey roasted peanuts by the handful. 

Since then music has infested their minds and driven their purpose, creating beautiful collaborations of sound and heartfelt lyrics.  They experienced only ecstasy and success until a brutal peanut-butter-and-jelly-crust-incident murdered Xander’s imaginary dog Lord Mitsy on none other than PB & J Wednesday.  The death bullied Xander for years, but he recovered resiliently and bounced back as passionate as ever many felt.

They are now in the process of recording new songs that promise nothing less than a religious experience* and demand Webster himself to rethink the definition of lush.  Pepper Rabbit is here to stay folks.

*Pepper Rabbit in no way shape or form promises religious experiences.

november 16th, 2009

for a friend

he casually bleeds loyalty

as he lends me his sweatshirt

as he offers me his hand

as he silently applauds my success

failing only to notice

the bloods stains on the white carpet

and how easily they splash

onto my ragged pair of jeans

it's a lovely trade in my eyes

red jug

it's just me and my jug

like Nilsson and his arrow

but there's no fiction on my part

my jug is real and my jug means business.

the wine isn't bad at all

for the price

and I carried it home

with my left pointer finger

hopping and skipping

like a man who just purchased a jug of wine.

sure, I may be drunk on jug wine

(good jug wine)

but you're the one reading this load of garbage

this useless collage of words...

and I forever love you for it.

november 13th, 2009

tart

it's so easy to write too much

to get caught in a moment

and rattle on

and on

using fancy diction

and beautiful imagery

when all you needed to say

was a few words...

perspective is everything.

fuck buttons at the echo

I was ready to give up. The venue was packed and the music was far too loud. I ordered a Jack and coke and a water and tipped the bartender generously. Putting up with that noise is worthy of my change. I found a couch in the very back corner, placed my cups on the ground, and nuzzled my back into the fake leather exterior. I sat watching the ants around me interact and attempt to talk above the formidable drone. Why does live music have a personal vendetta against my eardrums? I finished my drink and slithered my way through the crowd hoping to find a decent bathroom where I could work on my Bateman impression. My journey spit me out not ten feet from the right side of the stage. Pleasantly surprised I nixed the Bateman meeting and grabbed a spot behind a wide gentlemen who had zero insecurities about bobbing along with the music. I couldn’t see his face but I liked him. At my angle the volume was perfect and I was able to follow each and every move one band member made. He was facing me, grooving along with the music and occasionally checking in with his partner. We made eye contact often and I made sure to show my appreciation, as well as my approval (however much it was worth).

I left early to avoid the drug-addled, plastic, bearded crowd because nothing ruins a show like a herd of loud humans. I ran across the street, down the stairs, and panted my way up the dark, suburban hill which cradled my parked car. I passed a couple lying down on the wet sidewalk, seemingly oblivious to anything outside their damp bubble, or better yet, uninterested in it. I grinned as I conquered the final steps.