the farside of nothing

2010-11-04T15:57:00.000-07:00

My world is small. The news I read to stop my brain is 7 inches long. I hear a lot of talk tonight which makes me think of fright when blue eyes and blonde hair makes a date rehearsal late the dreams and reels barely feels like a difference in a matter of taste i remember the shimmering water the ride down the road in a rickshaw looking up trying to get up the branches they looked lyike sycamores. a woman stood down below i watched myself get up and go somewhere else in a parking lot an empty store or maybe not back in work a separate office laughs with bosses and royalty checks but now its real and im a bit tired but not too tired to bounce in a riot

Weekly writing contest

2009-06-25T10:09:00.000-07:00

www.wordsfordollars.com

This website holds a weekly contest. The first place prize is 500 bucks. It costs 15 dollars to submit your writings on the given subject. This week the subject is winter. No more than 1000 words. I haven't made up my mind about giving money to strangers, given that they are brand new and haven't had any winners yet. Any thoughts?

The Farce

2009-06-24T20:42:00.000-07:00

The woman walked across the window naked. Drying her hair in front of the closet cabinet.

"What's the matter? Are you ashamed of your body?" She asked.

"No, but you sure do a lot of sit-ups. What's that saying?" I said, laying up in bed.

"Well, its a matter of pride, I guess." She answered throwing on a robe and cleaning her ears.

"Everyday people look at me, and this is what they see." She waved her hand over her body.

"One day you'll be unattractive. After that your dead." I rolled over and watched the patterns in the carpet mysteriously shift. "Everybody's got their moment, I know that." She adjusted her skirt in the mirror and dashed her bangs.

"You sure do."

2009-06-22T12:21:00.000-07:00

Jersey makes me think of a sea turtle digging holes in someone's front yard in upstate New York. Are locations confusing me? I am not sure what I mean by "locations" though. I am confused by perception maybe. My dad saw a family of foxes running through the woods in the suburbs, "going from yard to yard." My friend saw a family of foxes playing, "like as if they were on the nature channel". That was in the middle of the road, I think. This is true: I got like ten emails over the weekend. 0% of them were written by actual humans, I think. I just want to do some collaborative work with someone. I need to insure my existence with meaningful relationships, in case I decide to act like an asshole for 95% of the next ten years of my life.

2009-06-18T20:48:00.001-07:00

True, the earth moves under the stars. How do you explain the North star? I heard you cast your eye off the last star on the big dipper's dipper in a straight line to find it. But that Big Dipper is always in different places! Anyway, lighthouses are absurdly phallic. All the ones in Jersey have different light sequences so the sailors can tell them apart. I found Bruce Springsteen's beating heart on the Jersey Shore and threw it back into the water. The guy from the Sapranos was attempting to drown himself next to me. Sea weed was stuck to his fattened breasts.

2009-06-18T15:20:00.000-07:00

Seems like lighthouses move only with the rotation of the earth
but stars don't move.

2009-06-17T19:13:00.000-07:00

Lighthouses don't really move
but dolphins do.

Visitors

2009-05-29T22:35:00.000-07:00

"That was terrible, holy shit," Matt says, falling to the floor.

"Now you can write about it," Scott says.

"This feels interesting actually...No. I don't even want to write about it - yet, anyway" Matt says. "I want a shot!"

Matt rolls over and knocks into the chair with wheels. The chair rolls a little. The box fan rattles a little.

Scott's eyes widen. Matt and Scott's eyes connect visions. Scott moves his eyes around, then Matt does too.

"Shots!" Matt says.

Matt and Scott don't find any liquor in the kitchen and Matt goes to his landlord for some, who forces the bottle into his hand grudgingly.

"Don't keep me up," the landlord says with close-cropped eyes.

Matt swallows a shot of gin and says "This all feels really good... man, I feel alive, bro," into the medium-space, before the off-white wall.

Matt registers each of his reactions to the outside world as individual feelings, glowing distinctly in his chest. Hands scooping the circumference of color-coded orbs. He resigns knowing the despair will soak into his flesh and pours another shot.

"You're doing a good job," Scott says.

Matt moves his eyes over to Scott's without moving his head, which is fixed over the desk, the bottle and the glasses.

"They were both just here, right? Did you see them there and hear their voices like I did?" Matt says.

Scott smiles at Matt, wildly a little. His hands in his pockets, tasting gin. He cannot feel any of his own problems directly. Matt touches his finger tips to the desk and begins moving his body rhythmically to the music.

a poem about the wildlife refuge in brooklyn

2009-05-22T21:22:00.001-07:00

my life seems depressing.

when i write about the things i do in real life i feel like i am fucked.

we all change as people, right. there are some bananas near me

and there are more bananas on the windowsill.

i changed as a person, but still feel existentially frustrated,

and now i like to drink coffee and think about how societies are meaningless

constructs. the line breaks in the poem will drive home this winning argument -

something, be post modern maybe.

my endocrine glands have been infected, i feel

and will require an injection

the doctor says.

the serum they use is electrically charged, and seems sweet!

the anxiousness in my stomach is yellow and ice creamy.

at night on a friday i feel like i took a nap and woke up extra oily.

i read some

sentences of short stories and then stopped after some sentences

and made pasta, ate it,

rode my skateboard around at 5am and bought a huge cantaloupe

and dropped it, but it was fine and then i ate it

then i took the train to the wildlife refuge

where i walked around in a maze of bushes.

sometimes i came to mud and grass taller than small trees

and at one point felt completely surrounded by birds

but could not take pictures of any with my cellphone.

with my shirt off, sweating a little,

red lines and patches streaked across my chest and arms.

then, finally i felt too tired to keep up my an inner monologue or something.

forgetting, but imagining a little,

i slept a little on the train ride back.

Whensday?

2009-04-21T16:14:00.001-07:00

Lenny was thinking that American English was an ignorant language. His eyebrows were pointed and full of worry. He chewed the inside corner of his mouth. Across from Lenny, George sat silent and whistled a lit match through his pipe. A grandfather clock chimed and tick-tocked through the room of daze dust and sun. George exhaled a cloud of smoke.

“How was Len-Fest?” George’s curious eyebrows and ears curled.

Brimming, Lenny stated, "A modern debauchery recalling the days of Caligula Rome."

“That’s always good,” George unfolded his arms. A little annoyed about missing this "caligula" thing.

“Well, besides the horses it was actually pretty legit.” Inserted Lenny. He thought about the party and about the seducer of his friend and the stained carpet.

“Well I hope it wasn’t too tame.” Winked George.

“I had encountered much stress, offered Lenny coughing, 'but managed quite nicely. My brother wound up coming with some of his friends.” Lenny began a sip of beer but stopped… “ This friend of my brother's is some tragic disposable hero. Real 'live for the music' guy. Completely over the top. Quite sure he ripped into the PA he brought with a guitar.”

"Was he any good?" George asked.

"No, he partially cried while singing an original titled 'Basement Mother Blues."

"How old is he?"

"30."

"Wow."

"Yea."

“Did you play?”

“Yea, me and my brother alternated on drums.”

“How is Sal anyway? He’s married no?” George asked recalling Lenny’s brother. The tall bright guy.

“Yea, couple years. New baby.”

“Oh shit, congratulations. “

“Yea, well that’s what happens.” Lenny winced.

“He still at the plant?”

“Nah. Laid off with a six month severance.”

“Fuck man, my mom got laid off too.” George offered. Lenny looked at George's screwy blue eyes.“Really? Sal’s wife also.” “Damn,” George scratched himself. “My parents are pissed because Sal and Lena just went to Arizona for vacation and are now planning on Cabo.” Lenny snorted.

“I read about that in the paper.”

“About my brother?” Lenny asked, questioning reason.

“About laid off people taking vacations . . .why not right?”

“Well the problem is each of them have debts the size of a house, and my brother’s wife got a job but first morning they called early to tell her the job wasn’t in the budget.”

"Damn."

"Yea."

Each of them paused. Lenny wanted to laugh, like when he did when his dog was being put down and afterwards seeing a new puppy on his way out the door almost winking. George was thinking about yard work and a rubbish fire and crashing through the woods with a big stick. Then they both thought about the time when they were fighting a war in the desert. And they didn't want to talk about that.

"Stupid clock." Lenny spat and dusted off the clicking grandfather clock. "You should get a cuckoo clock." George smiled and exhaled another cloud of smoke into a beam of sunlight.

"Nah. This is like a family heirloom."

"Is it worth anything?"

"Not in dollars my friend."

"Does it work?"

"Not properly."

"Get a cuckoo clock."

"Shut up, George."

Silence came over them and the ticking clock again filled the room. George and Lenny both felt terribly lonely. They wanted to speak hot and fast and laugh at something really funny but there was nothing. Lenny started to think about an Arab girl that reached out to him as she died. George put on the Television.

"Seinfeld's on."

"Yea."

I was/ You were

2009-03-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

English grammar is arbitrary. Other than that I haven't much to say. I got drunk and woke up with some violent scabs on my palm and wrist. Apparently I refused the stairs. This morning I was in the hospital at the bedside of a stomach virus victim. Took a cloudy motorbike ride out to a beach on the weekend. Too early to re live it but last summer was the shit over there.

Distracted Party

2009-03-16T19:11:00.000-07:00

It came apart all over my hands. Stacey scratches her eyelid with a stick, reaching for a plastic, purple egg. What a way to ruin an almost perfect day - the egg cake eaten in minutes.

The internet said low of 35. I drove the shy kid home and quickly returned. What I did when I got back didn't look like what I was really doing. I'd have to explain the intentions of ten different people. What was important was that I woke up in my clothes again.

An image of a person with the impulse to bring their guitar somewhere entered my head. The image had my apartment in it. I was in my apartment. The easiest way to say it was to say that my apartment was floating.

The party was a gathering of old friends from the hotel. No one expected Chuck to be drunk upon arrival. No one performed badly, though. In fact, Chuck had us all laughing in minutes. Whatever people felt before we got drunk was gone, but returning tomorrow. My friends are sleeping to the noise of a giant fan.

In minutes, I'll receive a memory, like a trinket. The thing had an interlocking, internal structure. One piece broke under a lot of pressure from my finger nail. My finger nail felt like a piece of paneling being pulled back, but the thing came apart first.

The Sad Basketball Diaries

2009-03-10T18:45:00.001-07:00

Yao Ming holds Nate Robinson over his head like a basketball. Steve Nash jumps off a small trampoline, makes his legs into a 'V' over Nate Robinson while grabbing Nate Robinson and does a front flip. Steve Nash then dunks Nate Robinson in an over-sized hoop. Steve Nash lands and Nate Robinson tangles in the net. Nate Robinson dies from strangulation by the ropes of the net. Steve Nash and Yao Ming leave Nate Robinson's body in the net and go to McDonald's. They order extra value meals with one dollar menu item each. They sit in the second story seating of the McDonald's, looking over Federal Plaza. Yao Ming says "I want to write an iconic book of poetry while I'm still young because that's the only way it's possible." Steve Nash says, "That might not be true. Anything is possible." There is a pause. Then Steve Nash says, "I want to enrich that girl's existence be sending her office supplies in the mail." Yao Ming sees the girl Steve Nash is talking about and says, "oh."

After McDonald's Yao Ming and Steve Nash go into the City Hall subway station. A W train comes by and Steve Nash gets on and sits down. Then Yao Ming gets on and sits down. Steve Nash says, "This is the wrong train" and runs off the train. Yao Ming runs off the train. Steve Nash says, "We should go to MSG anyway." Yao Ming says, "Yeah."

When they get to MSG, Steve Nash makes baked ziti in the conveyor pizza oven but with cut up pretzels instead of ziti. Yao Ming eats the ziti and says, "This ziti is dry." He throws the ziti onto the basketball court from the upper tier where they are. The ziti lands below Nate Robinson's dead body still tangled in the net. Steve Nash stares with a vacant facial expression at the hoop and the baked ziti splatter. Steve Nash says, "That is where famous bands played like The Rolling Stones and The Grateful Dead." Yao Ming says, "------- hippie."

New bands like My Morning Jacket, Kings of Leon, and Vampire Weekend didn't play at MSG because basketball and hockey seasons have been extended to year long seasons with no off-seasons. This caused players to spend a majority of their lives inside arenas. Players also traded teams regularly and recklessly; team loyalty faded with million dollar contracts and endorsements, which all failed due to the collapsing economy. Sometimes a player played on a team for only one game and then moved on to another team. Kobe Bryant once scored 100 points against the Milwaukee Bucks using only three-pointers and foul shots. On the backs of playing cards it listed the teams players did not yet play for. Some players played for each team in the league at least once, the older players sometimes twice. Carl Malone came back from retirement and played for each team three times as a publicity stunt. He lived permanently in a coach bus fueled by restaurant oils. He nurtured one large cat through obesity and back to average mouser weight.

Steve Nash and Yao Ming were now in the visitors locker room of MSG. Yao Ming wears his Houston Rockets shorts and his Orlando Magic jersey. Steve Nash wears his Boston Celtics shorts with his New York Knicks jersey. At one point both Yao Ming and Steve Nash thought of themselves as iconic figures of the NBA. Now, you can see in their faces a sense of prophetic sense of loss. Yao Ming bounces a basketball off the top row of lockers that makes a very loud rattling noise. Steve Nash hands Yao Ming an avocado bowl. They both begin to eat avocado bowls sitting next to each other on a bench. The locker room smells like lemon cleaning products. A laptop on the end of the bench plays Journey To the End of the East Bay by Rancid repeatedly. When Yao Ming finishes he feels a little drunk though he is not drunk. He stands up on the bench and makes a 'man-gina' by tucking his penis between his legs. He calls Steve Nash's name and Steve Nash looks up at Yao Ming's exposed crotch. Steve Nash shouts "Nooooooooo" in an exaggerated tone.

Brooklyn, New Orleans

2009-02-25T22:43:00.000-08:00

- Brooklyn's between-81 and 71-square miles contains 2.5 million people.
- New Orleans' 180 square miles contains a little more than 1 million people.
- New York state contains between 5,000 and 4,000 black bears in the Adirondacks, 2,000 and 1,500 in the Catskills, and 500 and 300 in the Allegany region.
- Louisiana contains 1.5 million alligators and .5 million of which are on farms. They contain between 1,000 and 500 black bears.

Orange monkey.

2009-02-21T11:35:00.001-08:00

Left flat foot hot burning hurt for no damn reason other than taking another step on the long walk of life. Now it's bothering for two days. Let's see a doc. Stick needles in my foot. Throats also soar. Damn shame. No damn reason. Dogs got gas. Had to switch his food. Argument with a Georgia boy 'bout Pearl Harbor. Who knew. Makoli revelations. He should've had some. Other than that not much more than a fight for your money and life, just what everybody else got themselves into. Told I have no rights. Performed a mid level office sit-in. Now I'm changing tickets. Moving out. Still selling my shit. Got a couch. Various chairs. Bass guitar and amp. Plants and towels free. Yoga ball and mat. What else. . . we'll keep you updated. I pretend to sound so tortured. But I think anyone who reads this is dying a rather oblivious slow death. Compare your life to the tragic victims of . . .

michael earl craig

2009-02-20T16:52:00.000-08:00

michael earl craig puts on his whooping crane-costume and gets in the triker plane. two other people with whooping crane-costumes open the gate of a large mesh-net-cage and 10 whooping cranes come out into the feild. the person who opened the gate begins flapping the arms of it's costume. michael earl craig starts the engine of the triker. he speeds down the grass runway. the whooping cranes run after the triker. the triker takes off above the pine trees. the whooping cranes follow michael earl craig's triker in a 'V'. michael earl craig flies over tennessee. the whooping cranes move their wings up and down rapidly, and animatronic-ally. michael earl craig turns his head to look at a whooping crane as it accelerates alongside the triker. the whooping crane stops flapping it's wings and glides, for a moment staying even with the triker, then falling back into 'formation'. as michael earl craig turns his head back towards georgia he pauses to look at the sun which is halfway below the green mountains. the clouds look orange to michael earl craig. michael earl craig thinks 'the clouds aren't really orange.' then he thinks 'that was the first complete sentence my brain produced since i got in the striker and thought 'turn the engine on'.' michael earl craig begins to feel nervous that all the whooping cranes are still following him. then he thinks, 'what if i took off my whooping crane-costume helmet?' rhetorically. 'i want to take off my helmet and show the whooping cranes i am a human. i would just make a crazy face and shake my cheeks so that they flap on my gums, smacking.' michael earl craig looks at his arms and legs stretching out towards the foot and hand controls of the triker. he thinks 'i'm a stupid human. i don't want to show them my face because it's the face of a stupid human who can't think for itself. i'm a numb stupid human. i want to write this down. i want to write 'i'm stupid' in emotionally affected hand writing.' then michael earl craig sees a field of long grass. he feels an urge to urinate in the long grass. he tells himself 'i have to urinate.' he nose-dives the triker and pulls off a miraculous landing. the whooping cranes land in the feild behind the triker and stand around confused and energetic. michael earl craig takes off his whooping crane-costume helmet while facing away from the whooping cranes. he slowly turns his face towards the flock. michael earl craig walks towards the whooping cranes thinking 'i want to touch their necks with my neck.' he gets close to one whooping crane and it jumps into the air. the whooping crane spreads its wings and draws its clawed feet towards michael earl craig. michael earl craig puts his arms over his face like a boxer, but it is too late. the whooping cranes are too intolerant.

2009-02-16T11:15:00.000-08:00

There was a city street lined only with red and clear plastic tents. Some of them long as a fog-horn bellow and others short as a pop. They were all smoking, cussing up plumes of harsh charcoal and seared fish skin. Inside the tents, flames burned in the make shift kitchen. Old women cooked and cleaned. People sat around, late in the night drinking the clear liquor, laughing and smoking. A metal rim around the fire cookers sat the people. Other tables were scattered about which were white plastic, defiled and scratched by shoes and the wind. Cooking smoke and tobacco smoke lined the meaty tenor throats of youngish boys with gelled hair. The girls' conversations progressed in a flute-ish harmony. They were flowing together with the smoke, the tent plastic and the wind. Everyone swirled up into the salt laden blackness and laughing so hard their feet did not recognize the floor.

The old kitchen women bleated like a lamb and served the grilled eel in red sauce with lettuce and raw garlic. A shot of Soju comes right after swallowing the meat and garlic wrapped in lettuce. The meat is sauced smoky, lettuce clean, garlic like a violin on fire and finally, the clear liquor disinfects.

It brought all the people back down to business. Grunting, touching and nodding were commands and requests. All the mouths were slopping up like mop buckets. Fingers licked and supped tasted like alkaline battery acid. The senses were being pulled and knocked around. None fit well together as sunshine and floral fragrance might, but there was a carefree balance.

People channeled out of the tents dirty with money and in search of taxis. They were ungraceful, unsymmetrical, un-admiral, uncivil heaps of flesh.

A taxi arrived yellow and dutiful smelling of dead flowers. It hummed as people entered.

All the people vanished into compartments, sat quietly and fuzzed off.

should i have standards for things i 'like'

2009-02-13T15:27:00.001-08:00

sometimes i think why do i like that thing?

do i like things because i just want to say i like them

i think i could easily be more into billiards if i wanted

or birding; i've been to bird sanctuaries.

i was getting food from a buffet one time and i was going

through the books i've read recently in my head

i thought i like all these books, all of them.

do i like these books because they're linked to other books i like through style, or period, or tone, or something else that describes a book?

i think i like books that deal with emotional problems - relationship, or substance abuse problems.

*

i think i should be more of an asshole.

there's no point to thinking about why something is good or you like it.

i think i'll be too vulnerable.

it'd be funny if i took the books i liked and put them up to peoples faces

and then punched the other side of them so that it gives them bloody noses.

i just thought that this post seems hormonal, or emotional.

assholes can be little bitches too. assholes are little bitches with things for show - muscles, clothes, engines and drive shafts, or money.

summer shooting

2009-02-12T17:46:00.001-08:00

a white shirt dipped in green 3-d words with gray shadowed reliefs hangs from the cuffed suspects back. he says his cousin called him to help him with a beef. he says he can't fight and doesn't own a gun. the blue eyed homicide detective says everyone there knows him, everyone knows why he was there. the suspect moves his head up and down. his eyes are a little sad. he's leaning forward. the homicide detective with spiky hair blinks slowly. the blue eyed homicide detective has as a gold-ringed finger on his lips. the suspect says he did not shoot the victim. the spiky haired homicide detective leans forward, sliding his blue sleeved arms across the table. he says the suspect can make this easy or hard on himself. he says something very wrong happened and that they need to make it right. the suspect feels small and sad. he feels like he's been alienated. he cannot remember the rage that surged through him when he shot the cito in the apartment. you're cousins says you had the gun in your hand says the blue-eyed homicide detective. what i don't get is why you'd want to kill this man. with the amount of money we found in you're trunk what did you have to kill a man for says the spiky haired detective with a confused look on his face. the suspect looks at the other detective with a more confused face. he's leaning forward. he's cuffed still. his eyebrows arch like bridges over the black rivers of his eyes. his eyes get wet. he says but the ghosts officer. he shakes his head like he's pleading with the officers. the ghosts officer. it's a hundred degrees out there, kid says the blue eyed detective. you're lugging around farm equipment, half a million in cash, and you pull over in the projects and knock off some guy named cito for nothing? we have enough to keep you for the night, kid. people make mistakes, kid says the spiky haired officer. the detectives leave the room with their manila folders. the suspect puts his head down on the table. he sees the green 3-d letters with the gray shadows on his shirt. the summer is depressing he thinks.

Stacy and Rick

2009-02-11T21:31:00.000-08:00

STACY SLEPT WITH RICK LAST FRIDAY. This weekend (it's Friday again) she goes to her friend's house who's having a party later. She drinks with the friend and other friends, knowing Rick will come there later. She had told Rick to come in school but he would have maybe come otherwise.

Stacy keeps looking at her friend's breasts in their shirts while they drink. The other girls are looking at the beer and the cards and each other's faces and anticipating about boys and penises and also maybe noticing each other's breasts but maybe not as much as Stacy. Stacy's friend who lives down the block from the house they are in flashes everyone her breasts like it's part of the drinking game but not really, just something she'd been thinking and knowing she'd do because it was entertaining to her. The flashing prompts the buzzed girls laughter. Stacy laughs but thinks they're all watching her laugh. Her self awareness turns to reassurance or acceptance, maybe comfort. She thinks 'they're probably thinking about breasts as much as I am'. Later, after more flashing, and a few spilled beer cans, they move out back to the porch because they are expecting more people to be arriving, because a few have already arrived - boys.

The boys who arrive don't do a good job talking to the girls. They talk to them like they are still in the hallways of school. Rick arrives an hour later when Stacy is drunk. A variety of personalities at who arrive in the mean time distract Stacy from Rick. Stacy feels excited to see people she didn't expect to see. One group, who Stacy can picture Rick telling them he had sex with Stacy even though they don't call each other or go over each other's houses for non-drinking things, had one interaction with her friend whose house it is and then sat on the top of the hill behind the lawn and passed a blunt back and forth. She feels good that she is part of their relaxed substance abusing night.

Ricks eyes are black and wide when they contact Stacy's. Rick thought about Stacy before he got to the party. He expected Stacy to want to have sex again but thought that he didn't care if he doesn't have sex with Stacy, he likes Stacy but will contemplate how to have sex when he's more drunk. Rick walks up on the porch and says Hi to Stacy's friend who's closest to the stairs. Rick says Hi to Stacy from the distance of the other end of the beerpong table. Rick is wearing a tight shirt that makes Stacy picture his naked, hairless chest. She thinks about his small nipples and then thinks about her friend's puffy wider nipples which she saw earlier. Stacy goes back to talking and drinking with her friends, looking at their breasts, seeing the beer spills soaked tightly over them; sometimes poking them and laughing in retaliation from other pokes. When a girl named Kim comes out of the darkness around the corner of the house with her friends behind her the night pauses shortly like bands are changing stage at a show. They observe the crowd and go straight to Rick and his friends. Stacy never talks to Rick or even thinks she will after this. She sees Rick and Kim kissing under the porch later.

Eventually, the kids from the hill come on the porch. They are more high than drunk, but a little drunk. Stacy and her friend whose house it is play two of them in beerpong. Stacy pushes her breasts together and pulls down her shirt to show a lot of cleavage to distract one of them who's wearing sunglasses and a backwards hat as he's about to throw a ping-pong ball. Stacy's friend pokes Stacy's left breast with her finger and the ball hits her hand on the way towards the cups. "That's interference," says the other kid. The other girls laugh and hold each other's arms. Their heads fly back in a frenzy. Their hairs are everywhere in the porch light as they shout 'nooooo' tauntingly at the boys. Stacy's friend says, 'What, you can't handle a little distraction?'

The boys beat Stacy and her friend and her friend goes down to the overly populated lawn. Stacy leans into the kid with the sunglasses and backwards hat while they're in the kitchen. They kiss and she leads him upstairs to her friend's room. They close the door and fall onto the bed in the darkness. He puts his tongue in her mouth and rubs her ---- through her jeans. He unbuttons her jeans and puts his finger in her vagina. While they have sex a ceramic lady bug the size of blue jay falls on Stacy's head from the headboard. The boy puts his cell phone light to her forehead while his penis is still inside her. "It's okay, I think," he pants. "It's bleeding but it's just a red line. The blood isn't coming out."

Lucid Dream

2009-02-10T19:24:00.001-08:00

Lucid dreaming is being aware of your dreams while asleep, and controlling them. I had been reading about it the past couple of nights.

This morning I was able to dream lucidly. Naturally, I chose to fly and have sex.

I was having some other dream, about a distant cousin, whom I didn't know. It was his biography. He was on a boat, running from some thing. I was in some Parisian street when I realized it was a dream. I floated up. I was staring at a traffic light and made my way towards it by "swimming." I got close to the light, which was red, but found the swimming method sluggish and not all that effective. I tried using my mind. After several attempts and skimming the street a couple times, I shot up to a clock tower a couple blocks down. Then I was in black space. (I wasn't completely in control). I decided that it was a good time to have sex. I saw a bed down below with a girl on it and came crashing down.

I started thinking about another dream I had earlier about winning a wrestling tournament and lost focus. I wound up in a super market, back dreaming obliviously. Then I woke up.

this is going on a website along with some other things by other people about NOLA volunteering

2009-02-05T20:41:00.000-08:00

i remember seeing signs on campus for organized, one- or two-week trips to the disaster areas. a girl in class announced where you'd need to go to sign up and that anyone was eligible. it'd be over spring break. i told a roommate i wanted to go. i told someone else and they said if you're going to go some place go some place cool that's not fucked up. in the spring, in my public speaking class a student from tulane was introduced. the teacher said to help him out if he needed anything. i remember the question he asked after one of my speeches: 'so do you need to do anything to hike these mountains? or you just go and it's free.' i said 'yeah. you just go. you have to know where they are. you have to find the trail heads yourself.' during finals when i was walking into the library to study i saw a free standing cork board with pictures from the organized trips. a bunch of students had their arms around each other and were all smiling. there were fallen trees and destroyed houses behind them. the ocean was in some shots. they were doing work with gloves and buckets in other shots. 'i should have gone,' i said to myself. 'i can still go.'

in june, while working at my summer internship, i googled 'katrina volunteering,' or 'hurricane relief' - i can't remember for sure. a small non-profit came up first. the application looked easier than the habitat for humanity route. the people in the pictures seemed 'cool'. the questioning pointed towards cooking experience. i was wanted manual labor but applied anyway. my plane ticket was for the day after my internship ended. i stayed out with my friends until 4am the night before, drank beer, and smoked marijuana. i left the house while they chugged, danced and sang.

in new orleans my taxi cab driver had trouble finding camp hope. i didn't have good cellphone service. he showed me the water line on the houses. when i got to the front office of the elementary-school-turned-volunteer-compound (camp hope) there was a confusion about who i was volunteering for. there were three groups - e.c., habitat, and americorp. e.c. ran the kitchen. habitat and americorp did gutting throughout the parish. a woman wearing a cowboy hat and cowboy boots from e.c. showed me around. i put my things down on a cot in what used to be a classroom. i went to the kitchen and signed up to help with kitchen preparation. the kitchen was empty. two other new arrivals were shaving carrots. i went back to my cot and laid down because i was tired. i looked at the cement floor, at flies landing on it, and at the metal studs where the walls should be. wires snaked everywhere. an extension chord stretched into the middle of the room. i charged my cellphone. i thought 'everything is the same.'

i put on a bandanna and went to the kitchen. there were more people in there this time. more kept showing up. i helped with the salad. an americorp girl and i chopped things and put them in the salad containers. we worked up against the ipod stereo system while the rest of the kitchen hectically operated under the direction of a short girl wearing a bandanna and neat clothing. when dinner was all prepared, we carried and rolled it up to the gymnasium-turned-cafeteria. during this time i met a lot of the people that worked there, or i made eye contact with people and they must have thought: 'new person'. after dinner was ready i served food on the food line for about an hour. then someone took over for me. i sat at a table with some food. i stayed quiet and sat near the people i knew were also new. the people who had been there longer acted differently. they talked more, or ate very fast and went back to work - they talked to locals who they had friendships with. they looked comfortable in dirty clothes, had long hair, and carried themselves with the ease and pressure of routine. after i ate two plates at a moderate speed i returned to the serving line. a second wave of volunteers came to eat. a few straggling locals came to eat. then we just sat around behind the serving line and eventually no one else came.

we started hauling things back to the kitchen where the trays, bins, and pots had already started to pile up on tables near the dish pit. three people were working the dish pit. it could have been a younger guy who didn't get around to helping in the kitchen or a restless older woman or a random americorp person or a person like me who just felt comfortable and useful - in the beginning anyway. i helped wash while talking to the other people at each sink. the music had continued playing from dinner prep after being changed several times. someone put on paul simon very loud. the rest of the kitchen had been cleaned a little while after the dinner was sent off to the service line. around ten or eleven the kitchen was finally quiet and sat there waiting, desolate but comfortable... and random people would gather in it, or a single random person would come walking through looking for a cup, a snack. i learned that the kitchen would never really rest. i learned how different e.c. was from habitat and americorp though i was never really confused. people called each other baby, love, and were flirtations. or people were strangers.

in the days to come we'd be drinking in it. mixing of random flood liquor, sharing of foam cups of daiquiris happened frequently after hours during my two weeks. it was a good feeling when this was going on. sometimes when everyone wasn't joining it felt bad, excessive. for a few days there was actually a keg in one of the reefer trucks. half drunk off daiquiris i made my first phone call to a friend from home. i talked while lying in my tent in my classroom. i told them there were so many things i want to tell them about. it wasn't about destruction or anything because there wasn't much of that around. we had toured the 9th ward and things but to me inside camp hope was the most interesting. it felt good to be excited about something. when i returned two weeks later to my friends drinking and smoking to their mixed cds, as i had left them, i didn't have much to say. it wasn't worth describing at that moment anyway.

i worked in the kitchen most of the time. the days felt long. between meals i felt worthless. i never woke up early enough to help make breakfast but i got around to serving it and eating it; still, sometimes neither. taking part in making the meals was fun because they were such huge ordeals. sometimes we'd be short of help. you couldn't blame anyone. there was one time we ran short and had to act desperately. me and the person i helped make lunch with were at the back of the property smoking a joint with two other people. it had just down poured that morning. i felt bad being there, but i knew being high the rest of the day would be fun. there was a careless atmosphere in the mosquito tent. the couches and chairs we sat in were drenched. one person was pointing to something on a map to another person. one guy with long hair and tattoos was standing and telling a story that made me feel uncomfortable. a woman walked towards us from behind the reefers, calling out the person who was in charge of lunch. she was saying they were running out of food on the service line. we rushed into the kitchen and spread fish sticks out on five or six large baking sheets. he looked at me with red eyes and said, 'i'm so high.' i laughed. i thought 'whatever' and felt safe once the smell of the fish sticks reached us from the ovens.

there were different things too. we hung out on bourbon street one night - fifteen closer local bar we went to two different times. it was just past the giant oil refinery. the ominous, giant, evil oil refinery. there were ultimate frisbee games in the muddy field. one of the dogs got lost. we rode bikes to a near by park. a local gave us a tour of some of the areas of the native people, the islanos. we loaded and unloaded trucks of palates of food. we tried to catch an alligator with store bought chicken. we fished for crabs with store bought chicken and made a crab gumbo. i had lunch downtown and walked around the french quarter. i gutted a house with some habitat for humanity volunteers. some of the time i was bored. i'd walk through the kitchen, out back around the basketball courts and generators, around the reefers, through the empty hallways with graffiti on them, through the empty gymnasium-turned-dining-hall. at night sometimes i'd sit outside the hallway door and stare through the barbed wire fence into the woods smoking a cigarette or a joint. one night a few of the volunteers got a band together and jammed. that night i got into one of those conversations with this guy who just sort of hung around with the e.c. crowd. i still remember him saying 'control breeds more control, man. you see?!'

on my second to last night - maybe, i don't know - we went to the place called the warehouse just beyond the refinery. i had had a few drinks during the day already. it was one of those random nights when suddenly everyone is in a mood to celebrate. i think a few people were actually celebrating their birthdays. i could afford like two drinks then resorted to drinking neglected drinks on the tables and bars. other people were scrounging for drinks too. half of our crew danced on the dance floor. i sat at a table with a few people i hardly knew, smoking cigarettes. people were drunk, smiling, and hugging each other, dancing. one guy i had worked with unloading one of the trucks had been dancing with a beer bottle in each hand. his pants were sagging showing his tan-line and white butt. eventually some locals wearing football jerseys started a name calling match with him. it was over and the guy said he wanted to go home because he had to work early. i said i'd go with him. i felt depressed because i was leaving louisiana soon or wasn't drunk enough. before we could leave midnight came and someone else's birthday became important. the person was sleeping in a trailer outside until his son dragged him in. he danced on the dance floor with is bare feet while the crowd of kitchen workers sang into the microphones on the stage. as we rounded up to leave outside the bar, the man whose birthday it was hugged his son. his son said, 'i love you pops.' the man looked sad and red faced. girls with dreads i'd never seen before were standing around him, hugging him, saying, 'you're going to be fine,' and 'go to tennessee with laura and you're gonna get cleaned up and have a nice breakfast and you'll feel better.' i think he said he didn't want to leave or something. we crammed into an RV. the man's son, the guy who was dancing with two beers and some other people and i rode back towards camp. the man's son was telling a story about an old lady who trolled through flood waters in a fishing boat looking for her horses. one horse drowned and the other was shot by a sheriff where it was tied to a bridge safe from the storm waters. this story was disputed heavily during the ride. they were shouting over the music. i was fascinated until i decided i heard enough. i sat in the back across from a girl in a black and white patterned dress. she was smiling at me. i looked out at the refinery passing under the orange lights. i thought about all the bullshit everywhere. i felt relaxed.

i felt more and more eager to leave as my time came near. some people talked about extensions to their stays. i saw that some people weren't going to leave. i think i recognized an older guy who worked there for a month with his wife on the subway last fall. he got off in brooklyn, before me. i was surprised and happy to see the people i did when i returned to an e.c. kitchen (goin' home cafe) in the 9th ward eight months later. when i think about why i went there and did those things with those people i feel confused. i feel nostalgic. i think it helped me during periods of aimlessness. i don't know really.

Tears of a Clown.

2009-02-03T09:07:00.001-08:00

With the help from my friend Dale I re-discovered the music of the 60s band "The Grass Roots." They are one of the most underrated bands of that period. I reckon because of all the great talent coming out at that time.

Dale is one of the most passionate people I've met. He's always spilling his heart and tearing his hair out about some girl, or just madly drunk and fearlessly dancing. He has a tongue for fast food and cheap poison booze.

The other night we were at my apartment along with our friend Ook singing Beatles songs, laughing over whatever, and drinking beer. Dale's "future wife for the moment" called him up so she and a couple of her friends joined us. Dale is mad about this girl. Last week he was torn apart when she didn't respond to a text message. We went out for coffee and he explained she was the 'one.' How many times have you seen her, I asked. twice, he responded.

So she came along with a couple friends, (one being an awesome singer/songwriter ala Damien Rice). Dale suggested I play "Wait a Million Years" by Grass Roots so he could sing it. (This song he was listening to over and over when he was waiting for her message the other week).

I started playing the intro and chords and Ook was laying down the bass. Dale comes in full blast belting out these words about 'waiting a million years for the girl to hold him' and whatnot. He was getting really theatrical, reaching out and making fists and beating his chest. The whole time his eyes were closed. I was pretty amazed, not by his singing per say, but just because other than fucking around with those Beatles tunes I've never heard him sing. But there he was, as if on stage in front of a million people. I looked around the room. It was quite obvious he was singing for this girl. The lyrics leave nothing unturned about longing love. He's singing, practically falling over:

"Pacing the floor, detest

sweat pouring down my chest,

still I can't love you less.

Its worth all the pain and pride

Baby, I just can't hide what I feel inside."

The girl looked pretty freaked out. But everybody clapped when it was over and Dale wiped his brow and smiled around.

Some people get burned by that intensity. I had told him over coffee coming full on probably isn't for every girl. But thats his nature. I'm sure this drama will continue whenever she doesn't pick up a phone call and he will throw himself around an apartment and philosophize. She's moving to Australia in a couple months anyhow.

Tragic hero English chum. You'll be missed.

i did this this weekend

2009-02-01T20:55:00.000-08:00

- grand central to beacon, crowded train, wall street guy, make-up-ed girls, dark skinned, distracted reader, guy punching things making noise that sounded like conductor, wrote in journal, read/sleep/read
- picked up by dad, ate curried couscous something from lifethyme, 'who will run the frog hospital?', slow ride, sleep, traffic, precipitation, sleep, called for directions
- aunt judy's ate food, drank wine, planned trip, slept on air mattress, woken up by squirrels in the walls, finished 'who will run the frog hospital?' by head lamp
- started 'quartet' by jean rhys, rented skies, skied to split rock, ate lunch, skied back (nice down hill at the end), skied onto lake champlain, stopped at bakery, fell asleep in front of stove reading, woke up, played with cats, ate dinner, drank beer, planned next day, laid on air mattress, read by head lamp, wrote in journal, read by headlamp, fell asleep, heard squirrels in walls, maybe dreamed
- woke up, drank coffee/ate pancakes, took pictures of birds/cats, skied to owls head peak, awesome downhill at the end (at times dangerous), returned skiis, drove to aunt diane's, ate ravioli, chips, drank cranberry juice, watched superbowl (first half), drove home

confused about the sentence including '=' but 'haha' maybe

2009-01-29T21:10:00.000-08:00

my stupid brain takes a piece of one sentence and incorrectly fuses it with another. i'm writing poetry to solve my internal problems. i feel like emotions in the form of steam are bending logical transitions of energy. a state of detachment will help me break the perpetual cycle. i will do that once i squeeze my emotions into a metaphysically indestructible compartment. my ability to run long distances never wavers. the time it takes is painful however. i want to either write well or have a meaningful conversation. that way i will be more productive. sometimes i think i'm reading something, i'm thinking, if i'm thinking i'm working = good. i collaborated on jurassic park stories when i was 8 or 9. . . and 'petri' stories, and 'universal soldier' stories when i was a little older. in middle school i played basketball, took piano lessons, drew action/adventure characters, and got into nine inch nails. the frogs in the hospital waved their whiskey glasses unanimously. after three coors lights i feel like writing prose is the funnest. you learn language control. i mean just random stuff. the skater showed his mistakes in his backyard. i can't discover the emotions, and desires of other people from my bedroom. i can loosen what is too tight for you. we're harnessed in to climb some fake rocks. the mad doctor's ideas were selfish until they worked. the way the world's story goes, i don't mind an eternal gum-ball machine. the world isn't a story though. i'm not accustomed to myself yet. the world's a lot of little stories. they talk about the world rhetorically and chase cats with hunger. you go to jamaica if you can't handle
the cardboard.

Saturday Evening a Year Ago

2009-01-27T16:11:00.000-08:00

"Life isn't working. It's just stopping. Everywhere," he says. He says, "Everywhere," again to them. A beat comes in. A house falls on a small hill. The hill is open. The hill wants the house. The house has ten small flowers vibrating from the impact. "I'm trying," he says. He plays the song again. They all look at him. Jack grabs her face. Her eyes look afraid of Jack. Jack sheds twenty dollar bills on the floor. The lights are bouncing in the room. The room has it's Saturday night. The people are trying to enjoy the Saturday night. "Jack, if you can't write your thing tonight, you're not going to write it," she says. A huge green light bounces and two people collapse. "I just want life to work," Jack says. "It's going," she says. "It's going but it's not working," she says again. Another giant green light squeezes through the mail slot. They are having the end of their Saturday night. A thin man named Tim stands up and on his pipe. He waves the pipe in a circle. No one is paying attention anymore. She gets up from the bed and pulls the string on the lamp. It's just stopping. Jack wakes up on Sunday morning. He feels his jacket riding up his back. His ipod phones tighten around his neck. He frees his neck. He looks towards the window. He sees Robert twisted in the quilt. She's rolled up like a rabbit beneath a pink blanket. There are seven people elsewhere, discernible. The morning light falls on the whole building. Jack grabs his things. His book bag weighs less than usual. It's weight is so little it feels insignificant. The hallway pulses with thick heat. The building residents are cooking invisible soups. A dark room of twenty candles burns despite the daylight. "This is about me," Jack sighs and thinks. He thinks and hovers in the elevator. The door makes ten different noises. The people of Saturday night are counting. They are counting and hoping for it to stop. The noises of the door happen too fast. The house falls but Jack cannot see it. Life isn't working.

chat with my friend john

2009-01-25T15:16:00.001-08:00

Johnny: Rossinger

me: bee bop bop bado boop

Johnny: What's up brotown?

me: kicking it

Johnny: Noice

Sunday funday

me: yeah kinda

what you doin?

Johnny: I'm riding the rail right now

Train to the brain

me: ah nice

coming to the city

business school

Johnny: Just leaving the city actually

Yeah had orientation today

Good deal

me: sweet. is it cold out? i was thinking of getting some ice cream.

Johnny: Anytime is good time for ice cream.

But it is pretty chilly if you have to walk far to get it

me: 3 blocks

Johnny: Doable

For sure

me: what are you on iphone?

Johnny: What kind of ice cream

Blackberry

me: americone dream!

Johnny: Hahaha

Is that the kind with the little cones that have chocolate inside?

me: vanilla, caramel swirl, chocolate covered cone chips

Johnny: Oh yeah

I need a scoop of something now

Sent at 5:05 PM on Sunday

me: hitting up windham tomorrow

it's gonna be like ten degrees

Johnny: Ugghh lucky B

Yeah that's cold

I was up in montreal last weekend...-20 without the wind

me: did you carve it up?

Johnny: Got me siiick

Yeah half day at tremblant

me: i haven't been sick in years broham

Johnny: Great snow

Impressive

I wish I could say the same

This was first time in a while

Alright bud ... My stop

Catch you later

me: later broigator

Sent at 5:14 PM on Sunday

fully vegetarian, maybe + ethics of opinions, maybe

2009-01-22T23:41:00.000-08:00

i feel like my conversion to vegetarian has completed. the last time i ate meat was when someone made me a salad and put turkey slices into it. i had tried to be a vegetarian in the summer of 2007 and it only lasted two months. i got drunk one night and the next day ate a cheeseburger that was delicious, more delicious animal based meals followed in a depression aleviating manner. the following christmas my cousin gave me eeeee eee eeee as a gift. i read an interview with the author, tao lin, and felt immediately inspired. i also had a close friend who was a full vegetarian conversion for over two years at the time. that person lives in a different state so i couldn't share many meals with them. from the beginning of 2008 until the end of that summer i was primarily a vegetarian except for the occasional chicken cutlet, burger, meatball pasta which were always free or prepared by a family member at a meal to which there were no other choices. during early fall i started buying animal oriented meals again. for some reason i was being reckless and out of control. i didn't care any more. there would still be weeks or even a whole month, maybe october was that month when i'd choose against animal based meals. around christmas i bought bacon breakfast sandwiches, mcdonald and burger kind meals, long chicken club heroes, and my mom's seven fishes christmas eve tradition. after a recent trip to the super market i feel confident i won't spend anymore money on animal products. i've read ' the way we eat, why our food choices matter' by peter singer. i find healthy meal patterns that are good tasting and entertaining to follow. i'm accustomed to a wide range of vegetables and i eat fruit at the right times and regularly. i know where to get protein and i do so regularly. my only dilemma is the occasional opportunity to eat animal based meals that are free and available. at my job there are frequent occasions when 3 free meals are catered to the entire office. it is my chance to eat animals that i did not support the death of. it is my chance to take part in not letting pounds of food go to waste like they sometimes do when meals are prepared with hundreds of people in mind. i also rarely spend money on things like paper towels, garbage bags, and toilet paper. my roommate buys them and i use them regularly. where does the separation occur between my using of the thing and my support of the purchase and further existence of that product being profitable to it's manufacturers. i feel like the most effective way to overcome the existence of something negative is to concentrate on the problem that thing presents. i sort of feel like, for an example, me telling my roommate 'lets not buy anymore paper products except maybe toilet paper which we should use very conservatively' would aggravated the problem and one day create an overhaul production of paper products. i think one day i might say something aggressive about thousands of chickens being electrocuted, sliced, and having their blood drained while im on the food line in my work's lunch room when there is breaking news because a plane crashed into a school full of children. when everyone looks at me i'm going to be smiling wildly.

Matthew Rohrer

2009-01-20T14:01:00.000-08:00

I'm at work feeling paralyzed.

Eating 12 avocado / cucumber rolls

I watch youtube of Rodney Mullen from the 80s.

I search for Dow Mossman, and Matthew Rohrer.

The tv is on very loud. WHY!?!

I want to read twenty to thirty pages of something without stopping.

A quiet atmosphere would be better.

A soft yellow light on the side of the camera

shows no audio being 'picked up'.

When it is 8pm most of the office will be empty.

I could watch an hour long television show while my eyelids

mechanically drop.

Once I am home I will feel a wave of energy.

I will eat ramen noodles with cayenne pepper, maybe broccoli

asparagus or brussel sprouts.

I feel anxious I don't want to do more with my time.

Good Morning, Midnight by Jean Rhys

2009-01-02T00:17:00.000-08:00

Jean Rhys. Good Morning, Midnight.

Jean Rhys describes an English woman's life in Paris. The woman lives in a room, cries in public places. The people that the person interacts with cause negative feelings for that person. The woman, Sasha, hides in her room. She describes houses as monsters, a room as a protection from wolves. Her memories of her jobs are negative.

'What the hell is she doing here, that old woman?' 'What is she doing here that stranger, the alien, the old one?' She drinks with some Russians. She contemplates getting her hair dyed. She cries to her boss. She remembers spending time with a young man who's good at cards. She almost cries when she hears them say that while she's in Theodore's. She gives an old woman money for bread. She's aware of her 'extrovert', calling the couples in Theodore's 'individuals'. She vindicates what the woman said about her in Theodore's by imagining smashing their little heads with a hammer. She's supposed to meet the Russian guys somewhere at four, after she possibly dies her hair.

There's a flashback to when she's pregnant. She looks at her dead baby in the hospital. 'No wrinkle'.

A lot happens. No like major things happen though. She hangs out with Russians. She goes back to before she came to Paris. Some of the sections end like this: I'm in Paris. . . in Paris. . .

There's a part where someone spends time in her room with her. A younger girl. The girl came out of nowhere. I liked when the girl was there. I like what Sasha Jensen thought and said about the girl.

My favorite things about the book are how her emotions fluctuate within the shortly framed sections, how the paragraphs are short and the sentences are short. I could sense the voice of the character steering the emotions. This feels like parody and makes it apparent she worked on the novel for a nourishing amount of time. I think that the sentences make her more depressed; conceving them and rereading them. By expressing the energy in them they self-perpetuate despair. The whole idea of the book feels like a well documented period of inward reflection. Something bad happened and then all she wanted to do was write a book about living in a room in Paris and just the idea of that is depressing so it's like an explosion of depression. I like how it's short. There were no major climaxes. I liked when she went after the gigolo.

Sasha's drinking style, in the book, seems good. The descripitions of drinking aren't accessive. She indicates how her emotions are affected by the drinks. She doesn't 'over-do' blurry vision, vomiting, tastes, and or smells. It seems 'light' on the stomach but 'heavy' in the head. I feel like my own drinking affects my stomach before I can appreciate its effect in my head. I'm worried about my digestive system. I should conserve the use of my digestive system because it could get run-down and become infected or cancerous.

Enno. Rene. I like this book. The style was unique. Lavados. Bidet. Morocco.

Sasha holds her arm over her eyes because she doesn't want to see things that she knows will happen. She purposely stops herself from being affected by things her brain tells her are happening. She goes from happy to sad, sometimes in one short paragraph.

I'm afraid because I can't take insanity or depression seriously. I can't feel anything. Snowboarding is fun. Sometimes it can be lonely and more trouble than it is worth. The chairlift is sometimes boring.

I wonder how much of these things actually happened to Jean Rhys. I always wonder that about fiction writers and their work. Then sometimes I feel like I don't care about the writers lives. I think maybe she put the old bald woman in their because she's afraid of baldness, or maybe she thinks baldness is good and funny and she was parodying the social implications of baldness, or maybe she just saw a bald old woman before she was writing that day.

Someone wrote that they feel like Jean Rhys wrote is in despair and edited it in agony on goodreads. I like that prediction. It doesn't really matter. Maybe she was really happy when she wrote it and was looking back on a period of despair and agony.

The end made me think about what it's like for a woman to have sex, which I'll never fully know, but have thought about before (specifically when someone said they always have wondered what it's like for a woman to have sex while I was waiting with that person outside of a dormitory for a drug dealer five years ago).

Honey Suckle Rose

2008-12-30T06:18:00.000-08:00

Playing in the Chinese garden the adults were laconic children lulled by a muttering pond. Eventually a bespectacled couple began talking after the man grabbed a lady bug from the women.

"You want it? Come and get it."

"Thats rather primal. Where does your tongue come from? "

"Probably from my first identity crisis."

"When was the second?"

"The day after the first."

"Thats quite a feat for a common fickle head."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, what happened?"

"Don't you remember?"

"No."

Relativity

2008-12-25T00:18:00.000-08:00

Mountains looked at from satellites close up look like wrinkled autumn leaves.

Cities look like slides of virus' attacking a fertile area.

Atoms were once thought to be the smallest particles. Then scientists found Neutrons and Protons buzzing around like comets at high speeds. The veins in a body share likeness to a road map. An infant child is the wisest being in the world.

Ten Minutes from 12/24

2008-12-24T07:10:00.000-08:00

On my break between classes I have ten minutes to prepare for the next lesson. In the office I found this odd looking man; who had just arrived that morning from Hong Kong, using my chair and the computer next to my desk. He was studying the screen intently. I waited a moment before asking about my chair, but he noticed me and motioned to me. "Hey, look at this." He pointed to the screen. I looked. "This stuff is either crap or treasure." He said. We were both looking at an EBAY advertisement selling a 4 inch paper scrap from a 500 year old latin bible. It was 12 bucks plus 5 for shipping. "Leaf 6," He said "that's page 6." "Oh." "Well, I'm buying." He seemed satisfied. "Good. Can I have my chair back?" "Oh, of course. Are there other chairs I can use?" "There's four over there." "Can I just---Is anybody---OK I'll just.." He groped one chair and placed it in front of the computer. "You know I love noodles," He continued. "It's all I ate in Hong Kong." "Oh really?" "Yea, here they have them but I don't like the seasoning." I removed a paper from a folder and tried to look at it. "The instant noodles are poison, I mean the noodles are fine, but all the crap is in that salt seasoning." "You shouldn't eat those." I said. "Yea, I mean it tastes good, but there's so many chemicals in it. A little is okay. I want to ask them to maybe put a little in next time." "Tell them So-guem Bae Chuseyo--It means Please take out the salt," I offered. "Oh yea, thats easy. Ok." "Ok."

Four more minutes. Maybe they will be silent ones. A Soju headache was creeping in from the last night. Now thats some poison for you. I reflected on the stream of bars, pork and kimchi pizza, and the purchase of beer at a convenience store; finished in the warmth of a PC 방 at 1,000 Won per hour. Times Up.

after work poem

2008-12-17T20:07:00.000-08:00

i have decided to re-read things that i know i like
i was trying to read a new poetry book
from the library every week
i felt tired bored under that 'rule'
and have had the same two books
that are boring for more than a month

i had a change of mind about the chapbook
it should just have two or three stories in it
i want to change the story i have been working
on to match the story someone sent me
in length or be close to it
so they fit in the book nicely
then there will be a facebook advertisement for it
and we'll maybe send people copies
and maybe people will send us
stories for the second edition of the chapbook

i like run devil run by Paul McCartney though i don't have it
or haven't listened to it in more than a year.
i like the chapbook they all seem asleep by Matthew Rohrer.
maybe i'll like review that or something.
it's in my pile of things in my 'office'.

HELLO WINTER

2008-12-16T22:37:00.000-08:00

it snowed today in nyc. it's approaching 2am and it's raining now.

so far, fuck the farside chapbook. i don't want to put the things my co-contributer and myself write into peoples lives, though i like the things we both write.
i like talking about stuff that other people do that i like...

new 3bk song.
funny video made by a fellow jets fan/sports journalist...

my friend did a video as part of her journalism degree. i like when the guy talks about a dishwasher:

Interview with Literary Death Match, Nov. '08 Winner Tao Lin

2008-11-12T20:20:00.000-08:00

me: did you feel normal during the literary death match?

Tao: more nervous than normal

me: what did your friends say to you before the death match?

Tao: i'm going to buy [keith gessen's book] if it's under $8

me: how did you prepare for the match?

Tao: i put the poems in a file and printed the file, i read the poems on the screen in my head while using an online stop watch i found and approximated 5-6 minutes worth of poems, at the venue i crossed out two poems on the paper and said 'i won't read that poem' about another poem

me: do you feel emo right now?

Tao: i do not feel emo right now

me: congrats on your victory

i might blog this

Tao: thank you, good, if you post it and write 'literary death match' and 'tao lin' in the post it will show up on the link i made so people can click it, giving you more hits

me: i know, bitch.

haha jk

Tao: fuck youm don't take your bad attitude out on me

(Tao Lin: http://reader-of-depressing-books.blogspot.com)

(LDM: http://www.literarydeathmatch.com/LDM_Home.html)

100th Post & Some Things

2008-11-05T17:07:00.000-08:00

i would like to 'commemorate' our 100th post by saying congrats to OBAMA!!!!!!!!!!!

i just paid some bills online. i am completely solvent, save my student loan which i am paying off gradually.

my work on the short story involving characters named Chet Atkins and William Huddie Ledbetter is currently on hold. i have edited it down some, but feel the amount of words used is not proportionate to the 'essence of the story', which i have settle on. i am going to print the story from microsoft word and edit it that way. this method helps me edit for some reason.

i am reading A Fable by faulkner. i am working on poems, using google docs.

jj posted some of my 'artwork'.

i want to expedite work on The Farside's first print version. i am planning a facebook 'call for submissions'. my original 'call for submissions' didn't 'work'. i want the focus of the first issue to be 'nature' or 'escapism'.

working 40 hrs a week distracts me from creating 'art'. not only during those 40 hrs but also the hrs surrounding them.

Late Halloween Edition Post

2008-11-04T17:37:00.000-08:00

Autumn Leaves

2008-10-26T07:00:00.000-07:00

The sun is over the hump and settling in at late angles.

The third season is settling in after a day of rain.

The autumn air seems to ignite more reminiscent memories. It must be the smell of dying leaves. The wind reminds myself of days tumbling down 'front yard hill.'

So with the exchange rate I bought rock climbing gear in American Dollars. Lucky to have some I guess. Harness and Shoes! Its great.

Rock climbing is a creative process of interacting with nature, and also a physical sport.

It's beautiful to lay on your back and look up on a rock wall and decide your day in this fashion. The season is beautiful. If each of our lives were as pure as nature, dying would be this beautiful also.

Last weekend we climbed at Yeongsu Falls which is this beautiful rock cathedral with a waterfall at its center. Being the dry season the waterfall is just a trickle now. No matter, the lazy spray was a refreshing surprise on your forehead.

The climbing community is great. Loads of Koreans and Foreigners from all over converging in nature. Camping. Jokes. The right way.

This weekend we did artificial outdoor walls in Tong Yeong and just today in San Cheong. Its great. I've never felt better honestly. Spending time with good people outdoors.

This coming weekend there is a big gathering up country in the East among the KOTR community for halloween. You have to dress up and climb in your costume. It will be one of the last outdoor climbs of the season so I'm looking forward to it. Obviously you need to think practical. I'm planning on being "Fan Death." Fan Death is a Korean myth (widely understood as fact) about sleeping with a fan in the room and dying of asphyxia. I think ill just paint my death face and string a fan around my throat.

Enjoying this exercise and discipline. Getting out of my town and bar scene. The people I love of course, but no offense, starting to feel like a weekly high school reunion. Sunday, October 26, 2008

Story, food, chapbook

2008-10-22T22:30:00.000-07:00

I'm writing a short story. Started last weekend. When I finished the initial writing, it was 4751 words. It's currently 4373. I started writing it by recounting a hiking trip I took with a friend. I changed my friend's and my own names to Chet Atkins, or Chet, and Huddie Williams Ledbetter, or Leadbelly. This is to help make it fiction, also a copy 'technique' from Tao Lin's Haley Joel Osment and Dakota Fanning. The characters hike two high peaks of the Adirondacks. I enjoy working on it. I don't feel the story is fictional, yet. When I'm not near the story, I think 'the story has the same tinge of blurriness as all my 'writing'.' This thought is negative. After I force myself to work on it, or after I read a few sentences of the open file, I start changing little things and then, soon, I've combed through a few paragraphs and I feel 'better.'

I've been listening to Felice Brothers FRANKIE'S GUN, WONDERFUL LIFE; Lil Wayne, GO DJ; Cave Singers, HELEN, The Grateful Dead, BLACK PETER...and more I fail to list. I'm drinking Abita Raspberry Wheat Brew - during regular life and while working on the story and other writing things.

I ate some left over pasta five minutes ago, candy as I left work, 3 slices during work, salad with avocado when I got to work, RiceCrispie treat when I got to work, an apple on the way to work, and spinach after I took a shower when I woke up.

WORK SUCKED TODAY

I still want to create a print thing. I think it'd be fun.
No submissions so far, PATHETIC.

2008-10-22T10:41:00.000-07:00

This blackness needs some poetic justice.

Poor jaws battle with blood lust.

Given all that you can be

It's still not as much...

...as something free.

The Farside (chapbook)

2008-10-18T14:22:00.000-07:00

i'm making a print version with stuff similar to what's on this blog.

e-mail submissions to miles.mjr@gmail dot com.

i think the acceptance rate will be like 75% because i'm predicting a very low number of submissions.

i don't know when it will come out. the first issue will be free. it may be the one and only issue.

i'll post again when i have the file of the chapbook prepared for print.

this is just a call for submissions.

You Can Vote Nader in '08

2008-10-16T09:16:00.000-07:00

Somewhere in the French Alps

2008-10-14T17:19:00.000-07:00

My avenger has been accused of treason.
I was enacting revenge against myself.
Now, I’m sort of happy.
- Or, at one time in the recent past I was happy
About something -
So, the revenge has not been affective.
It was declared that

I must remain indifferent, ‘at all costs’.

The legacy of happiness leaves an expanding darkness

which the system struggles to sustain within.
This treason has caused irreparable damage,
Continues to cause damage to future operations.
To survive the person inside me has seized control
Of most of the body, and is laying
Claim to a peaceful and orderly empire.

An order has been extende by him,
after some controversy, to execute the traitor.
It was predicted that further violence would
Perpetuate disruption to the system.
Well, now, the traitor is gone and that predicted violence

soaks the sinew of the vessel in an eerie wake.
The ‘dead happiness’ will rest in peace and memory,
And be revered as the greatest defender of the
Soul that has functioned as part of this system.
In counter-action and memorial

a supreme rule resides over the body.
It is a time of reverie and glory, the sun shines
on the body. The stars are brightest in it's night.

It is a different era of the body.
One of complete order and supreme rule.
The ruler rests in his thrown, tears drying on his face.
He softly enters the dream world.
An angel speaks to him.
“The body must be concord again,
a threat sieges the bodies appendages. Send your noblest
soldiers, or you are not the purest soul to live.”

In a NY moment, Everything can change - Eagles

2008-09-30T07:10:00.000-07:00

As of the past 5 months my TV has been unplugged. Not because I am above it or have better things to do, but because my TV is broad casted in a foreign language.

Since then I have relied on the Internet for media. Its plenty. It is more focused. I can watch what I want to watch. I can learn what I'm curious about. I can evade arresting 30 second advertisements.

The two Comedy Central shows of John Stewart and Stephen Colbert are the only main stream news shows worth watching. 'Fake News' is the comic guise for the truth. They are quite completely the court jesters of our increasingly medieval time.

At 22 minutes of taped time I find myself cheering for the truth like a winning football team, and laughing at the same time. Being sane in an insane world is just funny.

Of course there are other sources for more broad topics. That requires a mole's nose.

The 'incredulous' voice of the people (internet) has so much garbage, none of it can possibly be true. CNN and FOX are the truth ministry. They're fair and balanced. If that is not fact you are a terrorist. Or even worse, a CONSPIRACY THEORIST.

Express counter thoughts to national logic and instantly feel the hostility. The burn from friends is just as good as the burn from Billy Blank's "Tae Bo" video set. Most people are bothered by anyone who is trying to distract them from their clothes and relationships with hard matters.

But in response to my friend's face book post: 'What're you a political activist now?"

I say "I can think of worse things. Baaaa Baaa."

I'm not a political activist. I know one. She's now an expatriate, legally terrorized off the homeland with wiretaps and multiple arrests for organizing protests against Gov't policy.

I'm along with a million disaffected thinkers who still think free speech apply or mean something.

Sadly, FEELING informed is only enough to make us feel good. Not enough for change.

Recommended: Watch You Tube footage of the peaceful protests at the Dem. and Rep. conventions and the Homeland Security harassment that ensues.

Recommended: Duke Ellington and red wine.

Moby Dick

2008-09-25T00:21:00.000-07:00

SUCKED!

http://www.imdb.com/video/hulu/vi222035993/

Dream sequence 9/10/08

2008-09-10T07:59:00.000-07:00

Hastily, I will try to recall my dream last night.

Where: I was back in Mui Ne, Vietnam, beach resort town. In a series of plywood houses, on the beach under construction.

Who: It was my girlfriend, I and many other white faces who I will call "investors" looking to buy these housing models. Also there was this dark prince, like the grim reaper, who had the power to kill you when you made the wrong 'move.' There was also two life-less burlesque creatures under the control of a keyboard.

What: I had pressed some buttons and the creatures started mouthing each other's bodies awkwardly. Wrong move, the dark prince vacantly blacked me out. Some other chances came, at what, I'm not sure. But all around couples were checking out the prospects of these soon to-be finished houses. Smack on the beach. The waves were inches from the door steps, and there was only a couple inches of concrete above sea level. "They're gonna drown, I said. All these houses will be ruined." I didn't see the beauty of this place. 100 houses stacked on a beach with palm trees. But people were getting comfortable, couples laying in bunks in houses not half built. Some where, back in a house my girlfriend was dead. I was sad. The dark prince had got to her. We were all in the room, and the dark prince just looked at me. He was very frightening. He looked perhaps like a tall Eddy Munster. Real classic horror show vaudeville freak. The room looked more like a classroom now. There was a white-board on wheels behind me. With the Dark Prince's gesture, My girlfriend came from a back room sparkling clean from a shower and alive. I was simply shocked that she was alive, I gasped for breath, in tears I fell back into the board, where it carried me into the wall, and I slid down to the floor. The Dark Prince, had done this to me with his eyes. Just blew me back, sucked my air out.

I was sitting there, known to be a fool and said to the room of people " So, I shouldn't have worried after all?" and the crowd promptly laughed, like I made a good joke. The Dark Prince showed us the door.

2008-09-07T09:01:00.000-07:00

You just wait a minute. . .

While you wait I'll wait for you. . .

I'm waiting to find someone to wait with you. . .

excuse

2008-09-03T06:01:00.000-07:00

i think i'm going to call out sick today.

i'm going to decide in the next half hour.

i didn't sleep much last night.

the air conditioner was on but my sheets got very sweaty.

i had a sensation that my throat was going to close

if i fell asleep.

at 5am, when i got up to go to the bathroom,

each muscle ached as if i had been lifting weights

the day before.

i drank water from a tupper-ware container

because there were no clean glasses.

within 15 minutes, as i tossed and turned, my breath

bounced off the sheets with a putrid vengeance.

but now it's 9am and my cold sweats don't feel threatening,

my throat feels okay, and my head only hurts

if i shake it in a violent 'yes' or 'no' motion.

i can shop and do laundry, if i stay home.

i can read a book, though i'll probably just watch 2 or 3 movies.

i'm nervous about how convincing i'll sound on the phone.

i'm sure people have 'called out' for less.

i guess i'm really deciding which environment will feel better today:

this asylum of cheese-tongue sickness or the bright open world.

2008-09-02T10:35:00.000-07:00

Big world little visits. My crow-feet need more ink to scratch. Merry wine, absorb happiness. Biggest small place I've ever been

Yes, that is all.

2008-09-02T10:15:00.000-07:00

I don't want to eat out of styrofoam much more, though it surely insulates the heat well. Eating out does not resemble much of nature other than the birdcalls of thank you and goodbye.

I'd think the world is better off buddhist. Neutral republics trading for skins. But boiling greens may get old, so my Buddha eats meat.

Set up my room just right. So being is easy. Life should be like your guitar; not hard to play.

Good Dog

2008-08-31T08:33:00.000-07:00

Being a travel weary waeguken ambling down a garbage-ridden alleyway in Asia. Along my side the street rat found two months ago now resembling a dog after being fed, loved, and domesticated.

With a head read far into romantic notions I set out on foot into the hills behind the monotonous living towers and age addled tin roofs. Through the alleyways was the preferred route, where you can find, at this hour, families cleaning their plates and taking out trash.

I whispered self-administered prayers and thought thoughts of which I hoped to remember. Up there the small mountain waited in darkness, surrounded by the small city of Jinju, singing the cricket saw songs and beating a twig snap drum.

Upon the paved path, past the pagoda with giant Turtle and Lion sculptures I found a new way; A farmer’s path that I never tried even in daylight, but now, with darkness securing the people into their homes the Farmer’s path was safe and seductive.

For the first time I let my street dog off it’s leash and whispered, “I trust you” into its curious ear. He led the way and dragged behind, being best sentient through his snout, and followed me by little birdcalls and a rattle of a bell. I coaxed him up the farmer’s path, which he did not trust. I lowered myself and invited him into the wooded darkness.

Up the path there opened a series of routes. I took any old one that seemed just as good and unknown as the others. All I wanted was a clearing to stop and sit at. Only minutes of hunching under pines that fingered and pinched my back I found just a spot.

Sitting consciously practicing unconsciousness, remaining thoughtful. Of the friend who left, of the forlorn sky that needed to be without city, of the peace of mind that came with the wind.

Of the friend who left, after first meeting at a bull fight, telling me of detailed travel plans, another year out into the wonderland of beating it, and just a month ago, at his going away party in an old shared apartment merry with beer and bitter-sweet, after twisting his knee in the beach sands of the Boryeong Mud Festival, he hobbled about the party telling me of returning to Canada to get surgery and to settle down. “It’s time to get myself better, settle down, get a job and a wife.” Said He. And those were the saddest words I’ve heard him say, he was practicing optimism, and sincerely looking forward to home. The beer helped and I agreed that he should get the surgery and fix his body. It seemed a white flag was waved behind his shoulders by uttering the words “settle down.” It was, I thought sad, but he seemed happy so who was I and what do I know?

Another character entered my mind; all his ramblings, philosophies, humor and pretentiousness. Sitting at a street table drinking beer amid a country town carnival he commented on the old men who sold corn on the cob and other trinkets from their junk carts. Effortlessly they scowled without reason. They looked mean and distrustful. He mused; “You spend your entire life frowning, you grow old, the wrinkles wrap your face and cast you into sadness. The bitter years take you hostage. Suppose the same thing happens if you smile all your life. You die with a smile on your face, and your still a hostage.” I guess the point, if there ever was one, was to keep changing direction, as was the ways of people you met far from home, but he never said anything else about it, and was already talking about his superiority over his parent’s logic of thought.

I was thinking too much so I stopped. I repeated to myself “good dog...good dog.” In order to quell my most prevalent distraction, which was the loose dog somewhere near by, “I trust you” I convinced my self and wandered into my mind, muttering “good dog.”

I found a trance method in making little city lights disappear behind thin branches of the nearby brush. I found one red one, that I knew was a transmission tower on the mountain across the river. I steadied my head and tried to make it disappear for as long as possible. Focusing on my breathing and the wind I was quite successful; there was no red light, only the conifer branch and my thoughts. My thoughts didn’t even exist, only my eyes were open to the branches that now hardly existed as they once did, as they transformed in the void. And finally the thinking stopped.

After all this, I noticed that my dog had quite disappeared as well. I stood up, whistled and hooted his two-syllable identity. Nothing. Ten minutes of this and I grew quite panicked.

“Good Dog, My Ass.” I thought. I perched at each corner of the area calling his name and whistling, but only the crickets and leaves, and one distant dog barking, But not his, and way too far off. I traversed off the farmer’s path and back onto the main walk. I followed it further up the mountain continuing my calls and worrying. I could hear the sadness and anger in my girlfriends voice, “How could you trust a street dog?” when I thought about returning home with the empty leash. Already, quite faithless and pitiful I started making plans for life without the dog that we had briefly loved, realizing that being a tramp was it’s fortune.

Not another five minutes up into the darkness I saw his small black figure peeing under a tree and waddling towards me all tongue and smiles. I almost fell to the ground before him as the weight suddenly lifted away. So quickly had all of our fates changed, I was lightheaded with joy. “Good Dog, Good Dog!”

why no one really cares when it gets colder

2008-08-27T20:08:00.000-07:00

feels like everyone is lying awake in their bunk beds

and it is cold outside but there are still plenty of loud ass crickets

A Post Full of Links

2008-08-25T19:28:00.000-07:00

J.J. made a post about me.

My friends and I went to the fake orange magazine release party. It was the first time JJ, Bryan Byrne, Ben Stark, Justin Valenzuela, John O'Sullivan, Alison Zullo, Alfreda Ljuljdjuraj and other people who went to Yorktown High School met Zachary German.

I'm drinking budweiser cans.

I'm going to read LOST ILLUSIONS by Honore de Balzac when I'm done typing here. I've been reading it since March 2008. I want to finish it 'just to finish it'. I think I like reading books of poetry better than novels.

My favorite novels to read are Faulkner novels. I read Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates, which was good.

My favorite books of poetry are by Matthew Rohrer, Alice Notley, Robert Hass, Gary Snyder, and Mary Oliver.

I also bought a Gary Larson book, The Far Side Gallery 2. 'Good bathroom reading.'

katydid of ear

2008-08-23T09:58:00.000-07:00

the sharpie pen exercises with 20lb dumbbells of natural flavors
he executes being in a room for 8hrs straight with complex molecules
his enzymes scream at the time you were talking to gizelle
gizelle peeled a cool gin fizz from the wall of stickers, looked at frank o'hara
and began the dance of drunks
my love, you'll predict seven thunderstorms, go yellow in the eyes, and make history out of falling from the manhattan bridge
why's daddy so yellow, you ask?
i'll tell you folks grenadine and rye whiskey got me a faded tattoo
but my ass is generally hairless
those undisciplined skate rats have something to say
step up like a thirsty drunk
okay?
i'm going through this roast beef sandwich with disasterous perfidiousness
you're going to drop the fire extinguisher
i'm the best person alive
tell yourself that
it's fun
i never wanted to be anyone else
the charging batteries deny plagiarism, so does wolf blitzer
he has a canker soar and tells you high school was good because of the -----
the sleepless state has something to say
the television speaks through me
i'm not ready to encroach on the decaying witch in the lunchroom
we'll go back through the ass of the david lynch movie
i'll stop my forward advance toward the pines
you'll rhyme something on a data table
my heart prints you this notice
you're hired
what fungus? i just read this poem on another blog
i digested complex molecules and invited them to a couch
in front of a flat screen
the dobro, the surfboard, and my visor
will be at the bar by 10pm
will you be there?

i got stuck in a cemetery on the way home from work

2008-08-10T22:57:00.000-07:00

Jazz Music .1

2008-08-02T05:54:00.000-07:00

For those interested in Jazz music there is a whole world to discover. Better said, there is a whole universe out there. You will never see it all, but while your at it you might as well get to know some of the evident constellations, and peek into the murky work of precious nebulae.

First let me say as others have said before; Jazz is but a word, only people need categories to make sense of things, Music is what it is. Don't get caught up in " what is jazz and what isn't jazz." However is it a common word, and I will use it.

Lets start with Jazz Guitar. My first fascination.

It starts largely with two people of two different styles.

Charlie Christian. This man was arguably the first famous, or respected Jazz guitarist. He gained notoriety with Benny Goodman's Big Band, who hired him after being first skeptical of guitar in Big Bands then, blown away by it.

Django Reinhardt. This guy was a gypsy in Europe and played guitar with only two fingers up and down the neck because the rest were destroyed in a caravan fire. His material is a lot more accessible than Charlie Christains. What Django does with two fingers is awe inspiring and embarrassing at the same time.

Wes Montgomery. Wes credits much of his skill to memorizing every Charlie Christian solo. Wes's signature sound was achieved by using octaves and his thumb. His work is extensive. Check out "Live at the Blue Note" album.

Chet Atkins. Here I mention Chet as an incredible guitarist. Despite his Nashville roots and country twang. He could smoke the shit out of a jazz tune. Chet has been an entire galaxy for me. Valuable tool to learn from Chet: Right hand finger picking.

Tal Farlow. Tal had huge hands. His note structure was piano like. Super fast and inspiring. I still know not enough about this man or studied his technique much.

Lenny Breau. Beethoven, Mozart of guitar. Or whatever, Master. The sounds this guy created were amazing. Perhaps the most under appreciated Monster Talent Unique guitar player of all time. Check out his pitch harmonics.

Johnny Smith. Beautiful player. Plays many large stretched out chords. Learn some of his tunes and feel your hands becoming stronger. Famous recording "Moonlight in Vermont"

Grant Green. Grant was influenced by the horn players of the past. Thus his guitar became horn like. Its rare to hear him play a single chord. Its all single line melodic groove. The guy was awesome. Funky player, and most of his music is very groove oriented as opposed to hard to follow and amorphous.

Joe Pass. His album Virtuoso is just that. And Bold. It is a complete album of one guitar. He knows how to get the most out it. His arrangements are full and leave nothing to the imagination. A lot of work for one guitar.

There are many many many more Guitarists to note. I will pause this effort temporarily.

Won't you stop picking on me.

2008-07-31T08:48:00.000-07:00

Today the Blithe Society showed their indifference towards the issue of breast cancer by hosting a mens wiffle ball tournament. The 'Athletes' came through, some by bus and some by mom's van. Clearly among the experienced, domination was the goal. The rest wondered why their sister-in-law required them to wear a pink bracelet to the game. Regardless, there was a hill full of late 20 something pregnant women shouting upon their heroic donators.

Sandretto didn't have a baby yet, or even one on the way. She was on the hill among the others but resigned herself to a picnic blanket with the best view of the man she once loved. She had a dog. She told it ' Not yet. ' as she chewed baby tomatoes to the tune of the puppies up turned ears.

Water relieves itself until it becomes fluid.

Charge your ipod.

2008-07-29T08:35:00.000-07:00

I saw Gary the other day, you know Mr. Larson. He was sitting on the curb out side of a bank with a peeling sign and shuttered windows. He was still showing up to work even though the bank had gone under 4 years ago. He said he was excited about the Olympics coming up in London, and was complaining about fading memories and constant headaches. Gary rolled up his right sleeve and burned a forgotten cigarette into his forearm casually. He said he really admired the Queen. Gary stood up and walked past me toward a black car that pulled up for him. "That's my ride." he said and waved goodbye.

He rolled down the back window and stuck out his nose and glasses. He tossed out a Virginia license plate. "Just follow the sun." He advised. The black car peeled away into dust.

the world pines without your poetry

2008-07-29T00:03:00.000-07:00

i want to

who's impatient for that conversation to dissolve?

i don't know. i don't... it's my, i was, my, my

my thumb crashed that car, but not a soul was hurt.

so, i'm telling you, the arch in the financial district

has bats - it has them!

they are there! what's not getting through your drunken skull?

okay, okay, darkness for one thing, the marine corps, and then the way coast guard buzzed by...

but SO WHAT?

listen! ten dollars today, fifteen on saturday, and then after the $300 on sunday

we'll both be roller coaster operators.

you don't know him.

he's not going to tell you anything you're uncomfortable with.

you just sleep together, get it over with, have a fun night.

talk to your friends, plan, get dressed, call him once you've had a few drinks.

in ten minutes a chinese man will explode all over your front door.

and that's fine, you know what? that's cool. the worst is over. it's going to work out.

you know, haha?

you just know, right?

bottom of ices

2008-07-24T22:39:00.000-07:00

when i was 16 and felt lonely and sad

and lay awake listening to the grateful dead on headphones

- the black pine branches waving, the

lawn glowing with moonlight behind them -

there was a quick joy in it.

a tiny speck jumps from spot to spot

on the wall hit by lamp light

distracted, i push my finger down on it

close up, its a beautiful neon-green bug

the smooth skinned

tumble by the rolling pin

and they don't have to think

about what i'm thinking about

Thats Life

2008-07-23T10:07:00.000-07:00

Pinkish drink filled European faces, with blood scattered over North America, South Africa, Ireland, England, Australia, and New Zealand are using Asia's educational system as a boon. Imported vessels of the english language wander astray in the land of the morning calm, waiting and drinking at the ports. Pinkish foreign mechanical devices naturally inclined to speak a language that literally translates into cash, move shiftlessly between borders.

It's a quiet war being fought with culture. After decades of commercial air raids we are here to reinforce the television. Where this cross cultural experiment leads is anyone's guess. Globalization? Or is it just a symptom? The private english school industry is huge. The schools occupy every block of our city. One after the other, more dominant than any fast food restaurant or novelty shops are the 'Hagwans' churning out Asians that memorized Incisors, Canines and Molars.

low root levels

2008-07-20T22:28:00.000-07:00

crying because of their dirty hats, the mountains loitered with the clouds.

cotton = death cloth, read one sign;

birthday boys extend and collapse in all quadrants when ascending.

facing the north winds, he said, no one ever takes that trail .

they emerge - angry chocolate-bar-eaters - from the woods.

the forests spied on their packs

and were indifferent towards their attitudes.

a high wind poises four statues there.

i don't know the range, the junctions, or the bird songs.

people gasp out of nowhere and sit on top.

the tooth, thousands of feet in the air, folds them into the frying pan.

the breakfast in the mountains lifts your eyebrows at their joints, wakes

the toothbrushing and says reuse the dish before washing.

i'm going all in on this and the anchor moves down.

the dark, yawning fridge hurls a cool sound of falling water.

a calmer tooth crosses the mouth,

a bottle stones the back, and the sitting on the dry hay mashes the dirt.

discreetly, tack, vault and pin the rocky point - that edge of the island

floating under my eyebrows.

mashed up in the car, done with the paper, we grimaced

as our shoulder held the bite blocking us out.

The Tv Temple

2008-07-19T02:15:00.000-07:00

Don't question your self. Question your surroundings.

Your legs and feet keep your balance without saying a word to your brain. Focus on your breathing. Observe the trees dance with the wind. Listen to the insects and birds in free form jam.Music is what it is.

Court Backs Bush on Military Detentions

2008-07-16T09:15:00.000-07:00

"They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety."

---Benjamin Franklin

This article was tucked neatly away at the bottom of the New York Times newspaper. It is a less than subtle reminder of the fascist state that America is becoming, or has become.

President Bush has the legal power to order the indefinite military detentions of civilians captured in the United States, the federal appeals court in Richmond, Va., ruled on Tuesday in a fractured 5-to-4 decision.

The decision was a victory for the Bush administration, which had maintained that a 2001 Congressional authorization to use military force after the Sept. 11 attacks granted the president the power to detain people living in the United States.

The court effectively reversed a divided three-judge panel of its own members, which ruled last year that the government lacked the power to detain civilians legally in the United States as enemy combatants.

Ali Al-Marri is the only person on the American mainland known to be held as an enemy combatant. The government contended, in a declaration from the defense intelligence official, Jeffrey N. Rapp, that Mr. Marri was a Qaeda sleeper agent sent to the United States to commit mass murder and disrupt the banking system.

Mr. Marri was arrested on Dec. 12, 2001, in Peoria, Ill., where he was living with his family and studying computer science. He was charged with credit-card fraud and lying to federal agents, and was on the verge of a trial on those charges when he was moved to military detention in 2003.

“This decision means the president can pick up any person in the country — citizen or legal resident — and lock them up for years without the most basic safeguard in the Constitution, the right to a criminal trial,” said Jonathan L. Hafetz, a lawyer for Mr. Marri.

Mr. Marri’s unusual situation played a role, said Robert M. Chesney, a law professor atWake Forest University. Mr. Marri “was lawfully present in the U.S. and then arrested and held here, as opposed to being a noncitizen captured in a foreign land,” Professor Chesney said. “This consideration makes his case more difficult even in the eyes of relatively conservative jurists.”

“This does not mean that al Marri, or similarly situated American citizens, would have to be freed,” Judge Motz wrote. “Like others accused of terrorist activity in this country they could be tried on criminal charges and, if convicted, punished severely."

In the conclusion of his long opinion, Judge Wilkinson said terrorism cases presented courts with special challenges.

“We may never know,” he said, “whether we have struck the proper balance between liberty and security, because we do not know every action the executive is taking and we do not know every threat global terror networks have in store.”

where health care can't save you

2008-07-04T15:53:00.000-07:00

health care can't save your soul.

the doctor says sentimental things on the back of
obstinate timetables.

you can die in a way that no one will be sad or miss you.

i'm so sad though!

you can die in the health care system and not even
think about your soul during your last 3 weeks.

the doctor spent 3 weeks sad enough to remember obstinate timetables don't repair movement to the human condition.

that was the end of the doctor's life, no one will miss you,
and i'm so sad i can't philosophize the presence of a soul.

health care doctors exude harmonies you can't. my doctor harmoniously
diagnosed me with suffering. i am suffering from a certain type of oil.

i read and read and i just don't get it.
in all of the 3 weeks i wasn't trying to get on top of it.
we all need obstinate timetables for reading. they will
push you down into the pocket from the outside.
you will be in the inside point of the pocket
and still feel busy.
if you can still feel busy without an obstinate timetable,
then you are surviving without health care.

millions of people go through the system. you have to think,
'i'll only know if i try it for myself'.

he said, '---- everything.' his lively motion exudes a mumbled comment.

the black fencing of the city parks coalesce the gloom
between health care and time.

she redigests most of the readings.
only the dangling spiral staircase that doesn't reach the floor, the city park fences, a gloom, and a questionable health care system are lively and moving.

Nam Gang

2008-07-01T11:13:00.000-07:00

Oh how I want to be the man I used to be.

A river's fascinating rhythm takes over me.

Wake's insensitive glare and ivory keys

turned sun to pale to Portuguese.

One day you'll be thinking

to represent nothing but blinking.

Palm over eyes and ears

waiting years for big skies

bleached with faith and lies.

Oh how I want to be the world I used to be.

you have to say something

2008-06-23T18:57:00.000-07:00

Obligation is a big headed guy who is red in the face, hairless, bad skinned,
fat armed, necked and shouldered, sitting in a deli, always leaning forward, looking over your head.

Nothing fun will make him happy like TV or an unexpected conversation about existence.

He'll eat a turkey sandwich from a bodega or takeout from a Thai restaurant,

but you have to attack him early in the morning with a heavy duty fishing net and a rusty metal bar.

He'll come back to the same street corner every week day and he'll only speak Russian and wear silver rings and chew on a toothpick; so forget about reasoning with him.

When you think about it existentially, as if the physical world weren't shaped the way it is, as if highways didn't mean so much to us, he's really a cobra.

He's your cobra, and you are the cobra because you own it. You are an obligatory cobra who made a comparison early in life. Eventually the perfidious comparison tapered into a cobra tail. It's always dragging on the floor near you. You are operating an erect cobra head, and life's soundtrack is a dance beat with sharp high-hatting.

You see a feeble cobra tail escape around corners and into sewer drains. You are scared when you're high. How long could your body possibly be. There is no possible control and you feel dirty from its dragging.

You are antsy to be bitten. You need to be bitten because you are something you can't tell you are without experiencing a riveting attack.

You go to the pet store with a friend and ask if you could have a snake, preferably a cobra, bite you.

They say, 'yes. come to the back.'

'Fuck. O.K. It's happening.'

'Here. Here's a cobra. We don't even keep him caged. Just lean you forearm near his little bed there.'

'Fuck. O.K. It's happening. You did this to yourself.'

The Myth of Fan Death

2008-06-21T06:07:00.000-07:00

Funny thing. In Korea there is a belief that if you leave an electric fan on in an enclosed room it sucks the oxygen out of the room and kills you. Medical professionals believe this. Now I'm not saying the Korean people are any stupider than Americans, but they hold onto these trivial beliefs. The US Beef thing is a huge deal here. Not sure if anyone has noticed state side but in Seoul there were violent protests. Everyone hates the Korean Gov't for lifting a 2003 ban on US beef because of the mad cow scare. It's a real touchy subject. Fear spreads like wildfire. Years earlier there was a chicken scare because of the Avian flu I think. Chickens disappeared from the supermarkets. But dog is a delicacy here. You only see small dogs for pets.

Dr. Diamond Pt. 1

2008-06-19T19:56:00.002-07:00

The dentist offices of Dr. Diamond and Dr. Shaw, located in an affluent area of suburban New York are clean and cold. The inner corridors beyond the reception smells of rubber gloves and sanitizer. Behind the counter the receptionist paints her nails and sips coffee. Only her hands, brushing each other delicately can be seen from the low frosted glass panel. The office is such that you have to bend down and talk to the space between the glass and the counter upon entering. Once seated, the patients listen to the assistants with two-year degrees taking standing calls from behind the foggy glass. They shuffle the numerous magazines, getting up for another or trading some. Golf Today, Beautiful Skin, Washington Dump, East Hamptons Travel, Time for Kids. They were all scattered on the little end tables next to big fake plants. The philosophy was too keep a broad spectrum of magazine subscriptions and a working coffee maker in the waiting area at all times, and they would come. The location helped of course.

The names Dr. Diamond and Dr. Shaw are plastered outside on the third floor of the office building. The building is white stone with black mirrored windows. The sign is highly visible from the Starbucks and the main stretch of downtown traffic . The suburban New York hamlet boasts some of the priciest real estate the country has to offer. The neighborhoods date back to the 1800s. Contemporary but historical. Near the train. Circled with SUVs. An entire immigrant population sustained on lawn care, house upkeep, and surrogate parenthood.

Susan Clancy was new to the neighborhood. She was single with a job as a Nurse Practitioner and renting a decent little apartment above a vitamin and supplements shop. Without insurance yet, or a trip to the dentist in years Susan booked an appointment with Dr. Diamond on the advice of her friend; Mary Goldstien, who has been helping her adjust. Your gonna love him Mary explained as a matter of fact.

So Mary waited and read 3 articles from Beautiful Skin before she was called into the labyrinth of halls and examination rooms. "Dr. Diamond will be with you in a moment" the assistant informed her after setting her up in the chair.

Dr. Diamond ushered himself in, made a brief introduction and a bad joke. He spent another moment bragging about someone he knew that "maybe you know too?" He showered her friend Mary Goldstien with adornment. "Such a delight that woman, if there was anyone that...you know would...Well...It would be her." He explained. "Ok lets get started!" He clapped his hands.

"My my, Miss Clancy you have the sweetest eyes. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Not in a long time, Dr. Diamond." Susan squirmed in the reclined dentists chair, blinded by the monstrous light that hung over her face.

"Do I make you uncomfortable Miss Clancy?" Dr. Diamond spoke softly through his surgeons mask, delicately preparing a small table with various gleaming instruments.

"No, no Dr. Diamond, Its just very cold in here." Susan bit her lip.

Dr. Diamond put on latex gloves. The smell of the gloves sickened Susan. She always hated the Dentist. He picked up the scraping utensil and the mirror.

"Some people say I make them uncomfortable. My partner complains that it's bad for business. Open up, let's have a look."

Dr. Diamond made small noises once he got to look inside Susan's mouth. She even thought she heard him whisper 'yes, yes' very faintly behind his mask. Susan was sure that she hated him. She wondered how her friend Mary could ever recommend him.

"Caa uu turr ouu uh ahh?"

"Im sorry, what was that Susan?" Dr. Diamond took the utensils out of her mouth.

"I said could you turn down the air? It really is freezing in here."

"Oh look at that, you have goose-bumbs." Dr. Diamond smiled behind his mask, pinching his eyes. "Are you sure it isn't me?"

"I think it's cold is all."

"Yes, it is. I like it that way. I'm sorry, I'll be right back." He winked at her and left the room.

Susan watched Dr. Diamond slip around the corner into the hall. She sighed in disgust, "Fucking Mary," she thought. Susan felt the cold air blast die down and felt a little better. She started to remember playing Yahtzee with her mother as a child when the doctor returned.

"Hows that?" Dr. Diamond exclaimed, shutting the door behind him. He was holding a cylinder tank with an oxygen mask attached to it.

"What the is that!?" Susan asked, frightened.

"Oh this is just some good old laughing gas, want some? Dr. Diamond was cheerful, like he just walked in with a six-pack.

"No, I don't. Can we finish up here? This is just a check up." Susan stopped being cordial. This was the last time she was coming here.

Dr. Diamond smiled again. "I'm sorry, Susan. Susan? You're going to have to put this mask on.

"Excuse me! I will not."

Dr. Diamond maneuvered himself in front of Susan and grabbed her wrist. "There was a slight fracture in one of your molars, and I'm going to have to put you under, so you don't feel any pain."

"Get your hands..."

"Ssshhhh, just breathe it in Susan." Dr. Diamond had the muzzle around her mouth and turned the valve on the tank three times. The tank began hissing, Susan's eyes became distant. The last thing she saw was the fading smile of Dr. Diamond.

BEHOLD...THE GOLDEN BEAR!

2008-06-02T08:22:00.000-07:00

Explain the Jaguar Uprising mission, How it came to be, and why Zachary German and the likes have been targeted.

First of all! Hello, internet! I am THE GOLDEN BEAR! (...thegoldenbear!)
The Jaguar Uprising is the most talented and dynamic group of writer-athletes the world has ever seen. The Jaguar Uprising is coming for the belts. We are serious, we are sincere. Our initial aspirations are small: Infiltrate online literary community and exploit it. Zachary German is just a small salmon, The Golden Bear's gonna gobble him up in no time. The Jaguar Uprising's got bigger fish to fry. Our plan is simple. It starts with Tao Lin. From Tao Lin, Dean Koontz. From Dean Koontz, the world.
But actually, if I'm being completely honest (and I am being completely honest because I am the Captain of Candor, the Sultan of Sincerity, and the General of Genuineness), I'd say the primary mission of the Jaguar Uprising is making money.

A lot of time has been spent mocking the Bear Parade and it's writers. The Bore Parade website is one example of this. Are online feuds a legitimate hobby?

The Golden Bear doesn't really "understand" this "question", but will try his "Golden" "best" to give you a "Golden" "answer".
Look, The Golden Bear is an entertainer. The Golden Bear is a writer-athlete. The Golden Bear loves his fans. The Golden Bear has a responsibility to those fans. By talking his Golden shit, The Golden Bear's is just trying his best to give his fans what they want, while keeping the rest of these bear parading mother-fuckers on their toes.
For Golden example, The Golden Bear read on your blog that "Eat When You Feel Sad" is "funny". What? That shit is not funny. Baconator's are funny. P.O.D. is funny. Feeling fucking great is funny. "Eat When You Feel Sad" is depressing and dumb.
My final "Golden" "answer" to your "Golden" "question": Online shit talking is most certainly a legitimate hobby, because it creates controversy and Kontroversy Kreates Kash™.

Are you offended by vegans?

Yes.

Once your Kash and been accumulated and your Golden kingdom lay claimed, what then will you do?

I don't really know. Me, and The American Mystic Man; Two Tears Boye have a couple of screenplays in the works, either for major motion picture events or a syndicated television series.
The Golden Bear will probably use the money to buy a professional wrestling ring and me and the rest of the guys from the Uprising will learn how to wrestle for real. I can finally practice my finishing move, "The Hibernator" which is a modified frog-splash from the top rope.

Your talk of global domination sounds much like dictators of the past, who have failed. Do you think your brand of domination will be effective? Will the Jaguar Uprising adequately fill the creative void that would ensue?

Well, the thing about the Jaguar Uprising is, and I think I may have misrepresented the uprising earlier in my haste to be witty and interesting; it's not about really about one person, one group, or one set of ideologies. The Jaguar Uprising is about taking literature back to the common man. Tao Lin, Zachary German, and a lot of the other bear paraders are writing from a certain niche, for a certain niche. A hyper-aware set of self-conscious, hip, vegan, New Yorkers. The Golden Bear likes to read books, The Golden Bear likes to write. The Golden Bear does not identify as a hyper-aware self-conscious hip vegan New Yorker. The Golden Bear identifies as a Golden Bear. T.T.B. identifies as an American Mystic Man. Daryl identifies as both a blacksmith and the greatest right-fielder of all time. We want to be accessible to everyone, mystic men, blacksmiths, right fielders, and bears.
Sorry, that's really long, but to give you the short answer, no, we can't fail because the Jaguar Uprising represents everyone, and everyone can't be wrong.

Keeping 'Kash' in mind, what golden beer will sponsor the golden bear?

Koch's Golden Anniversary beer from High Falls Brewing Company in Rochester, New York. It is a Golden can that is wearing a red ribbon and a gold medal.

If there were two things the American people needed to know, what would they be?

Hmmm, that's a good question. Since The Golden Bear is the Captain of Candor, the first thing the American people need to know is that it is important to always be honest, in everything. And the second thing is to wear sunscreen.

Is the Jaguar Uprising a collectivist society or is there specifically one all-star they care to promote?

Wow, another good question, you are really working hard here. I think in principle we are a collectivist society as I mentioned earlier, but if I had to pick a leader or all-star, I'd have to say it's The Industry, Mike Bushnell. That guy is so dedicated to his work and our cause and I'd like nothing more in life than to see him score a 15 book deal with some publishing company. We recently went to New York City for Tao Lin's launch party, and I heard people say that I, The Golden Bear, was the leader of the Uprising. While I'm flattered, this is not the case. The Jaguar Uprising rises and falls on The Industry's whim, win or lose, he decides.

Is turning the masses on to professional wrestling a main goal for the Jaguar Uprising?

Ok, Mr. Mike of the Farside, you've been on a roll, but The Golden Bear is disappointed with this question. You need to do some research. The Masses ARE turned on to professional wrestling. World Wrestling Entertainment, the largest professional wrestling promotion in the history of the world, rakes in about 350 million dollars in revenue per year. They broadcast 7,000 hours of original programming in over 100 international markets. The official website, WWE.com gets over 250 million page views a month. I'd like to see Tao Lin do that.
A better question would have been, "is turning the literary community on to professional wrestling a goal of the Jaguar Uprising". The answer to that question would be yes, yes it is.
What hook of the wrestling entertainment phantasmo should excite the literary community? Believing of course the WWE staff writers will be spared, how will they fit in with Regime?
The writers will not be spared. They are terrible. The WWE product is terrible. The writers will be first to go. We will be the writers. You can be a writer. The Golden Bear will be a writer. The talent is in the wrestlers themselves and the characters they create. They are storytellers. Some of them are very good at it. You should all check out this blog post, which has a good example of "promos" which are interviews wrestlers give to promote themselves and their characters. In the first one, notice the similarities with The Golden Bear.

I feel I'm getting off target. I want to know more about the hierarchy of the Jaguar Uprising. Who executes what?

Ummm. Hierarchy? We don't really have a hierarchy, we just all sort of do our own thing. Like I said, The Industry is probably the most dedicated, in the sense that he regularly produces literature. Daryl is the most dedicated in terms of randomly posting long and incoherent shit on other people's comment boards. TTB is so mystic it's hard to tell what he's up to. He also owes Bear Parade ZZZZZ ZZZ ZZZZZZ, which we are still waiting on. Basically, we need more people for the uprising. If you are reading this and you write, or draw, or make movies, e-mail your shit to elkjaguar@gmail.com. If it is good we will post it. If you are reading this and you feel as though you have a pro-wrester in your heart, find a macbook and record a promo. It will be hilarious, I promise.

What is the most significant piece of literature the Uprising has produced as a whole, is it the satire and plagiarism of "Drink and You'll Feel Fucking Great?" Or something else we should look at?

The Golden Bear likes "Drink And You'll Feel Fucking Great" because The Golden Bear wrote it. I also don't think it's plagiarism, because I don't believe in plagiarism. I think the Gospel of Tom Cruise is very good. TTB has a story that is not on the internet, but it is very good. A lot of what we write we haven't posted yet. I have a story about the Chris Benoit murder-suicides that we haven't done anything with. "Tidal" is forthcoming from Mike Bushnell. So really, just stay tuned good stuff will be coming. The Jaguar Uprising may be goofy and somewhat lazy, but we have talent, and we are coming for the belts.

I will ask one more question to conclude this interview. First I want to thank you for your candor and ask to be spared as well during this siege. Who is the greatest wrestler of all time?

Holy fucking shit Mike from farside. You're not messing around, huh? You just went straight for the jugular. I don't know if I can answer this question. How would I pick. Technical skill? In-ring ability? Mic-skills? Charisma? Athleticism? General craziness? How bout I give you a list?

In no particular order:

'The Nature Boy' Ric Flair, 'The American Dream' Dusty Rhoads, Hulk Hogan, The Ultimate Warrior, 'The Million Dollar Man' Ted Debiase, Santino Marella, Bret 'The Hitman' Hart, The Undertaker, Jake 'The Snake' Roberts, 'Stone Cold' Steve Austin, The Rock, Curry Man, Kurt Angle, 'The Heartbreak Kid' Shawn Michaels, Vince McMahon, Mick Foley, Sabu, Kane, Murdoch, Jim Morrison 'the shaman of sexy', DX, NwO, The Ministry, The Corporation, The Corporate Ministry, Christian Cage, Edge, Itchweed, Memphis, Jerry 'The King' Lawler, Sting (kinda), The Nation of Domination, JBL, John Cena, Triple H, Umaga, William Regal, Tom Cruise, Tatanka, Doink, Hornswaggle, Chris Benoit, Ken Kennedy, Carlito (kinda), Jim 'the anvil' Niedhart, Ken Shamrock, The Big Bossman, Latino Heeeat, Owen Hart, D'lo Brown, Gangrel, Meat, Al Snow, The Goodfather, The Godfather, Savio Vega, Val Venis, Gillberg, Bob Holly, Steve Blackman, George 'the animal' Steele, Mosh and Thrasher, The Legion of Doom, Mantaur, 'rowdy' Roddy Piper, Dean Malenko, Too Sexy and Too Hot, Curt Hennig, Macho Man, Disco Inferno, Booker T, La Parka, 'the loose cannon' Brian Pillman, Papa Shango, The Shockmaster, Dino Bravo, Honky Tonk Man, I.R.S., 'nature boy' Buddy Rogers, Dynamite Kid, King Kong Bundy, Killer Kowalski, Sycho Sid, Ax and Smash, Balls Mahoney, the Von Erichs, Mike Tyson, Bobby 'the brain' Hennan, Taz, 'cowboy' bob orton, Awesome Kong, Super Crazy, Festus, Hillbilly Jim, Bam Bam Bigelow

Thanks for the interview Mike from Farside. I love you.

-The Golden Bear!

(...thegoldenbear!)

size part II

2008-05-29T21:55:00.000-07:00

Part II

concrete thing
word
thought
emotion
thought-emotion circulation
behavior
concrete thing
word
thought

size part I

2008-05-29T21:29:00.000-07:00

Part I
Single Cell or Protist

amoeba: oozes a pseudopod into an unknown direction, senses something harmful, retracts, then oozes a pseudopod in a different direction; finds a bountiful living space with food.

paramecium: propels forward it's directional tubular body with paddling cilia, rams something inedible, hot, cold, or harmful, reverses; finds a bountiful living space with food or dies.

Protist Colony or Many-Celled
volvox: propelled by flagellum, tails that whip, 'sees' with light sensitive cells at the front of the 'colony ball', made of different cells - all connected by a protoplasmic thread - from the back of the 'colony-ball', which have longer steering flagellum; only reproduces by individual cell mitosis and only consumes by individual cell permeability, which are of several different types, but finds bountiful living space by use of 'seeing' cells co-operating/co-dependence with propelling cells.

Larger Protist Types
hypothetical paramecium: same as paramecium, but made of organelles which are similar to single cells; compared to volvox are more like a many-celled organism because the cells are all different but refer to one 'overhead' nucleus, like a brain.

2008-05-28T19:16:00.000-07:00

"We are grateful to the Washington Post, The New York Times, Time Magazine and other great publications whose directors have attended our meetings and respected their promises of discretion for almost forty years. It would have been impossible for us to develop our plan for the world if we had been subjected to the lights of publicity during those years. But, the world is now more sophisticated and prepared to march towards a world government. The supranational sovereignty of an intellectual elite and world bankers is surely preferable to the national auto-determination practiced in past centuries."

David Rockefeller Baden-Baden, Germany 1991

Disturbing and Brief look at a Timeline that should make you suspicious

2008-05-25T07:58:00.000-07:00

J. Edgar Hoover, ex-FBI director on the New World Order conspiracy:

"The individual is handicapped by coming face-to-face with a conspiracy so monstrous he cannot believe it exists."

George H.W. Bush's comment: "If the American people knew what we have done, they would string us up from the lamp posts."

November 11, 1918 ---The end of World War I, after signing the Armistice at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month.

1933 -- The Shape of Things to Come by H.G. Wells is published. Wells predicts a second world war around 1940, originating from a German-Polish dispute. After 1945 there would be an increasing lack of public safety in "criminally infected" areas. The plan for the "Modern World-State" would succeed on its third attempt (about 1980), and come out of something that occurred in Basra, Iraq

September 11, 1941 -- Construction officially began at the Pentagon. 60 years later to the day, the Pentagon was to be attacked on the fateful September 11, 2001.

November 22, 1963 -- President Kennedy is assassinated on November 22, 1963. He was killed according to the occult number signature of eleven [11]. He was killed in the 11th month, on the 22nd day (11 x 2). He was also killed in the Masonic Dealey Plaza, the most powerful secret society in the world today to whom the number 11 is extremely important.

September 11, 1972 -- The world was introduced to terrorism at the 1972 Munich Olympic Games. There were 11 Israeli athletes killed. Exactly 29 years (2+9 =11) after this attack, another more despicable horror occurred - The 9/11 terrorist attacks on the WTC.

September 11, 1973 -- Chilean President Salvador Allende is killed in a brutal military coup led by General Augusto Pinochet. Henry Kissinger was strongly implicated in this attack, and if he were to ever stand trial in an International Court, it is likely we would be charged with masterminding this coup and ordering the assassination of Allende. Henry Kissinger was in charge of the 9/11 investigation. Why?

September 11, 1990 -- President Bush calls the Gulf War an opportunity for the New World Order.

September 11, 2001 -- Eleven years to the day after President Bush [Senior] delivers his speech to Congress entitled Toward a New World Order, and 1 year and 1 day after the official birth of the New World Order, "terrorists" attack and destroy the World Trade Center and severely damage the Pentagon.

October 11, 2001 -- Tom Brokaw announces the world has formed into the New World Order.

October 26, 2001 -- President Bush signs legislation into law that gives Federal Government dictatorial powers and severely -- if not fatally -- erodes individual liberties and rights.

March 20, 2003 -- US starts invasion of Iraq, exactly 555 days after September 11, 2001. The start of WWIII?

March 11, 2004 -- Madrid, Spain. Exactly 911 days after Sept. 11th, 2001, over 200 people are killed and thousands are injured when deadly simultaneous attacks are launched on several trains in "retaliation" for the involvement of Spanish troops in the occupation of Iraq.

poem inspired by a message left on my facebook wall

2008-05-17T11:37:00.000-07:00

if gary larson had facebook he would enjoy it.
he would look at his profile and laugh.
he would type things on people's walls that were border line insulting and yet remain unseen in physical form.
gary larson would like facebook because he could still be very fat and eat junk food out of plastic wrappings but have the full social dexterity of visiting all his 'friend's' profiles.
all of the pictures he is tagged in would be taken by himself though. he would be the definition of a 'loser'.
gary larson would be the wittiest facebooker in the whole world. he would make comics about his friends's 'identities' being dependent on what they show themselves doing in their 'photos' section. he would make a comic where a person oblivious to 'dog porn' being a choice of 'favorite movies', secretly entered in their profile by their snickering pet dog, while they are shown outside mowing the lawn with an old fashioned mower that doesn't use gasoline. he would tag himself in the comic as the person oblivious to his pet dog editing his profile page.
the significance of creating the image of gary larson with a facebook account is that gary larson would probably use facebook in a way that it was never intended to be used. for that reason both facebook and gary larson will make it into the encyclopedia.

Silence

2008-05-08T07:03:00.000-07:00

A man is never without silence. Modern sensory depriving chambers lifting the weights of gravity and erasing the clamors of life cannot mute the thoughts racing through a man's head. In bed traffic whooshes by in the city. Crickets chirp in the country. Wind howls against the window. Refrigerators hum patiently with its power supply. Silence simply does not exist.

And what if you think you found silence. What is that silence saying?

I turned again in bed, disgusted by the voice in my head. Go to sleep it said over and over. I began to focus on my breathing. The simple rise and collapse of the lungs was natural and peaceful, like watching trees sway in the breeze. That should do it, I thought. Soon I was distracted. Breathing was a task now, a game. Could I breathe in sync with my sacked partner? I found it extremely difficult. There were too many inconsistencies. I was always slowing down or catching up. Frustrated, I turned, and turned again. I looked at her sleeping face. I might as well have been looking at myself. The image was so familiar. I didn't know everything about her, but I felt so akin to this woman.

As I watched her sleeping face, it occurred to me that she could just as easily be watching me, and when she should wake it would just seem a funny dream.

Later with my back turned mind elsewhere, she made a sound: one of question, so I listened, and she made another sound: one of affirmation. I wondered what question did her dream pose? What answer could she give herself? The thought that only I would remember this exchange made me a bit lonely.

Later I wondered if she was listening to me. Did her sleeping mind intercept the thoughts that raced from mine? I did a voodoo test. Think bad thoughts and let her body react. To my horror, she did! Bad thought #1, her leg would twitch. Bad thought #2, a toe would wriggle. Bad thought #3, a murmur and a moan.

I turned away disgusted. My God, I'm horrible. Go to sleep. Shut Up! Hush.

BROOKLYN II (maybe rough)

2008-05-03T10:00:00.000-07:00

I was wrong to say Brooklyn was boring. The idea of a flood is still interesting - it always is. I have seen more of Brooklyn now and I have not been shocked. Things have happened that have been exciting. They have been small things though. One of them was going to Flatbush Avenue to rent DVDs. Flatbush avenue has more apartment buildings. Some of them are nice and some have graffiti on them and don't look that nice. They have ugly steel doors and signs on the front of them that say, 'no gambling or playing dice, no loitering.' People acting rude in the grocery store and not acknowledging each other's presence by moving out of the way when someone needed to get between aisles have vacant looks in their eyes. There were no white people on Flatbush and I wasn't afraid. I was afraid of me because I was the only white person, what did they think of me? When I was in Blockbuster I felt safe, except for a dog that a couple had on a leash. The dog lurched at me with its lips stretched back, showing it's teeth and salivating mouth. I rented horror movies and rode my skateboard home. The ride was about a mile and a half. It didn't go that fast because the sidewalks are divided by large cracks and the roads are too narrow for both cars and myself.

On certain days of the week I am woken up by a very loud garbage truck. This happens hours before I need to wake up. On Thursday nights a man slowly goes through all of the recycling cans on our street, making very loud noises with the bottles and cans. I can hear conversations coming from apartments next door or downstairs very clearly. This make me nervous. What do they hear of my life?

The one time I have gone out, locally, in Brooklyn, I heard a story about a liquor from China or somewhere that had a cobra (hood extended) inside the bottle. The drink was very potent. Most of the people in this bar smoked. You are not aloud to smoke in bars in New York. Apparently, the usual bartender, who wasn't there, touts a rifle, stroking it between his drink orders.

Traveling has also been an inconvenience. On three or four nights of one particular week, it took me two hours to get home. The trains have a tendency of not showing up and you feel like you are trapped in a dungeon. If you fall asleep you might end up on the ground with things missing from your pockets or your bag. Out of inexperience I have been to parts of Brooklyn I never intended to go, although, only underground. All I wanted to do was get to my bed and lay in it, turn on my water in my bathroom, open my refrigerator, turn on my computer.

The cable guy, who came yesterday, was also disturbing. He didn't look disturbing and he was nice, and the way he talked made me feel comfortable. After him being there for ten minutes I noticed what was awkward and disturbing about him. He was very sloppy with his work. He clipped cables and sent shards of the wires flying. He tossed the old cables aside and they stayed there until after he left. The things he did and the places he went in the apartment seemed to turn up dust. He tripped over every chair, and when he made the turns through the hallways, he seemed to lose his balance and knock into the doors and walls and door frames. He called the woman who he talked to at his headquarters 'sweetheart' and he sat on my roommate's bed while he worked with something on the remote. When he left, everything worked, but I had to clean up after him. The result of this was that I have a stable internet connection. Before, I had been stealing wireless signals that seemed to blow away with the wind.

The internet has become a big deal recently. It stages major interactions between people of valuable friendship. Months go by and the internet harbors my most significant expressions. I use the internet at work for most of my eight hours. My increased time with the internet has distilled things out of my mind. I have spoken things and had ideas I feel I would not have had otherwise. These things are opinions, beliefs, ideals etc. that I don't considered correctly labeled by those words, but will probably be attached to them from a further vantage point or a later date in time. I have been recounting things very literally on the internet. It is not like I have had large complex ideas that the internet helps me 'boil down' or ascertain. There are just many small comments, pleasure, conversations, and 'lessons' that take place. I am not sure what the exact tendencies or what the existential nature of the internet is that induces this hitherto unknown honesty about things. I seem to run into conflict about things that I like or things that I, and I alone, am interested in. When there is someone interested in what I am interested in, then I usually discover, after a time, that there are different things that this person does like that I don't and our assimilation ends there. It does not make me completely unique to like a certain book on GoodReads, for instance, but it does make me an individual to like certain books and dislike others, until I have a unique character of books that is completely unlike anyone else's. This 'cloud' of the internet has seemed to accumulate since I've lived in Brooklyn; although, I am not sure it began here, and I am not sure it matters that I am here, exactly, for it to have formed.

At times my brain feels completely sure of itself. It sees where things are going to end up before they get there. Other times, it feels confused, as if it has changed drastically from what it originally was. I like certain things that I didn't like before and if someone doesn't like the same thing, I think how easily I could have been that person and lived in a different place like them and ended up liking the things they like. This is all due to the internet, which has accumulated it's large cloud in Brooklyn, and has become the opposite of boring. However, the things I like become less significant. Logically - this has nothing to do with how my brain has changed - I discover that I need to like things only on a particular level. I like a certain book by Lydia Davis because it is written with very clear sentences. Most books are written with clear and consistent sentences otherwise, but this book talked about life and the things she was experiencing in a way that I think were very appropriate for the sentences. Having read the book, I'm not sure I like to think in similar sentences since I've read this book or if that's the best way to process life. If it's the first reason, then sometimes I am annoyed I think that I am a person that likes books at all and feel confused by people who really like baseball or working in television because that seems cooler. However, what I do like about baseball and people who work in television are the interesting sentences that they sometimes say. So, I think it is just that I like language at this point and I'd like to improve at using it. The level at which I like things is in it's relationship to language. If something is sustainable in it's language - I know this reasoning is not 'sustainable' in it's singular existence in this paragraph alone - then I like it. This is all due to the part of Brooklyn that is not boring to me.

Since I have been able to choose things that are more like me, because of the internet, I end up choosing things that other people who like language in a way that I do. This may change at some point. It will probably change if I move or am in a serious relationship or get a different job or the environment changes drastically. Having chosen these things, I have created myself in a way that is different from what I was just a few month before, which was a person different from a few months before that. I write as if I have read these things that I 'like'. This effects my everyday life too, the way I talk to people, the thoughts I have that make me happy or sad or whatever. I have put myself inside of myself. I am becoming myself more completely, distilling. This is very interesting for me. I ostentatiously relate this to a city being flooded, so that I'm not getting off on just myself - could happen to everyone that lives in a place with a name.

The night

2008-04-25T09:49:00.000-07:00

Observe the night.

Stare at cyclists dodging street lights.

Lonely is the bright, seen without head lights.

People swifter than the river forget never.

The calm is what's the matter.

Explain to one that never knew

the simple difference between green and blue.

Words be quick, words be wise

turn the lights and let smoke rise

Only run when safety nears

familiarity that nature hears.

Words be quick you make me sick.

Jump over a goddamn candlestick.

interview with Zachary German

2008-04-25T07:18:00.000-07:00

Zachary German has a blog and a book on Bear Parade. He was sort of born in 1990 and already has enemies. I randomly e-mailed him and asked him if i could interview him.

first question:

if someone said that what you do on your blog is just 'weird', how would you rename 'what you do' for them, and promote 'what you do' as a beneficial to living?

lets say you had to do this for a sixteen year old girl holding a Vitamin Water container, with blond hair, a nose, parents and a coat by Moschino Jeans.

I think 'weird' can mean any number of things. I imagine there is a definition of 'weird' that I would agree describes what I do on my blog.

I try for everything on my blog to be 'funny'.

I don't know if what I do is 'beneficial to living'. If I post funny
things then people might feel happy. I'm not sure what 'beneficial to living' means.

second question:

if you had an essay in the back of a literature anthology, would you talk about being an 'instrument' that the 'work' used to pass into this place from another one?

Probably not. I might want to, as a joke. I would probably write
something like that and then look at it and edit it for a long time
and then decide that it wouldn't be convincing and then write
something that I understood better. I'm not sure.

would you talk about andy worhal or lil wayne?

I'm not sure. I think most literature anthologies don't have anything
by Lil' Wayne or Andy Warhol.

I like everything Lil' Wayne's done since "Tha Carter II" a lot, and
the stuff before "Tha Carter II" a little bit.

I'm not very familiar with Andy Warhol. I like "From A to B and Back
Again: The Philosophy of Andy Warhol." I don't think I know enough
about either of their work to talk about them intelligently.

I would feel really nervous if I was asked to write an essay in the
back of a literature anthology. I don't think that will ever happen.

do you think lil wayne thinks of himself existentially as an artist?

Lil' Wayne thinks of himself as the best rapper alive. So yeah.

question 3:

your blog is 'funny'. parts of 'eat when you feel sad' are 'funny' too (we have been using the 'quotation' in this interview. i'm not sure if we have been using it correctly. there is a blog post about using 'quotations'somewhere, maybe you've read it. tao talks about it. i think it is useful in 'avoiding abstractions'). i think the 'funniness' in 'eat when you feel sad'comes from the 'simple', 'non-abstract sentences'. how do the sentences in 'eat when you feel sad' connect with how you felt when you were typing them?

(or if you don't understand that question, which i'm not sure i do either, talk about writing 'eat when you feel sad'. did you want it to be 'funny'? what were you 'feeling' when you wrote it?)

I wrote the sentences in 'Eat When You Feel Sad' in an attempt to look at life 'objectively'. Things were happening in my life that made me feel certain emotions. Later I tried to think about them.

I wanted 'Eat When You Feel Sad' to be funny. Funny things make me
feel better. I think literature that makes people feel better is
'successful.' I don't know what I mean by that.

I felt 'severely depressed' when I wrote 'Eat When You Feel Sad'. I
smiled a little when I typed that.

question 4:

how much of 'eat when you feel sad' is autobiographical?

Ninety one percent.

question 5:

i think your blog, what i originally discovered as 'organic pipe tobacco', is a little under a year old. the newest post reveals this like 'underbelly' of older blogs which i guess i'm not surprised by. did you start blogging before you started submitting writing? how does your writing and your blogging correlate?

I started my first blog in the fall of my freshman year in high
school. It was on Hatelife. Two of my friends from school had
Hatelifes. Hatelife was really cool. Then it went away. I think
it's back now.

I have hardly submitted anything. I have performed the act of
'submitting work' maybe six times, starting fall of 2007. So I
probably blogged for four years before I started submitting.

When there is something that I think is good I put it on my blog
sometimes. Sometimes when something is on the internet and I look at it I know better how to edit it.

question 6:

talk about the difference in GOLDEN BEAR's shit-talking and that other blog post, that said you guys (tao lin etc.) 'were obsessed with talking about yourselves and how you had no money'.

The Golden Bear (...the Golden Bear!) is a noble opponent. The Jaguar Uprising is valiant.

But Bear Parade? We run this shit.

question 7:

how did you meet tao lin? how was your life different after you met him?

Tony O'Neill invited me to read with Tao, himself and some other
people last summer.

After meeting Tao I felt a little better.

question 8:
are you sick of these questions?

No they're fun.

question 9:

are you working on something now? if yes, talk about it.

I'm editing a longer, 'more direct', version of 'Eat When You Feel
Sad' to submit to and be rejected by publishing houses as a novel. It
uses no compound sentences.

question 10:

i feel like i'm getting annoying with these numbered questions, but i want to ask you something about the differences between writing poetry and fiction. i haven't read a lot of your poetry which i think is on 3AM and since i'm at work right now the filters block that site and i can't read them. something is blocking 'eat when you feel sad' too. your blog posts sometimes feel like poems, even if they have pictures and videos, and some of them are actually poems. there is a lorrie moore character who writes plays and in his relationships he talks to people like they're writing a play with him, or they're 'in his plays'. do you ever feel like that? do you feel like a writer/poet all the time? like maybe this interview will be in a story at some point and we're talking like we know it's going to be in it. (the characters are annoyed by the way the play write when they talk to him at one point, but it may be for another reason.)

As things happen in my life I realize that I will write about them.

Sometimes when I talk to people I think 'This is how people talk' and
try to remember it so I can write better.

question 11:

what kind of writing education did you have, if any? what were some of the things 'teachers' told you were good to do that you keep in mind when you write?

I was in honors English in high school. The summers after seventh and eighth grades I went to a writing program for children that scored
high on the SAT.

A teacher told me 'Show don't tell'. I don't keep that in mind when I
write. I don't keep anything that teachers told me in mind when I
write. I'm a ------- badass!

question 12:

the 'objectivity' in 'eat when you feel sad' does a good job of showing a 'range' of 'emotion' and each 'chapter' seems 'complete' or 'whole'. did you think, 'i want robert to start off doing this and then end up feeling sad in this chapter', or did it develop sentence by sentence? did you have a 'vision' for each chapter, then a 'vision' for the whole story and then go in and add the details?

The earliest 'chapters' of 'Eat When You Feel Sad' that I wrote were
not meant to be part of something larger. As I wrote more 'chapters'
I made an effort to keep them from relying on each other. I try to
make 'chapters' that reference earlier 'chapters' function as well for
the reader who has read the earlier 'chapters' as for one who has not.

One of the things I tried to keep in mind when writing 'Eat When You
Feel Sad' was that the character should not change at all during the
story. I mean for Robert to start and end every 'chapter' in exactly
the same situation.

I wish I had had more visions. Vision quest. I am a cantaloupe.

question 13:

do you think you could, or would want to ever write something with compound sentences?

Are there no compound sentences in the Bear Parade version? I'm
editing for the novel and am constantly annoyed at all the compound
sentences I find in previously unedited 'chapters'. I 'could' write
something with compound sentences. I probably will in the future. I
don't want to right now.

question 14:
this could be incriminating, but do you ever write 'under the influence' and if so has it ever been something you are proud of?

I have written 'under the influence'.

When writing 'Eat When You Feel Sad' I often wrote notes about what
had happened during the night – bits of conversation, thoughts, what
something looked like – before I went to sleep, while I was still a
little 'under the influence', and then tried to write about them
objectively when I was no longer 'under the influence.'

I have never thought about whether or not I was 'proud' of writing
'under the influence.' I have never been 'proud' of writing 'under
the influence.'

question 15:

do you read things that are considered 'classics'? do you read things that are considered 'contemporary'? what would you say your influences are?

I think Ernest Hemingway and Bret Harte are both 'classics'. I read
both of them.

The other people on Bear Parade are 'contemporary.' I read all of them.

I have felt influenced by Ernest Hemingway, Bret Harte, Tao Lin, Noah Cicero, Ellen Kennedy, Ann Beattie, Joy Williams, Lorrie Moore,
Richard Yates, Dennis Cooper, Peter Sotos and many other writers.

question 16:

what made you 'feel better'? finishing 'eat when you feel sad' or seeing 'eat when you feel sad' up on Bear Parade?

When I finished the version of 'Eat When You Feel Sad' that appears on Bear Parade I felt happy. I looked at it in Microsoft Word and read
it a lot and felt really happy.

When I saw 'Eat When You Feel Sad' on Bear Parade I laughed. I
thought there might be a forty but I was still surprised when there
was a forty. I felt happy.

I don't know which made me feel better. They both made me feel happy.

question 17/18:
what's the last song you listened to?

'True Affection' by The Blow. It's the last song on the album 'Paper
Television.' I listened to 'Paper Television' on the subway. I like
'Paper Television'. I like 'The Blow'.

what's the last thing you ate?

Corn chips.

this is what i'm doing and this is what i feel

2008-04-18T21:59:00.000-07:00

i am lying in my bed with a digital
alarm clock and a laptop. there is
a sierra nevada on my windowsill,
in reach. "uncle sam's yard" by
decidbully is playing on my labtop.

it's 1 AM and i've been taking ten minute
naps in intervals. i want to finish
three beers and take a shower before i
give in to really sleeping.

earlier, i worked 14 hours, going through
security checks, pulling thousand foot
long cables through dirty city streets,
and zooming in and out on alter flowers
and priests.

i was working so much, i was saying
things to people without really thinking
them through like i usually do, and they
were just 'normal small talk' things.

it was like we knew exactly what to do,
we didn't need to talk about it, so
we said little things, amidst actions
that many people have performed
time and time again in the past.

i had to say other things too that
didn't seem necessary, but in order
to avert confrontation or awkwardness;
like i had to pretend to be interested.

i feel like i burst through
the safety gate on a ski jump
without thinking about it.
and that there is a thick
wax behind me, where i came from,
and in front, where i'm going, too.

nothing new

2008-04-17T08:12:00.001-07:00

Sometimes I'm bemused by the mystery of friendship.

How quickly things can stick, and fall apart.

Alcohol usually helps all this.

How else can you transition between

arguing philosophies.

Sometimes dour sour faces turn into smiles.

Agreements turn into war.

How to absolve this?

Go to the Gym. Be a hero for gods sake.

New Poem

2008-04-17T08:12:00.000-07:00

2 unconnected stanzas

2008-04-16T05:54:00.000-07:00

In the house of garlic and wine

What a lovely way to waste your time

Climbing the legs of your afternoon

unaware of an absent moon

Die a fiery certain death

Let's not force the world

to hold it's breath.

written in 56 seconds

2008-04-15T08:24:00.001-07:00

What is a poem?

Is it thoughts that roam?

Are they words that rhyme

or fit closely to home?

Well I don't know.

nobody does.

Figure it out

And you've found

a Poem.

WEB by B. Byrne

2008-04-15T04:36:00.001-07:00

Caught in your web again.

Never to be set free.

Waiting for another dose of venom to be plunged into me.

But this time is different.

This time I see, all the other little flies who were just like me.

Lured in by your beauty, raveled up so quick.

Unaware of how long they would be there, or how much it would stick.

Oh pretty spider your games are so cruel.

Never hesitating to rip out the insides of the common fool.

You wait until you are hungry, for when the time is right.

To go for the big bugs, sink your fangs in and bite.

The venom is so lethal, it chills you to the bone.

Makes you envy those who are homeless and alone.

I've felt it before, but this time I will put up a fight.

I've just got to stop thinking about you tonight.

A world Away

2008-04-10T22:12:00.000-07:00

Sky Taxi my body and soul

Over New York and the north pole

Leaving home for a home we go

But without the things we know.

Head south over Russia

Into Asia and feel the pressure.

Cafe skin polite eyes pulled

Dishonest afraid

Generous warm.

Much to learn. Much to give.

BROOKLYN

2008-04-04T20:26:00.000-07:00

brooklyn is very boring. it is not dangerous or loud. there is no racism, robbery or rape. there are just people, buildings, garbage, machines, bushes/trees, and dry streets. there are no floods. the streets are relatively dry. some houses and backyards are a catastrophe or organization. but it all fits. it is tight. people rub and interact succinctly and essentially; there is no ponderous interaction, and if so, only mistakenly. there are sharp edges, you avoid them. there are guys making violent gesticulations, women singing loudly to themselves, looking unhealthily.

the problems that are spoken of in the news rain on brooklyn lightly. it's not a down pour. people talk about the economy with their arms crossed showing you the sides of their faces as they look down the block, something they're used to: they're used to a lot of countries being represented. they're used to expensive lego-like architecture - and old architecture too, bronze statues of the parks, huge greening horses and spires and globes with archaic compasses, stone bridges and tunnels, decayed plots of woods that will never bounce back, emotionless cops, people burdened by dogs, people that look like dogs, people obviously lonely, people in groups of too many people, too many children at schools, cars driving too fast past schools, highways like a wrinkle - tucked amazingly between blocks and avenues - they're used to sound vanishing and appearing from way too close and sometimes skipping in from surprisingly far away.

it's not all that interesting. you commute and fill your apartment with just what you need. you don't bring your life in from wherever you came from, just parts of it. brooklyn's just a boring maze, a tier lower from a 'world class' maze, manhattan. it's not that interesting and i curse myself. i say, may i live in some interesting times. may brooklyn fill with hudson and sound and estuary and may brooklyn give birth to canoes and mattress rafts. may i nudge my neighbors with the but end of a paddle and beseech them: do you want that? do you want that starbucks swim. that torrent of cappuccino?
may brooklyn become a battle ground, a place for young people to climb on eachother's backs for carrots and broccoli. i should need a bunker for tofu, hot sauce, and avocados. i should put poetry up on the walls as novelty scare tactics. i should float crap stained canvases down my block. i should float a futon down my block with hair dye bleeding a train. i should have this idea that brooklyn will flood and carry it with me as a curse, so that as i grow old and dreamy, falling asleep at a desk in manhattan, i feel old and dreamy as i wake up, having to shake it off me.
it'd be perfect for a flood - brooklyn - intrigue, incest, and rape. statues with bronze waves, and billows of film strips - the dark then light then dark of a show, the sporadic eternity of it, so it's never dark, but horrible and interesting.
it'd be perfect, a perfect river bed, for bored water to paralyze the vestigial extension, where human waste synergies man to his infrastructure and we float like mad natives with Mohawks, arrows splitting our muscle taut brown skin.

Well Well Well

2008-04-04T00:24:00.000-07:00

Got a call from my korean recruiter tonight. Absorbed about 1 in 12 words spoken. Out of a ten minute phone call, all I got was that Korean food was spicy and someone at the airport will be holding a sign with my name on it. Yes and Okay is really all you say after "What was that?" doesn't get the job done. For all I know I agreed to making license plates at a sweat shop. I guess that's all you can do. Throw a feather to the wind. Pack a suitcase for a year. Look for someone with a sign.

I'm American Dammit. But I'm living the last couple of American days I have for now. The internet spoils one from such isolation i guess. Soon enough I'll have my own facebook page and correspond through emails. Maybe I'll be in better touch. But wild fire american nights are done for now, and that's sad.

So Hulk Hogan got divorced? I watched some old Hogan knows Best episodes and I thought they really looked good as a family. That's too bad.

Went to Barnes and Nobles for some Airplane reading (14 hr non stop flight from JFK to Seoul). Picked up Albert Camus' The Stranger. I remember reading it in high school. Very Existential. - By the the way that's a very cliche' word by now. But it was written in the forties so that's cool. The book is only like 160 pages. Sleeping pills are packed.

shifting bodies

2008-04-03T22:07:00.000-07:00

i live in brooklyn. mike is scampering to fly and live in korea.
interesting things will surface on this blog.
we haven't talked about it much. no outsiders seem to care about
'the farside' and i'm not blaming them.

oh! but we know it is here!

we're just working on our masterpieces. so, you will have to wait!

gary larson

2008-03-29T12:56:00.001-07:00

i've never read anything that gary larson wrote, beside the captions of his comics obviously. the single frames of his comics make me believe that gary admired concise sentences. maybe, even, long sentences with latinate words made gary uncomfortable.
if gary were a writer, i like to believe that he would be consice and 'prolific'. he was a good comic illustrator, very close to being a good writer - both 'art'.
i want to have a gary larson 'method' to writing, drawing, taking pictures, even talking to people, even eating and drinking.
i feel better about abstract ideas when they are conveyed concisely. i like abstract ideas as opposed to facts and statements. i feel that a complete, concise abstract idea is more 'whole' than 300 pages or more of facts and statements.
this is why i like 'art' and gary larson.

The Encounter

2008-03-21T13:37:00.000-07:00

When I met Simone Desuza, I knew instantly that I would wind up hating her; nevertheless, this strong conviction I felt did not stop me from falling in love with her first.

When I met Simone Desuza she was talking wildly to a group of young professionals at a small table in the corner of a murky lounge. As they listened to Simone speak and watched her swagger no one could explain to themselves just why in the hell they adored her so much -- She was loud, brutally sarcastic, blushingly costumed, and worst of all so damn un-metropolitan -- and still they continued to pursue her. The group consisted of mostly men in promising white collars with loosened ties off a days work, and the several women in the group, though being of the surest pedigree would give side glances as their boyfriends participated eagerly with Simone.

The girls apparently were of some regal status some where out on the Island, and they could not help but to silently stammer when Simone refused to play ball. She ran the court, praising some remarks and tearing down others, and when she teased her men, the other girls hardly refrained from thanking her.

Right as I braved myself to enter the roiling caucus the first words shouted to me by Simone was

"Why you're a lil' one aint'cha?" This initiated some laughter among the group and was followed by a reposed 'welcome to the party' sigh. This is when I knew I would hate her, but she was fresh and it captured me.

"One cannot help but to feel small next to you, the name is Simone?" I asked, giving my hand to her which she took and held to study.

"You won't live long, hate to say it but it's all right there" she said pointing to my palm.

"The life line is severed right there." She pointed again.

"But," she went on; holding up a drink to toast herself "I'll give you something to live for in the mean time." Immediately I didn't really know what to say.

Smoke filled the room as the night passed and I found myself leaving with Simone when all the other boys were being dragged away.

On the sidewalk, in the street lamp glow of a city night we stood weighing our options. She spoke first and declared to know a cheap motel nearby and led me up the street, trying to light a cigarette as it bounced in her mouth, she prided "They know me here."

Next Morning

"I feel like shit."

Why, she asks.

I don't bother telling her about gnarly breath, stiff motel sheets or my general regret for the entire previous evening. What the neon thru a window created after midnight was now gone in wash of gold morning.

First she barked for a screw driver, and after seriously awaiting service at a twenty dollar stay motel she ordered me down to the corner store for a 7 dollar bottle of champagne. She guzzled it, after which she burped and cursed.

There was something about the war on T.V. and Simone waxed philosophical about it until the clerk alerted us for check out at 10 am.

On the street suddenly she was flighty, bags in hand, in a flurry of leopard print tights and a torn denim skirt Simone boasted

"You're going to walk me all the way to the subway!" Strutting down a cloudy street in Astoria.

The city heights loomed beyond her. Barren October trees plotted only enough to collect trash beside her were black and wet, snaking sullenly upward into the gray sky. The trees were dormant and of row, stapled into the sidewalk. All of it seemed to gather pity within Simone and and raised her hand, opting for a cab instead.

She stopped and turned to me, looking mostly at her purse and moaned something about meeting in Hackensack. I wasn't really listening, only watching when a taxi swerved in response to Simone's hail, as if it were a pheromone attraction.

Screeching to a halt the cabby heard a similar story about Hackensack.

The driver smiled and fumed a stubby cigar from his mouth

"Sure toots where ever you want to go."

i go to the fountain in the downtown square with a lucid dreaming coyote

2008-03-20T18:31:00.000-07:00

i go with the lucid dreaming coyote
to the fountain in the downtown square.
the coyote says there are eleven
universes existing in an alternate
dimension of the fountain's
cascading water.
i say,
"the motion of the cascading
water makes me almost believe
that there is a possibility of these
universes existing."

a strong wind blows through the
coyote's fur, tipping his ears,
as he stares into the fountain
with a profound confidence,
as if he can control his dreams.
then, he says to me, "'cascading'
is a vague term."

2008-03-17T20:17:00.000-07:00

asshole

A korean sojourn

2008-03-10T00:32:00.000-07:00

Well. Going to S. Korea any week now. Just waiting on this horrible paperwork to be processed.

NYS is of no help at all when it comes to this. It's a terrible run around and nobody knows anything because of new restrictions. Not many fun details about this process, but A new blog has been created to document me and my girlfriend, Ana's little adventure teaching english in Jinju, South Korea. check it out. www.akoreansojourn.blogspot.com

im an alcoholic but i don't drink more than anyone else

2008-03-07T16:25:00.000-08:00

i promise to not get drunk and waste money,
look at the white wine in the thick glass,
bat the glass with my hand across the room, against the wall.
the glass explodes and rains throughout the room, wine making the shards sweet.
my brain is fucking retarded.
i step onto the shards of glass, i storm out of the house, in my socks.
i walk across the lawn and start kicking my car.
my feet were bleeding and spraying the blood on the car and the pavement.

NOW

2008-03-04T00:21:00.000-08:00

The Media bombardment of presidential hopeful forth-comings are making me sick.

Candidates of good fortune is only for the short term. Do we not know that by now?

Can they promise another WWII victory? In a recession only American willpower can save us.

I don't see change in Obama. Given my choices I prefer him over Clinton. Not because he his a man or that he is younger, but because America is a Republic remember? This is not an empire. I'll be damned to live my current life under the rule of two administrations. (I was too young to be conscientiously affected by Reagan).

Watch this strapping new president bend over for the health care industry. I laugh at change. Universal Health care? Some one tell me what that really means, before it becomes reality.

I'm confused in the disposable world. I need answers, not a new definition of the American dream. I seek to be an expatriate. Now is not a good time. Will there ever be one? The world hates me because I'm an American. Born lucky i guess.

Work keeps me satisfied. It makes us human. It keeps me American. I still care, I still love this beautiful land. I can't stand it being torn apart, so I leave for now. Our royal preoccupation is absurd. Fuck Hillary, Her husband was president. Bush's father was president. This is a Republic, Not an Empire!

The economy turns public unrest. It's not a single taxpayer's fault. Soldiers fight soldiers. Irremissible, unpatriotic but ever more Red White and Blue!

-Lupo

i remember tripping on mushrooms at burdicks house and his father came down

2008-03-03T21:14:00.000-08:00

what should you do on a monday night?

"how do you become friends with someone from germany?"

maybe this poker game will make us all rich and fit?

"americans don't know how to eat right."

beer makes people comfortable.

many caps twisting like bugs from the spring woods
sounds helpful to the drinking spirit.

this is your last night.
don't cry.

****

"when they go into the test all they do is drink the drink"

Super markets are filled with stressed out annoying moms.

****

the most screaching breaks are applied by stressed out annoying moms.

a stessed out annoying mom was tailgaiting my ass.

how much does your imagination cushion the physical penetration?

'when i lived in rochester man.."

'when i lived in rochester...

i can't do as much as you guys do...

dicesare's house

2008-03-03T20:54:00.000-08:00

dicesare has a gold plated lamp shining on his wooden c2 car. there is a green lamp shade shining on the c2 car.

bottles holding on sit on the ring
of the wainscoating. whats
wordly
a partial sweep

you are lazy

not even cleaning

seperately down onto
the final fart of
the lonely goat.

she came out to the goat with 'jesus' pamphlet.
where are you in this artsy brooklyn, why can't
you see the path of jesus.

now, down by the drum, the park grew dim
and the main characters here,
danced with their genitals
kindly at the axel of motion.

a pirate dildo came from some silly guy.
they brought whatever they wanted to the party.

simply going livestock, the goat looked at the
slaughterable quadropods, they're dead
he said.

yes, the long dicked man mounted
the sheep. oh arkansas, please write
canon and tell them we've been able to
take too many pictures.

im a hawk. ur stupid
and im a stupid hawk, worried.

at jjs

2008-03-02T13:04:00.000-08:00

im at jjs
we're drinking wine
it's 4pm
"how many episodes of cops are there?
its the first ever reality tv show"

what is lupo doing?

lupo deleted a video i made of myself last night

maybe he didn't delete it

i dont know

someone needs to post a real poem or a good picture
soon