the distance between us is like how motivated i must be to wash the dishes

Saturday, 15 September 2007

On the first of May, I told you "all" that I would blog long blogs about emoticons, rollercoasters and Airborne. Will this happen? Think of it this way:

1) The sun still holds some sway over the ocean

2) Steve Earle doesn't appreciate the fact you can probably check your email from an Amtrak train. Um, I couldn't, but theoretically sure.

3) Noah and the Whale's "5 Years Time" is the best pop song since last Thursday. Or since commedia dell'arte.

Ergo: if you care about me at all, please post a picture of breakfast (any kind is okay; do you eat red beans and rice for breakfast? great) in the comment section. Practice your image linking. Goad [me] into something.

P.S. Not my! photos.

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new york sleeping bag

Sunday, 2 September 2007

New York sleeping bag found. See above.

A few people have asked about pictures. Here are some pictures from my cell phone.



You know exactly what's going on, you just don't want to admit it.



Emilie was born on a Zeppelin above Paris, Texas.



Chris is a maximum strength antacid tablet.



"How is it going over there, Mike?"



This is the picture from high up in the UMass library which a Friends character might take and post on his blog.

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Grace Paley

Thursday, 23 August 2007

fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck

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you know what that means

Tuesday, 21 August 2007

Last night, I almost started a grease fire, which made me think "man! I had better start writing stupid and bloodlessly surreal story poems!" So this afternoon, I got straight on dat shit.

WE ARE JUST BELLS IN THE SOUP NAZI'S DREAM

and play that 'who can be the more audacious
dumb.' Yet these swamp minnow years made me
so cheap, lies I tell on trains don't even
sting. What else? Well, the strip mall
is still a neighborhood, full of busy
bodies, where the mattress saleswoman
watches football in the Dominos forever,
up until a 4th and 13 punt arcs up and up and
hits her, jaw-abouts, shattering a strudel of
brain that had slipped there when she was
seventeen, hot shit behind a Spearmint veil
and faking hip drawls for branchwater (which
sounds a lot more badass than it tastes),
hiding from the bouncer with quarter
after quarter into the bull's lever.
Ride on O someone's little sister!

But, that extra brain so dislodged,
she is free to quit the mattress factory
(keep up, bitches) and sue and lose
to a technicality with a combover
who checks Craigslist every weekend
for Soviet telescopes. They marry
in the laundromat, splurge for a
Nickelback cover band, and delay vows
while the drummer's cigarette break
is besieged by high collared visions
commanding that he relapse to tractor
something something and an ulcer-shaped
duty to hold his hat at that tummy level
bespeaking a solid dearth of hubris,
then sobergulp his way Back To Town
and fess up his ledger: a daughter,

curious! Her Minny Mouse eyeglasses chip
when she pirouettes off the swing and heave
-ho's: she can't find them or remember to
cry, what with this fine all--limes!
the White House!--turning a cautiously
awesome red all of a sudden, the color of
when a glass Coke bottle mouth is blown across.
I will give you a second if you need it.
Then your own daughter calls to say
her own daughter's learned in school today
the names of bones, eighty-odd, new ones that
Science just invented. Why, she even
knows how to swim now without holding
everybody's breath. Isn't that everything?
You are now a lot more cool than before.

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omg rhyming--he's like an obnoxious cell phone

Sunday, 19 August 2007

It takes me some of these sometimes to "build up" any "steam."

THE CON MAN'S THIRTEEN CONSTRUCTION BALLADS

These games were built for solitude,
These tricks were built for whores.
These belts were built for hipsters
And these wide roads built for war.

This face was built for lotion,
This discretion built for shame.
These hips were built for holsters,
And these cherries built for cranes.

These barges built for musket nooks,
These cousins built to leech,
These neighbors built for sugar
And these lemons built for teeth.

This shampoo built for rock'n'roll,
And this country built and stuck.
These last meals built theatrical,
And these orgies built by luck.

This seat was built for wheelchairs,
This storm built for balloons--
This Sunday built for bourbon,
And these grace notes built for you.

This coonskin built for irony,
This joke was built for keeps.
These vineyards built for assholes,
And the cellars built too deep.

These vows were built to sample
And these gods built to entrench,
This snowman, he was built too late,
And friends built by coincidence.

These la-las built for choruses
This velvet built for palls,
These oranges built for clover,
But they may not mean to fall.

This grape was built for sorrow,
Then this dollar built for milk.
This sun was built for loggers
And this game was built to tilt.

These strangers built for bus stations,
These others built for fries.
This waiting room was built by me,
For I was built to gawk inside.

These hemlines built for woozy pleas,
These bike trails built from glass.
This last call was built for winnowing,
And this doghouse built to last.

These hands were built for headaches,
And this pace was built for Doug,
This cool glance built by callouses,
And this bullshit built by love.

These trains were built to bless us
But the whistles built for cows.
These concessions built on second glance,
And your grace notes built for now.

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