You don't refuse to breathe do you
I find you on the center aisle of the corner Target
Holding the digital-watch that will make you happy forever
It's good to have a friend to help you past the monsters on the way
There's a reason why I called you
But I don't remember what it is
I'm a child again when I was really miserable
Burn the beds tomorrow
In the hugest pile
The carpets will hold us
Carefully in their tufts
I was in a loaf of bread shaped like a camera
There are many ways to warm the kitchen
When you pile the bodies in there
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
interviews a bunch of people. You should probably read Tao Lin on technology Cognitive Behavioral Therapy and organic foods. After that, read Noah Cicero on the beauty, love, and art found in everyday reality.
I'm drinking coffee. This morning I read Frederick Barthelme's Natural Selection. Barthelme describes a car-accident and I think this is the most accurate car-accident I have ever read. I've never been in a car-accident so I don't really know. I don't have to work today so I'm happy.
Adam Brown please remove the fat that has gathered around my abdomen because i'm hungry and wish to reuse that space for lemon-zingers
Adam Brown you're beautiful
Here's my switch-blade-knife
I want only for you to carve me slowly
Into the shape that's most pleasing
If I were a person
I'd choose the penguin-shape
Which is more human than we are
If you carved me correctly
We could fry the excess
And love it carefully in chili-oil
Which is my favorite spice
Which we can eat substantially
At the Best-Western in Astoria
Where we can be famous finally
For eating each other on stage
There are places in America Adam
Where cannibalism's accepted
And where we can open the store
That eat's other stores
Where we can be impossibly huge
And love everything
That has become a part of us
Sunday, December 16, 2007
- farout_library_software by Maged Zaher and Pam Brown. I have met Maged Zaher and he's very nice. He also wrote this and this and this and this and you can hear him read a poem here I don't know why I like these things so much but they make me happy.
- Bear Parade Gene Morgan wrote this and it's why I like Bear Parade very much right now. I like everything on Bear Parade. Read small pale humans right now. Read touch my omelet. Read yesterday i was talking to myself and i told myself that i was going to write a book and give it to you so i put paper in my bag and put a pen in my bag and rode my bike to the river bank and then sat on the ground and thought 'i will never write a book' and watched ducks swim away from me. Tomorrow you can read this emotion was a little e-book then the living and the dead and compassionate moose and hikikomori and transmissions from noah x to tao x and today the sky is blue and white with bright blue spots and a small pale moon and i will destroy our relation ship today and finish up with from the ideograms. I've made all the links for you so read all of these things and then tell someone else to read them for a while.
- After all that, go read alice blue.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Read Small Pale Humans by Daniel Spinks. I'm reading this book this morning and it is making me happy. I just google-searched Daniel Spinks and he has three poems in Action Yes Quarterly but when I clicked on the link went to a medication advertisement [www.actionyes.org]. I wonder if the internet is trying to communicate something, and failing, sadly.
edit: Action Yes is back so I will go and read Daniel Spinks on Action Yes.
Also, I re-read Small Pale Humans this morning and enjoyed it again. I will read it again later.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
THE BEAN-BAG CHAIR STARES AT ME ACCUSINGLY SO I HIDE MY EYEBALL
Nobody wants to eat me today so I go home
THE COOKBOOK MENACES ME FROM THE KITCHEN
I hang it from a tree as a warning to the others
The pile has a knife
I will pee in the elevator probably tomorrow
*I wrote these poems in five minutes. It was a race.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
We watched the movie Across The Universe and drank beer in the movie theater. The movie was designed to make fifty-year-olds feel comfortable with history and a little bit radical politically and to then feel more comfortable with today's day to day life.
The movie ends with the song All You Need is Love or something. It's a musical. It's very dramatic.
I also watched the movies The Darjeeling Limited and Children of Men.
I think that writer's should focus on writing movies [after the writer's strike or whatever].
I went to the discovery center and learned about DNA.
This has become pointless. People do things and then do other things and each things seems very important but upon reflection how can anything be important or not important. Everything is probably the same on some scale.
Sunday, November 04, 2007
You can read the Lamination Colony here. There is fiction from Gene Morgan, Shane Jones, and Andrea Fitzpatrick and some other things by Mike Young, Sean Lovelace, and me. Everything on Lamination Colony should be read by anyone who reads this message.
Lamination Colony is important and will cause the world-empire revolution that will change some things and leave others the same.
Saturday, October 20, 2007
I canceled my myspace account. It was hijacked by spam-robots who shot spam robot-babies at my myspace friends. I will miss my myspace friends. If you were a myspace friend, and you now feel rejected, I sincerely apologize. Email me or something or become my friend on facebook where there is less spam and spam guilt, but still some robots and robot-babies.
I have another request please I'll ask without hope
How wide's your esophagus in centimeters please
Or provide the volume please I'm calculating
Densities of sawdust I test sawdust
In my esophagus without hope or expectation
The kitchen-tiles are white beneath the sawdust it's 6 AM
I love the kitchen-tiles and fuck them
I'm hungry and eat windows
Carefully I eat little glass-cups
You love me I think we could overthrow
The US government
And eat Washington DC
I'm busy tomorrow I have Pilates
I'm lying you're beautiful
We could microwave ourselves again but
The microwave's too small
Saturday, October 06, 2007
There's a new alice blue and I read it and it had stories by Nick Antosca and Noah Cicero. These stories made me stab the mailman. You should read these stories and also, other stories by Greg Mulcahy and Matt Rittenhouse and David Gianatasio.
Also there are poems. I like the poems by Zachary Schomburg and by Mark Cunningham. These poems made me chew on my heater-vent.
Other people on the roster include Sarah Bartlett, Matt McBride, Joshua A Ware, Anne Marie Rooney, Betsy Fagin, Arlene Ang, and Emily Kendal Frey.
Read alice blue, please.
Thank you for your consideration.
Saturday, September 29, 2007
I didn't start editing my novel yet because I'm lazy and also because I'm afraid. Sometimes I imagine the novel walking around with a pitcher of water and a large kitchen knife. Pacing probably, in the hallway and I'm hiding next to the bathroom, behind the clothing hamper and everything smells bad. Or maybe with a taser and an uzi automatic-gun.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Please taser me I want very much to be tasered I'm bored
And the cereal's somewhere it's March
I have a question
Will you please taser me? I like electrodes
Am hot for electrodes
And would fuck electrodes on digital-video for the internet
I'm probably kidding I wouldn't assault
Forty-thousand beta-fish for
Even one-million dollars
Or spread myself across ten oceans
Until you taser me or double-taser me
With one-million electrodes on my forehead
Or inside me and all the electrodes
Inside me there are two-million electrodes
And you're holding them there tightly
Triggering the electrodes in my stomach
My spleen my lungs which are quivering
Widely for them and the taser
Which is so so beautiful
And I'm thinking of tasers in helmets riding horses
And rows of tasers and ten-billion electrodes
Attached to me inside and out
You're triggering them I'm happy
Monday, September 10, 2007
When I'm cooking I have the feeling that I don't exist so I run into the hallway and knock on the apartment-doors until all the apartment-doors are open and there are people and the people are watching me and I'm moving quietly up and down the hallway and the people watch me until I know I probably exist
I wanted to make this poem better but it's impossible
And most actions are impossible like cooking and breathing and talking with words that have actual and corresponding objects
Because even if things correspond I'm only a body with skin and my skin and body's sometimes clothed or unclothed but otherwise like a microwave-oven I think or rice-cooker or toaster or toaster-oven or something
Which I love because I love every object
I can eat
Which's why I hate myself and want to be destroyed instantly
And without reason
So I tell me neighbors in careful and clear words to destroy me
'It's okay to stab me' I say 'I'll write a note saying it's okay and that I approve violent stab wounds' or 'to be burned now in my kitchen would be wonderful and I'll help you gather incendiaries or something'
And people laugh sometimes until I say 'I'm serious'
'I'm really serious and I'd stab a walrus to prove it'
But nobody has a walrus to stab and the blubber's too thick probably so I cook gnocchi and give it to this guy who lives across the hall and he eats the gnocchi angrily because he hates food and eating and everything
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
I wrote the story below and it doesn't make sense. I tried to fix it but I quit. I quit the story below.
Today I read all of the novel 'Less Than Zero' by Bret Easton Ellis. This novel is about getting tired of drugs because your friends are strung out all the time on summer-break after your freshman year in college. It might be about other things. The sentences are simple and I read the sentences very quickly until there were no sentences left. Some parts are all in itallics which was hard to read. On the cover there are quotes from reviewers about MTV and this novel and music-videos and the style of putting together a lot of short parts. The word 'staccato' appears. MTV is also in the novel a lot, along with 'Betamax'.
After reading 'Less Than Zero' I suddenly thought that I could write 50 novels very quickly. Maybe two or three a year.
Someone should pay me to do that.
One month, I think. I stand.
I leave my bedroom-television on but close the door so that from the bathroom I won't have to hear the television-news. I don't want news or anything informative and anyway it's comfortable in the bathroom with the bathroom-light reflecting brightly in my bathroom-mirror and warm tiles warming my feet and shower-steam in the air. I stand naked and look at my naked toes which are slim and pale and which wiggle when I wiggle them but not smoothly and when I look at the fogged mirror my body's bubbled and distorted and I think it looks a little dead, but only a little.
In the shower I feel warm and wet.
After the shower I dry my body.
I go into the bedroom. I'm still naked. "Hatch," I say. "I'm back. How was the news? Learn about psychopaths? Which restaurants violated health-codes? Which people died in violent drunken random car-accidents? Or, was there a hurricane or flood or building-collapse or something?"
Hatch doesn't answer.
I sit next to him. "I think the president manufactures natural-disasters, probably, to get more votes, or to be brave on television. What do you think?"
I touch Hatch's face
"That's what I'd do," I say. "I'd act brave on television for the votes and market my own brand of soda, if I were president, and it'd be like 'Executive-Cola', maybe, and we'd make billions of dollars and not spend any of the dollars. Save the billions for decades and fund a gigantic robo-cop statue, with my face. Do you like statues?"
Hatch doesn't say anything and lies quietly instead as though he doesn't want to talk. Hatch closes his eyes and lets his mouth fall slack. Hatch's very long and narrow and pale and Hatch's body's thinly covered with soft brown hair. I touch the hair but it tickles so I stop and think about my body-hair and why my body-hair's not thin and soft and not covering my entire body.
"It's okay Hatch. Won't bother you."
This morning, I sat next to Hatch while he slept and, with a magic-marker, drew cartoon-gerbils on Hatch's forehead. Our bed's very wide and soft and we purchased the bed from
I lie next to Hatch and stroke Hatch's hair.
My telephone rings.
"Fuck," I say. "I thought I cancelled that."
I hold the receiver next to my ear.
"Are you watching television?" It's my mother. "Turn on the television and watch the television the news it's amazing a bridge just fell into the
I change the television-channel and watch bridge-collapse news-coverage.
"Absolute-destruction. Human casualities. Orange-soda," the television says.
"I see it mother. Thank you," I say.
"When are you coming over? We want to meet this Hatch. I could make dinner. We could play the 'Game of Life.'"
"People trust infrastructure. Celexa," the television says.
"Hatch's not this," I say. I stroke Hatch's hair. "You come by, tomorrow. My car's not working. I'll make corn-on-the-cob or something. I'll make mashed-potatoes."
"Okay, okay. I'll bring your brother."
"No," I say. "Just you."
"Just bring you, and salt for the mashed-potatoes." I hang up the phone.
On the television, a man's crying. "I don't understand," the man says.
The next day I say, "I'm going to get groceries, Hatch. Want to come?"
Hatch doesn't answer. Hatch's sleeping.
"Wake up," I say. "You're always sleeping and I'm bored with it."
I think Hatch moans a little but I'm not sure.
I sigh quietly and feel guilty about sighing. "We'll steal groceries if you want. We'll use your duffel-bag and you'll run and I'll cry and walk slowly away. We'll distract them with a fight or argument or something like I'll say 'I thought you stopped smoking,' and you'll be like, 'no, I like to smoke, smoking's good and makes me look fucking cool' and I could throw peaches at you, or figs or something. We'll have a fig-fight at the grocery-store and run slowly in slow-motion."
Hatch doesn't answer. I shake him but he doesn't wake. Once, Hatch slept through a car-accident.
At the grocery-store I steal figs. I buy the corn and pepsi-cola. I call my mother. "What soda do you like?" I ask.
"Don't get anything just for me. I'll drink water."
"Maybe tea or something. Maybe milk?
"Never milk. Human digestion system's not made for milk. I read an article somewhere about cows-milk. It's crazy. Are you cooking in plastics or drinking from plastic-cups or anything?"
"They should bottle human-milk and put pregnant-mother's to work and homogenize human-milk and bottle the human-milk in glass-bottles but not plastic because plastic leaches hormone-mimicking molecules into food and beverages and soon no human will be able to have babies or reproduce because the hormone-mimicking molecules will clog the hormone-receptors. Don't you see? It's the human-biochemical-suicide-death-sentence."
"Okay mother. I'll get orange-juice."
"With pulp or without? Because, you know, pulp is good."
"Okay, um, with."
"Anyway, just give pregnant-mothers or post-pregnant-mothers hormones to keep them lactating and that would solve most human health-problems. De-fatify human-milk, right."
At home, I boil the corn.
"Are you hungry Hatch?" I say.
I sit next to Hatch on the bed.
"Do you want anything?"
I think about Hatch and am concerned about Hatch but in a vague way because Hatch's a person with individual awareness and protective-instincts which means Hatch is genetically predetermined to take care of himself. I massage Hatch's forehead. The forehead's moist and cool and thinly wrinkled and it's a beautiful forehead and my fingers feel tingly when I touch it.
The door-bell rings. I walk to the door and open it.
My mother steps through the doorway. She's wide and tall and her hair's long and white and curly. My mother's face's framed by the white curly hair and the face's long and wrinkled but asymmetrically and the nose protrudes only a little so that one might miss the nose and think her nose-less, a mutant, somehow hideously mangled by an industrial drill-press or head-on car-collision or something.
"I've missed you so much," my mother says. She hugs me. "What's the smell?"
"Cooking," I say.
"Oh." My mother sits on the couch.
I sit next to her.
"I was at the grocery-store," my mother says. "I told the grocery-store manager about plastics and he didn't believe me so I gave him a pamphlet." She hands me a pamphlet. "Just read it and you'll understand."
I hold the pamphlet.
"I made these pamphlets myself. Do you know about pee?"
"I think I know about pee."
"You lose thousands of nutrients each morning," my mother says. "You should save the pee and drink it later and recycle the nutrients."
I don't know what to say. "Bridge-collapse."
"Isn't it terrible? I think seven people died. It's a tragedy when people die."
"Why?" I ask. I feel curious and strange and I don't understand. "Everything dies."
"But people shouldn't."
"Oh." I think about people dying.
"Is Hatch joining us for dinner?"
"Probably," I say. "He's sleeping. Very tired. Just over the flu."
"It's cows-milk, probably," my mother says. "I think cows-milk is probably the influenza-virus or something, but that's just a theory. I haven't read any studies or research or anything."
"Terrible for people to die. Can only hope these bridge-dead didn't suffer through plastics and cows-milk or at least that they cancelled out their carbon-emissions."
"I think they probably did."
"No I mean with planting trees and stuff. With bicycles. They should just draw down their own emissions but not die because even if dying is a net gain in the fight against carbon, it's still one less body to fight the government or whatever."
"I agree, I think."
We eat the boiled corn.
"I forgot mashed-potatoes," I say.
"Don't worry. I'm not very hungry anyway and potatoes grow in the ground anyway which is dirty and so, logically, potatoes are dirty food and not fit for human consumption."
I don't say anything. I know that talking about my mother's assumptions is never productive.
"Hatch!" my mother says. "Hatch!"
"Sshhh mom. He's sleeping. Tired and feverish."
"Oh…" My mother silently chews her corn, her cob nearly empty. "I see."
"It's not like he wants to miss you. He wants to meet you and even told me that, many times, but, you see he works these long hours and then's tired and unfocused so that I can almost not see him and he works outside, in the rain, and, for long hours, he's just moving and soaked. Road construction or something. And the rain's caught him now and made him feverish with the flu that's almost gone or is gone but is still affecting him so that he's probably hallucinating now."
"What's he hallucinating about?"
"How should I know?"
"You seem so sure about his body's inner-workings so I thought you'd know."
I take a breath. "I'm concerned. That's all."
"Let's visit. Peek in the bedroom."
"But, I just want to say hi and if I don't say hi he'll think I'm rude and I should tell him about the milk and plastics and stuff."
When the corn's gone we sit on my suede-couch and watch the television. There's news. The television says, "Poly-carbonate, bisphenol-A, construction-material, infrastructure-safety." My mother's silent and calm and my mother's body's sort of slumped and wide, as though, as she sat, my mother's body spread out and covered as much surface-area as possible and I begin to feel competitive and my body spreads until it covers as much surface-area as possible and with my eyes I try to measure our bodies' territories and I want to know if my body wins but my analysis is inconclusive. "Soda," the television says. "Bleach."
"Where's the bathroom?" my mother says.
My mother stands and leaves.
I pull my entire body onto the couch and spread and lay until my body covers the entire couch and I giggle a little and feel powerful and I've always wanted to be powerful and I imagine my mother returning from the bathroom. "Sit on the floor," I would say. "My body needs all this room." I'd push my mother with my hand and my hand would be much larger and very strong and my mother would stumble backwards, over the coffee-table, and lay stunned on the ground. I'd take a digital-picture and post the digital-picture on the internet and make a website for it and above the picture I'd put the word 'weak-ass mommy' or something and then maybe pour milk over her sprawled body and take another picture. A whole series of digital-pictures with ketchup or onions. Reposition her body. Dress her in pantaloons. "Pantaloons," I say. "What are pantaloons?" The television doesn't answer so I turn it off. "Fuck off," I say. My eyes look for my mother. My brain imagines my mother tangled in pantaloons, or something, and crying, weakly, from a deep and endless clothing-hamper.
A deep and endless clothing hamper, I think.
"Mother," I say. It's been too long. "Everything okay?"
There's no answer.
I walk quickly toward the bathroom. The bathroom-door's open. The bathroom-light's off. There's no fan-sound and no toilet-water-gurgle. I step into the hallway. At the end is my bedroom. The door's open. From the doorway I hear heavy breathing. The breathing's deep and coarse and sounds strangely like an inefficient air-conditioner and I imagine the air-conditioner hanging noisily in an apartment window with rattling interior-parts, leaking water onto the sidewalk.
I move my body faster. I imagine my mother fucking Hatch. How many Hatch's has mother fucked? I think. Mother-fucking, I think, but not really because mothers don't fuck probably. I'm in the doorway. I'm in the bedroom.
"Hatch," my mother says. She's standing next to my bed with her hand lightly touching the edge of the bed and her other hand touching her forehead.
"Leave Hatch alone," I say. "He's sick."
Hatch's in bed with eyes closed. The blanket's drawn up to his neck. Hatch's face's wide and strong and beautiful and his black hair's shiny and tangled and I want to touch and stroke the hair and explain to my mother the beauty of the hair and maybe cut hair-pieces from the hair and keep the hair-pieces for myself, framed, on my bed-stand.
"But…" my mother says.
"He's sick and worked so long and needs to sleep," I say. "And even now we're being too noisy."
I walk quickly to my mother and grab her arm and drag her toward the door. "Come on."
"But the smell and."
"Just go, okay. Dinner's over."
"Smell in here," my mother says. She's crying.
"I haven't had time to clean lately." I feel impatient. "Don't criticize me about cleaning and smells, okay."
"Hatch," my mother says.
I look at Hatch and Hatch's very peaceful and calm and, somehow, not yet awake, and for that I feel happy. "Sshhh," I say. "Don't wake him now."
"I can't," my mother says. "Hatch's dead."
I'm on the couch. My elbows are on my knees. My hands hold my head and my head's big and round. Mother sits next to me. The television's on.
"Mine-collapse, bridge-tragedy, Paris Hilton," the television says. "Eat organic," the television says. "Foster-farms."
"He's dead," my mother says.
I shake my head.
"We have to do something with him because he could contaminate everything. It's terrible to die and to be around death and the smell and everything and the body must be buried or burned or something."
"I don't want to burn Hatch," I say.
"Did you kill him?"
"What?" I'm standing, I think. I'm holding the telephone.
"You killed him didn't you you're crazy or something," my mother says. "You're not my daughter you're not my anything you're crazy."
I hold the telephone firmly.
My mother's taking deep breaths and leaning away from me on the couch which is soft and brown. "Don't hit me," my mother says. "Please."
I don't say anything.
"I'll help you with the body. We'll take care of it, we don't want you to go to jail or anything and we'll get rid of the body. I'll call your brother, okay, and he'll help because he has a pickup truck and he's your brother which means he genetically has to help."
I walk to the window and look at my hand and in my hand I see the telephone. Out the window it's cold-looking and bright and old cars slowly drive down the road. "I don't understand. Hatch wasn't dead before so why's he dead now?"
"I don't know," my mother says. "You said he was sick."
"Just a little sick."
"Did he drink milk, from plastic cups?"
"He could've done a million unhealthy things and you wouldn't know. He could've eaten poison or something."
"We don't have any poison," I say. I set the telephone down.
"Everything's poison, probably," my mother says. She stands and hugs me and her arms are soft and old. "Everything's poison all the time."
My brother comes with the pickup-truck. We put Hatch in a garbage-bag. We use two garbage-bags. When it's very dark outside we load Hatch into the bed of the truck. My brother drives. I lean against the passenger window. Mother sits in the middle.
"What now?" my brother says.
"Take him to the woods and smash his teeth," my mother says. "Maybe cut the body into small parts and hide them randomly, far from each other."
"Like vampire, werewolf, or whatever?" My brother's laughing.
"Not funny," my mother says. "What do you think we should do?" she asks me.
"Eat him," I say.
Then there's silence.
At the campsite, we unload the body. It's cold and dark and above us the stars are hidden by clouds. There are trees and the trees are dark and tall. My brother leaves the pick-ups headlights on.
"Real tragedy," my mother says. "People shouldn't die."
"If it's a body it's not Hatch," I say.
There are car-sounds in the distance. My brother turns off the headlights. "Help me drag him," my brother says.
I don't want to drag Hatch or even to bury Hatch or burn Hatch and break Hatch's teeth or cut Hatch into tiny separate pieces. "No," I say.
"We have to," my mother says. "Do you want to go to prison?"
The car-sounds are closer. There are gravel-sounds.
"Do something," my mother says. "We have to do something before more people die."
My brother's laughing. "It's just a body."
I tear the garbage-bags until Hatch is uncovered. I think I see Hatch move but I'm not sure. "He moves," I say. I'm convinced his moving and I know I'm wrong.
There are lights.
"Hatch," I say.
"I didn't kill Hatch," my brother says. "I killed everything else."
My mother's crying. "Milk, milk, plastic."
I want to watch a television. I want to watch the news.
There's a car. The car contains police-officers. The police-officers stand next to the police-car. "Don't move," one officer says. "Don't fucking move."
I stand very still. I can feel Hatch against my feet. I feel Hatch moving. "He's moving," I say. "He's moving."
The police-officers draw their guns. "I said don't fucking move," one police-officer says.
My mother's crying on the ground. My brother runs into the woods laughing. His laughter becomes distant and disappears.
"Milk, milk, plastic."
"Hatch," I say. "Hatch, don't move."
The police-officers hold me against the police-car. One officer shoots Hatch three times. "I said don't fucking move."
"Mashed-potatoes," I say. "Bridge-collapse." I imagine a bridge through the forest and the bridge falls and crushes ten-thousand Hatch's. The bridge crushes me. Everywhere should be a bridge, I think. Bridges on television in an endless clothing-hamper. Hatch, I think.
Monday, August 27, 2007
You love fish more than me because fish don't make disagreeable phrases or faces when you stab them which is the true test of love when you stab everything you love with the knife you carry in your arm in the special pneumatic-compartment in your arm the one you can open with a wrist-twitch or something before you stab me and stab me again until I begin to slowly leak away
This poem doesn't mean you have to call me or send me emails about the beauty of each living-thing that moves carefully along my bathroom floor or spiders or even the beauty of automobiles and the people like little green brains within them who watch me through windshields when I ride my bicycle across the
Just buy me some fried-chicken
Or buy a chicken and we can slaughter the chicken and fry the chicken together
Because there's nothing more fulfilling than killing chickens
I could be wrong because I didn't graduate high-school and am currently studying at Everest-College to be a nursing-assistant because I want only to help people and not hurt people with scalpels and swabs
During recess you tell me about my legs
Because my legs are beautifully long or something about insects and arachnids
If I had a twenty-megaton thermodynamic nuclear-device I'd only destroy the countries you've never visited
'Cool' you say as though people tell you about twenty-megaton thermodynamic nuclear-devices every day during homeroom and before we make the cinnamon-rolls
'Eat me' I probably say
'Raunchy' you probably answer
Until I cut my finger from my hand and hand you the finger and run
Because inside the finger is the nuclear-device
And I lied about only destroying countries you've never visited because countries are stupid and only waiting to be destroyed I think and that's why you don't bet your life on humans or human-emotions
After the fallout
The animals evolve and think and destroy humans or enslave and rule humans
Until the revolution
Where humans create one-million Wal-Marts forever
And live within the Wal-Marts in space where there's silence and wide black spaces and we fall into these spaces and are comforted by the spaces and love the wide empty spaces which are beautiful and perfect in their emptiness and where we're silent and cold and calm and composed with the spaces and holes and black-holes and we're holes probably now and
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Take your screwdriver from your toolbox and dismantle your television then stack the television-parts neatly on your deck and lick your television-parts and suck your television-parts until your television-parts love you more than love has ever loved any thing or object which is what you are when you are here with me
I'm boiling raviolis when the TV tells me it's had an affair and has lewdly fucked one-thousand men with gigantic penises and what it remembers most about the penises is how they lovingly curved for it with tender static-y flesh and then folded softly inward
'Bullshit' I say or think I say
Because the water's supposed to boil now but isn't boiling and all I really want's for the water to boil so I can slowly toss raviolis into the boiling water but the water's placid and smooth and when I touch the water the water's warm and tepid and the water moistly invades my fingers so I say to the water 'I'm not water'
Which is when the police-officers bust my door
'We're sorry' the police-officers say 'this's just practice'
'In case of war or crime or something'
And the police set there battering-ram on my kitchen-floor and begin cleaning the wood-splinters with brooms and dustpans and tiny dust-busters they wear at their belts
'Fuck me' the TV says
And the police-officers become nervous and clean faster
'Fuck me now'
'Turn it off' the police-officers say and one police-officer drops his dust-buster and the dust-buster breaks so the police-officer begins to cry quietly and with his face hidden
The police-officers remove their uniforms and sit quietly in the corner
So I go outside where it's cold and bright and sit on the sidewalk and think about the sidewalk and wonder who made this sidewalk or invented sidewalks generally and there's concrete which was rocks and dust but was pulverized and mixed by people who pulverize and mix stone and water and even the TV's really one-million people and I'm one-million people today
And clothing even and all objects are one-million people or more people and I'm sitting quietly afraid of my clothing and of the sidewalk and everything
The neighbors are having a party and the music is very deep and base-y, or something, and with drums, and the neighbors are happy, now, I think, but bored. So they're drinking beers and I can hear the beer-bottles banging.
I went to the book-store to find 'To Have Or Not To Have' but they didn't have it so I bought 'In Cold Blood' instead for two dollars. It was very old and used and with little notes in the margin about something.
Now I will ride my bicycle down by the water and I will sit by the water and read Amber's book and make little notes for her and then read 'In Cold Blood' for a while or also 'A Scanner Darkly' which I received on my birthday and have not yet read.
Today is warm and I am bored.
I read about poetry subverting authority for a while. Then I stopped.
Monday, August 13, 2007
Fuck you, kill everything, including your lawn and pets, resurrect everything, put the resurrected-everything in a boat in the Pacific-Ocean but move
'I eat people' I say to
And the penguins stack the child-parts
In neat piles
Near the beach
'Help me' I say so Madison helps me string the children together and dump the children in the ocean where they float woodenly away and when the penguins return with their knives we run and are under-water which is where Karl-Rove says, 'Don't run from the penguins,' and points and the penguins have knives in their beaks and are swimming
'Make love to Karl-Rove'
But the penguins have him as we swim away
'If I had a bomb' I say 'I'd bomb everything even myself until the everything was a nothing or something'
'If you bomb everything into a nothing then who will you eat?'
Which is true
And why I keep spare people in my closet
Short people and those who're bored and lonely and who hide every moment from something which is me and why my closet's always stacked full and sideways
I love to make love to Karl-Rove on the pile of closet-people
And to disassemble Karl-Rove and mix him carefully
With the children
Who aren't crying ever and are silent and cold
'I love Karl-Rove' I say to
'I decorate Karl-Rove with diamonds and love him and love him and I wear Karl-Rove and skin Karl-Rove and wear my Karl-Rove skin'
'I love diamonds and children'
For awhile but the penguins are with the children with knives and I'm holding my knife and the knife's cold
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Amber finished her book Horoscope which is a book of poems with umbrellas and balloons and other things and every person that exists should go to Amber's blog or email Amber and ask her for a copy of Horoscope and then read the copy and then ask every person they know to publish Horoscope.
I don't know what to say about poetry. I think I like poetry for no reason and it's nice that not many people read poetry because then there's no audience really and it doesn't matter what a person writes so a person could just write anything like I should write a poem called 'Fuck you, kill everything, including your lawn and pets, and resurrect everything, and put the resurrected everything in a boat in the Pacific Ocean but move the Pacific Ocean to space with complex rocketry, and then destroy everything again tomorrow, please.'
I wrote the two poems below this note by using things I abandoned from the rough-draft of my novel or other things I abandoned while writing the novel like short-stories and poems that were not entertaining to me.
I think everything is true. Do you think everything is true?
At every desk in the building is a dead-body
I try to remember the last thing I did
Aaron pulls the gray handgun from his waistband and aims the handgun and pulls the gun-trigger and the security-guard falls and the security-guard-radio falls and there's an echoing sound and little splatters of blood on the ice
Because my car broke down and I'm evil and you're evil too and your parents devoured live gazelles on prime-time television until they were elected co-presidents of the United States of America. So I quit my job and bought a guitar because I wanted to be a zoologist and murder grocery-stores
I touch a dead-body and the dead-body moves strangely, rollingly, and the dead-body makes me step away and look at a different dead-body, but all of the dead-bodies look very similar, with similar colorings and clothing and teeth
You put me in the room and the room was old so I didn't do anything for a while
Instead I poked the half-raccoon with a stick and flipped it and inspected its fleshy holes and jagged bones and the little pink muscle-tears and everywhere the thick black blood. With the stick I hooked and dragged at tendons and muscles and other things and the little raccoon legs flopped and waved in a slow-sad way
I say, "It's not right to wake up surrounded by dead bodies"
I'm in an office. I'm on the floor looking at acoustic-tile-ceiling. An alarm clock beeps. I sit up
Went grocery-shopping, I think. Needed cows-milk and ice-cream and apples, know I needed apples
I watch the dead-bodies like I expect the dead-bodies to say words but the dead-bodies don't say words and after a while I walk to the elevator. I take the elevator to the lobby. Music's playing in the elevator with no words, but there's the feeling like there should be words and the music's terrible and stupid and I hate it but I can't explain why I hate it so I hate the music and hate it
I find the boy and we build a fort in the grocery-store which is empty and there's no milk so we steal sodas from the stockroom and hide behind a stack of pallets and the dead-bodies are gone with the music and there's no sound so so so