I have a cousin.
He dropped out of school to follow the dead. The band. The hippies. The parking lots.
I heard he popped pills and did things that made his mother denied he slid out of her. His pictures gathered in her house. The one of the whole family hung on the staircase disappeared.
When Jerry Garcia died he came home and got a job.
He pounded nails and held large pieces of wood every day.
He tried to make cocaine a working man's drug.
Somethings the Midwest will never understand.
One day a close friend said some words to my cousin, not sure what they were as I wasn't there, but the words must have been greasy and flung with might, because he got punched in the face.
In the eye.
The bone that aids in the captures of tears collapsed.
His eye fell out.
Saturday, July 04, 2009
Thursday, July 02, 2009
The Chapbook Review must be fed with babies
The super spanking, hot off the draft end, issue of The Chapbook Review is live. My review of Jamie Iredell's 'Before I Moved to Nevada' is in this issue.
Other realms of awesomeness to rub all over your face in this issue are:
Nicolle Elizabeth chats with Shya Scanlon
J.A. Tyler reviews Tina May Hall's novella All the Day's Sad Stories
Andrew Borgstrom reviews Norman Fischer's Charlotte's Way
Christina Hall reviews Sarith Peou's Corpse Watching
John Dermot Woods reviews Mary Ruefle's comic Go Home and Go to Bed!
Matt Bell reviews Geoffry Forsyth's In the Land of the Free
Josh Maday reviews of Leonard Schwartz's Language as Responsibility
J.R. Angelella reviews Michael Kriesel's Moths Mail the House
J.A. Tyler reviews Thomas Cooper's Phantasmagoria
Andrew Borgstrom reviews a multi-writer project entitled Spider Vein Impasto
Buy more chapbooks. It makes Jesus and Abe Lincoln high five each other over an erupting volcano.
Other realms of awesomeness to rub all over your face in this issue are:
Nicolle Elizabeth chats with Shya Scanlon
J.A. Tyler reviews Tina May Hall's novella All the Day's Sad Stories
Andrew Borgstrom reviews Norman Fischer's Charlotte's Way
Christina Hall reviews Sarith Peou's Corpse Watching
John Dermot Woods reviews Mary Ruefle's comic Go Home and Go to Bed!
Matt Bell reviews Geoffry Forsyth's In the Land of the Free
Josh Maday reviews of Leonard Schwartz's Language as Responsibility
J.R. Angelella reviews Michael Kriesel's Moths Mail the House
J.A. Tyler reviews Thomas Cooper's Phantasmagoria
Andrew Borgstrom reviews a multi-writer project entitled Spider Vein Impasto
Buy more chapbooks. It makes Jesus and Abe Lincoln high five each other over an erupting volcano.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Books Should Come With Blow-Torches
I went to a concert and I brought a book. Yes, I bring books when I go to concerts. I wish I could tell you--type to you--that I do this only occasionally do at those big shows where there are fat ass lights swelling the room in between bands, but I do it at all shows, basement shows, smarmy punk shows, amp porn stoner shows. I've always got a book by my side.
I'm fine this.
Last night I saw Liam Finn play. Lots of loops and samples so he could play the guitar, sing, and drum. He fancies himself to be a robot I assume.
Before he played I read “Jello Horse” by Matthew Simmons. I have had this book nestled by my bed for some time now waiting for the best time to dig into it. I love Matthew Simmons' words; often times his stories feel like a bag full of fresh shark teeth, freshly yanked from shark’s mouth so the last kill still sits in the enamel. I enjoy getting the cuts.
In “Jello Horse” there is pinball. Last time I played pinball I was full of Saki, Rolling Rock, laughter, and Vodka. When I lost so did the pinball machine. My fist fucked the machine Eastwood style and it never worked right again. I also threw some potted plants on my way out of the bar that night.
Liam finished. I re-read my favorite pages in “Jello Horse” and read an MLP chapbook by Charles Lennox. I'd read a page then "I saw Eddie Vedder play in Vancouver” got slapped into the back of my head.
I read another page. "Greatness is taking the stage, everybody get fucking crazy!" The voice shouted to the ass part of my skull. His breath was halftime at a monster truck show.
This pattern continued until I finished the chapbook and began drinking more. The lights went out.
Eddie Vedder called three people in the crowd dicks. I endorse that.
I'm fine this.
Last night I saw Liam Finn play. Lots of loops and samples so he could play the guitar, sing, and drum. He fancies himself to be a robot I assume.
Before he played I read “Jello Horse” by Matthew Simmons. I have had this book nestled by my bed for some time now waiting for the best time to dig into it. I love Matthew Simmons' words; often times his stories feel like a bag full of fresh shark teeth, freshly yanked from shark’s mouth so the last kill still sits in the enamel. I enjoy getting the cuts.
In “Jello Horse” there is pinball. Last time I played pinball I was full of Saki, Rolling Rock, laughter, and Vodka. When I lost so did the pinball machine. My fist fucked the machine Eastwood style and it never worked right again. I also threw some potted plants on my way out of the bar that night.
Liam finished. I re-read my favorite pages in “Jello Horse” and read an MLP chapbook by Charles Lennox. I'd read a page then "I saw Eddie Vedder play in Vancouver” got slapped into the back of my head.
I read another page. "Greatness is taking the stage, everybody get fucking crazy!" The voice shouted to the ass part of my skull. His breath was halftime at a monster truck show.
This pattern continued until I finished the chapbook and began drinking more. The lights went out.
Eddie Vedder called three people in the crowd dicks. I endorse that.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
The Mind Speaks What We Shudder
This may be one of the greatest phone messages I have ever received. It's about a dream of what success will be for me.
Here is what you need to know:
My friend Johnny is the one speaking of the dream he had.
Jennifer is my partner.
According to Johnny lesbians might be a sign of success.
Zombies are god's way of saying, 'Where is you god now?'
Listen.
Here is what you need to know:
My friend Johnny is the one speaking of the dream he had.
Jennifer is my partner.
According to Johnny lesbians might be a sign of success.
Zombies are god's way of saying, 'Where is you god now?'
Listen.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
No Answer Is an Answer, My Dear
“Can I do a couple more shakes?” Her eyes were large and getting ready to tear up at this point, “It’s all I’m asking for. Please.”
She continued to plead, grabbing onto his pants. Tugging. Her eyes looked like the sun on a day in made love to a light comforting drizzle.
“I’d rather you not,” he said while avoiding eye contact. His mind was gone from the toy store. He was nothing more than an empty heart beating inside of a canister that was left beside her in the toy store.
“Fine,” he said begrudgingly as he flipped open his phone to check the time and his e-mails once again, just like he had done nearly every five minutes on their day out together. “Daddy, do you want to see what it says?” She asked, gazing up.
To her, her dad was a giant that stood above the trees. Her favorite moment of the day was when he came home. He always rushed through the door like it was the starting gate of horse race. His quick dash was for the finish line of his office. She was little, she knew this, and she even had an inkling that David never actually beat Goliath, that it was only possible to merely confuse someone so big, so that was what she did, everyday, at 5:45.
The starting gun would erupt into existence with the sound of a door opening. A resounding “Hey princess” would be hurled at her, but she knew to dodge it, to let it hit the wall by not even paying it a tribute with a smile. She bolted for his legs—grabbing, pulling, all in a hope to make his steps too heavy and too adorable to continue on his race. It was her challenge to change his path from that office to her. Maybe I can get him to play for a while was her skyscraper of a thought.
“Why don’t we just get you this magic eight ball,” her father said, “then you can ask it every question you ever had. At home.”
She just smiled and grabbed his hand as they walked to the register. Twenty minutes later they were home, in the living room, and he immediately began his living room dash for his office tucked away in the last room of the one floor house. She went for his legs latching onto them hoping to slow him down, to cause a minor distraction that would change his point of conquest to her. Sometimes this worked; it was her go-to move.
“Please hun, just give me a few minutes and then I’ll be out and we can play for a bit,” he said as he hoisted her up with his giant hands. He laid her down on the thick brunette carpet. “Why don’t you ask your genie ball a few questions for a while,” he said as he shut the door to his cave.
She said nothing but let herself fall slowly to the carpet, like a leaf in September that decides it wants to finally touch the ground. She just lay on the floor moving her magic eight ball around her as she looked at the door at the end of the hall; a small light crept and snuck out the bottom of the door. She could hear the clicks of his computer and the printer making the hunger pains for more paper.
Every time she looked at her magic eight ball it read, “ask again later”.
She continued to plead, grabbing onto his pants. Tugging. Her eyes looked like the sun on a day in made love to a light comforting drizzle.
“I’d rather you not,” he said while avoiding eye contact. His mind was gone from the toy store. He was nothing more than an empty heart beating inside of a canister that was left beside her in the toy store.
“Fine,” he said begrudgingly as he flipped open his phone to check the time and his e-mails once again, just like he had done nearly every five minutes on their day out together. “Daddy, do you want to see what it says?” She asked, gazing up.
To her, her dad was a giant that stood above the trees. Her favorite moment of the day was when he came home. He always rushed through the door like it was the starting gate of horse race. His quick dash was for the finish line of his office. She was little, she knew this, and she even had an inkling that David never actually beat Goliath, that it was only possible to merely confuse someone so big, so that was what she did, everyday, at 5:45.
The starting gun would erupt into existence with the sound of a door opening. A resounding “Hey princess” would be hurled at her, but she knew to dodge it, to let it hit the wall by not even paying it a tribute with a smile. She bolted for his legs—grabbing, pulling, all in a hope to make his steps too heavy and too adorable to continue on his race. It was her challenge to change his path from that office to her. Maybe I can get him to play for a while was her skyscraper of a thought.
“Why don’t we just get you this magic eight ball,” her father said, “then you can ask it every question you ever had. At home.”
She just smiled and grabbed his hand as they walked to the register. Twenty minutes later they were home, in the living room, and he immediately began his living room dash for his office tucked away in the last room of the one floor house. She went for his legs latching onto them hoping to slow him down, to cause a minor distraction that would change his point of conquest to her. Sometimes this worked; it was her go-to move.
“Please hun, just give me a few minutes and then I’ll be out and we can play for a bit,” he said as he hoisted her up with his giant hands. He laid her down on the thick brunette carpet. “Why don’t you ask your genie ball a few questions for a while,” he said as he shut the door to his cave.
She said nothing but let herself fall slowly to the carpet, like a leaf in September that decides it wants to finally touch the ground. She just lay on the floor moving her magic eight ball around her as she looked at the door at the end of the hall; a small light crept and snuck out the bottom of the door. She could hear the clicks of his computer and the printer making the hunger pains for more paper.
Every time she looked at her magic eight ball it read, “ask again later”.
Thursday, June 04, 2009
...we stand for thee.
I want to ghost write my own autobiography. The way I see it I can get paid twice if I do this and create a sweat pen name at the same time, big wins all around. This could be a part of my introduction to a book about me. Or something.
“There is something I’ve never told anyone,” Matt laughed slouching down in his chair as he spoke, “when I get high all I hear is the Canadian national anthem dancing, spreading itself on the walls of the insides of my head.”
I asked Matt if he thought there was a reason for this. He said there wasn’t, at least not a reason he can make any sense of. Matt’s legs began to tap faster and faster on the floor. Each foot held a different beat, a different rhythm. I asked Matt if he was high right then. He paused. His eyes moved like he was reading something. His feet stopped moving—the last foot tap echoed before it passed away—and he said, “With glowing hearts we see thee rise, the true north strong and free. From far and wide, O Canada.”
This was the first time I met Matt.
“There is something I’ve never told anyone,” Matt laughed slouching down in his chair as he spoke, “when I get high all I hear is the Canadian national anthem dancing, spreading itself on the walls of the insides of my head.”
I asked Matt if he thought there was a reason for this. He said there wasn’t, at least not a reason he can make any sense of. Matt’s legs began to tap faster and faster on the floor. Each foot held a different beat, a different rhythm. I asked Matt if he was high right then. He paused. His eyes moved like he was reading something. His feet stopped moving—the last foot tap echoed before it passed away—and he said, “With glowing hearts we see thee rise, the true north strong and free. From far and wide, O Canada.”
This was the first time I met Matt.
Tuesday, June 02, 2009
No one will cash this.
Nick Cave grabs people. His clammy hands fit around throbbing necks like a prophet predestined them to be there, tightening, gaining flex, might crushing air and blood.
Now I assume Nick Cave's hands are clammy as whenever I see professional pictures, or imaginary ones that fall into my skull, he is clothed in the cold and wrapped in wetness while his laugh is like ashes falling into a new born's eyes. Nick Cave has never been to beach; he's never even seen a picture of one.
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