You're Helping Me

St. Valentine's Recital

2010-02-14T22:10:00.000-08:00

I want to write five poems
and assemble an audience
and recite each one slowly
Before each poem I will say
"This is about the only time
I've been in love"
And each time it will be true.
That is what you feel.

I crushed a bug on my wall with a book
Her insides flipped out,
Antennae bent wildly,
green, oozing. And,
i think I could see her heart.
I appreciated her honesty.
It was a beautiful expression of love.

2010-01-03T06:29:00.000-08:00

You're sad and you don't even know it.
You're an illiterate typist, a blind glassblower.
You're the spoke that catches the hamster.
You're a metaphor constantly using wheels.

I have to write words like this
in order to feel like someone else.
It used to be that I'd just change
my hair or my clothes and that would be all.

I'm too old for that bullshit now.
I'm too old to not recognize how awful I am.

I judge people. I'm not that funny.
People think I treat women terribly.
I finally made all of those enemies I earned
because I opened my fucking mouth too much.

It's too fucking early sonnet

2010-01-03T06:25:00.001-08:00

I've been in love three times already
Each time felt like dancing in a fire
with the girl holding a bucket of water
over her head, and laughing, and doing nothing.

Two of them got married.
One two months after I graduated high school.
The other one is having a baby with her husband.

I'm twenty-one years old.
I shouldn't have to deal with shit like that yet.
And my family is starting to fall apart too.

The third one won't return my calls.
She hates me, all of me, through and through.
I think I'm still in love with her.
Now, I'm with someone else. It's alright.

Bigmouth

2010-01-02T14:22:00.000-08:00

Today I think my brain is in my back,
nestled in muscle, cradled by the bone,
sending messages from my blind-side:
be more flexible, worry less, do more
push-ups, just don't think, don't.

I cleaned my bathroom to clear my head
and I sprayed cleaning product in my eyes
on accident. It burned like things
I've never felt, because I avoid burning.

There are dreams I have sometimes
Where I'm yelling at some guy,
trying to pick a fight, and he's bigger than me.

And I don't talk my way out of this one,
and I wake up, scared, before the first punch.

Controlled Sonnet

2009-12-31T11:54:00.000-08:00

I wrote series of facts and information
in numerically based grids to satisfy
a psychological urge only to realize
that things are often squares, and so am I,
and I create nothing but squares, squares
in my home and where my parents live.
I was raised on the square! I thrive
on the glowing rectangular frontier!
But the planet is a sphere. Gravity
rained knives on each side of my square,
collapsing the edges, ripping, tearing
it into nameless, shapeless entities

and then into a circle, the perfect thing.
I need to know God, madness, everything.

Time Capsule 2626

2009-12-17T13:39:00.001-08:00

In those days God was a heap of blank
cassette tapes and twisted rabbit ears.
The people had more knowledge than sense,
and commercials could incite riots.
I guess things aren't any better now.
Our cars still have tires,
and jetpacks were outlawed a century ago.

Now, everyone knows that Elvis was real,

and that Microsoft was a myth,

and none of us want our meal
to come in a pill or powder.

We quit war, but that took the fun
out of football and professional wrestling,
and we grabbed our guns and invaded Mexico.
Religion finally gave up, then it massacred nations,
then gave up again. We made it illegal
Then again, cigarettes are illegal too,
but they're not going to smoke themselves,
though we have robots that can do that for us.
But, in those days, robots danced endlessly
in front of monster-truck dealerships.
The language was a series of clicks
bouncing off monstrous satellites in space.

Flawless Victory

2009-12-04T09:13:00.000-08:00

So there was this writing gala at Ball State University, and the first three places won some nice books.

So I read some stuff. So did Jeremy Bauer and Shaun Gannon.

I won these books:

Jeremy and Shaun won some books too. Here's the stuff that I read:

The Challenge

BEER. WINE. FOOD. Three words in fifty-six point Helvetica on the window of a bar that hangs on the corner of unremarkable downtown streets, flashing a neon red OPEN from three to three most of the week. Tonight, a Tuesday, begins after three hours of a fast-food job and an endless five minutes attempting to knock some sense into a group of English undergraduates. I’m three beers to one over Annie, my hands gesturing in schizophrenic waves, ranting about a Buddhism-drenched poem that, artistically, is surely equal to Blonde on Blonde and far better than everything after the Joshua Tree.

My antics start a fire in my belly making the alcohol crawl up my spine, and there’s a college football game on the television above the fake fireplace, and Annie manages to make sense of all this for five minutes while I talk myself crazy and she’s on just that one beer. She’s got resolve, and I’m not exactly sure what that means but I have a notion, and Annie gets my notions. And a great smile. But not too often – it must be earned. That’s nice. Because I don’t have resolve. I need the challenge to prove to myself that I am myself and that proves I am: challenging.

Crowd noise flares up from the television. Tulane is playing a team in awful maroon jerseys. Annie’s wearing a yellow hat and sweatshirt under a leather jacket adorned with what could be entirely fake zippers, that is to say real zippers without pockets. It’s the kind of fashion statement that might say “I can carry a lot of shit in my giant purse” or “I want to annoy you by pretending to be a DJ, aren’t I hilarious?” She glances into her beer and then at the television during the few moments I’m not exasperating. I breathe, and keep going:

“Listen, Annie, I know you haven’t read it but I wish you could, you’d see how the poem gets hectic as you creep down the page, how the couplets collapse on each other like punctured lungs, the whole time making noise on the page by colliding consonants over and over again like linebackers. I mean, I resent anyone who does not like this poem. I would be horrified to learn that someone who hates this poem holds any major public office. Revolution will come and those who do not love this poem will grease the wheels of poetic justice with their blood.”

Annie and I take our longest gulps of the night. Tulane is down by three points.

“Sounds like a pretty fuckin’ cool poem”
-and I almost do a spit take down Annie’s leather jacket
“Yeah Annie, it’s pretty fuckin’ cool poem.”
The bartender swoops and grabs our empty mugs with her thumb and middle finger. “You want another beer, Ryan?" she asks.

Now, I’ve been asked this question three times tonight and at least three hundred times since this bar opened only four months ago. My answer is always casual, predictable, full of appreciation and always accompanied by a modest tip that reflects my current socio-economic status and total lack of fiscal responsibility. I look at Annie.

“Do you want another beer?”
She nods. “No. You can have one if you want.”
It takes seven to ten seconds for me to make a decision. Annie and the bartender wait in fantastic anticipation.
“I’ll just close out my tab, Miles”

I end my Tuesday night on 36 ounces of beer and five mozzarella sticks. Six dollars. Two-dollar tip. Tulane kicks a field-goal from forty yards out but wind knocks it wide left. The ugly maroon bastards win. Can’t win ‘em all, Tulane. I never could play football. Too small, too smart to get tackled endlessly for no reason. I wave goodbye to Jesse, the heavily tattooed cook and nod to guy who’s name I’m pretty sure is Bill and walk with Annie out the door.

“Annie?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know where Tulane is?”
She pauses, grinning “I have no clue. Alabama?”
“Probably.”

My right hand finds the small of her back and she presses her face against my shoulder to shield herself from the cold, bending her knees slightly to come down to my level.

Internet: Porn

2009-11-22T20:13:00.000-08:00

There's no way to avoid it,
and that what makes it so impressive.
I think of how, as a toddler,
I would scrape my knees, flailing
with other brats inside polyurethane tubes
covered in yellow,
blue, and lime-green
lead-based paints

It's that kind of recklessness
that powers this naked machine,
an endless series of tubes.

And I learned from this.
Not just how to crawl
on my hands and knees,
but to elbow my way up
just to slide for the exit after
wading through a ball-pit. And now,
I can type the word "polyurethane"
with my left hand
and masturbate with my right,
simultaneously, with gusto.

You're Helping Me

2009-11-11T09:40:00.000-08:00

For every dollar you spend,
I grow a finger

For every cough you suppress,
my mother sends a keychain

For every puddle you jump,
Jeremy gives me a cigarette

For every cigarette you lend,
you give it to me

For all of your cancer,
my lungs turn to crystal

For every hospital you've bombed,
I sleep easier at night

For every doctor you've punched,
my body fights off infection

For all of your fears,
I trade my fears.

When you are dying,
I am still dying.

Internet vs. Television: The showdown

2009-10-14T12:55:00.000-07:00

Ten rounds in,
the referee has been impaled.

Half the audience is dead.
The other half is deaf.

Television throws a right hook
of evangelism. Internet counters

with a photo of a kitten wearing
a watermelon. The audience
screams and screams about
this media-fuled massacre.

Television goes below the belt
with Elvis Presley's legs,
Internet strikes back with
fourteen lesbians in a monster truck.
Right hook, haymaker, uppercut
pornography, illiteracy, Coldplay.

The fight lasts fifteen rounds,
unanimously decided by both fighters
to be a draw. They are both champions.

The deaf half hears none of this.
The other half hears none of this.

"I am the head, and she the heart"

2009-10-13T11:56:00.000-07:00

O Lord, it was difficult
to be blessed with sight
while my wife beat
below our ribcage children

Toilet Poetry

2009-10-10T16:26:00.001-07:00

I want to use an analogy about how taking a shit
feels like other things do. Here's a list:
good break-ups, fruit roll-ups, toilet paper
music, fucking, drugs, computers, words.
It's hard not to laugh though because
it's funny and it feels rewarding. Flush

Moderation

2009-10-01T16:37:00.000-07:00

Six-hundred pounds and maybe eleven feet between them,
the couple holds plastic sacks from the grocer downtown.
I've been strutting the sidewalk, moving fast, trying
to kill time. And there they are, bouncing from right foot
to left, shifting the mass of their hips, those spare tires
made only for a semi-truck on a long, long road.

The plastic strips for handles must be digging
into the potato-dense fingers of the husband while
the wife carries only two, both on her right hand.
The walk continues for blocks, the struggle
protruding a foot from their bellies, those bellies!
I look down at my feet and jump a dying puddle

while the wife's trapeze act shadows her husband.
We are directly across from each other, a sign
framing the horizontal space between us.
They pause at the curb where water laps
upward towards the sidewalk. He steps,
into the refuse, dampening his sweatpants

and reaches a busy hand, motioning her across.
She steps far enough to make a small splash
with the heel of her flip-flop. Down the street
their see-saw bodies wave goodbye.
I walk a straight line to Savages, counting
the calories I saved watching them dance.

Consumer

2009-10-01T11:41:00.001-07:00

He had been stacking dominoes for hours. For two hours he sat in his only chair and arranged black plastic rectangles in a circle, a pattern spiraling into itself. The lightbulb swung overhead. When he flicked a switch it would turn on. When he pressed the bulb it would sway. He cast a shadow on the sink and oven. He cast a shadow on the refrigerator. Inside the refrigerator was milk and cheese and juice and condiments. The dominoes did not move. He grabbed milk and a glass. The milk was full of lumps and chunks of milk. It was old milk. This made sense. He poured the glass and drank it. The lumps grazed over his teeth and under his tongue. The smell was worse. The cheese was green on the edges, soft and pliable in the center. He bit into the cheese and swallowed. The gap between his front teeth filled. The dominoes did not move. He poured orange juice into the same glass. The orange juice was fresh. He poured mustard and mayonnaise and relish into the glass and drank that too. These flavors were not complimentary. His stomach flared and gasped. It tried to make sense of its contents, and failed. He threw away the milk and cheese and condiments. The orange juice was still fresh. He vomited. The light reflected off the regurgitated rotten contents. He was on his knees when his elbow bumped the table. The dominoes began to fall. They came to lay flat in a circle, a pattern spiraling into itself. He stood up and saw the dominoes. The pattern was simple. He cleaned up the vomit. When he pressed a switch the light turned off. The bulb did not move.

Nothing has to change

2009-09-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

I yawn at the world
and shove a sword
into my stomach

via my gaping mouth.
The sword moves south.
I am still bored,

I am yawning
at all this beauty
and sex and cable television.

I'll take a nap
hoping to wake up
and feel better,

finding out everyone is dead
and I am dead, and nothing
has to change.

Oh, the sword.
It's a metaphor.
If I could swallow swords,
I wouldn't be writing poetry.
That's for goddamn sure.

INTERNET: Gag Reel

2009-09-21T09:39:00.000-07:00

INTERNET has special features.

On the special features is a gag reel.

The gag reel is full of laughter.

The laughter is full of laughter.

Laughter is self-sustaining.

Laughter begets laughter.

The gag reel is forever.

Forever is self-sustaining.

INTERNET is forever.

Everyone is laughing,

nobody knows why.

It feels good. INTERNET sends you this feeling

via e-mail, and g-mail, and mail-mail

and INTERNET pays for the postage.

Cue laughter.

Birth

2009-09-15T22:32:00.001-07:00

Gave birth to harlequin baby
who's insides are its outsides
at this point I think it's crazy
to think God isn't taking sides

How to Build The Internet

2009-09-13T15:15:00.000-07:00

Massive deforestation

paper-mache

discarded lite-brites

two boomboxes

two Stephen Hawkings and a Bill Gates

black hole sun

hundreds of aquaintance-level relationships

all of your ex-lovers

The Indianapolis Colts

eight-track tape of "Jungle Boogie" by Kool and the Gang

Kool

The Gang

mouse (right click)

mouse (alive)

instruction booklets from Ikea furniture

boobies

dicks

64 count Crayola (for texture)

staples

abacus

safety scissors

bombs

Nintendos (a ton of 'em)

The Internet

The Internet

The Internet (for texture)

The Internet

A Conversation With the Internet

2009-09-09T09:13:00.000-07:00

R: What the fuck happened?! Where am I?

I: YOU'VE GOT MAIL

R: Christ!

I: CLICK HERE

(clicks)

R: That did nothing! Is this cartoon porn?

I: CHOCOLATE RAIN

R: (disgusted) I see that.

I: SHAUN GANNON HAS COMMENTED ON YOUR STATUS

R: lol.

I: DAN BAILEY HAS CHANGED HIS INTERESTS TO "BOMBFUCKING"

R: lmfao

I: YOU'VE WON A FREE iPOD

R: I'm not falling for that shit.

I: COME ON

R: Are you a sentient being?

I:....

R: I'm going to blow up my computer

I: YOU'VE GOT MAIL

A Very Special Episode of INTERNET

2009-09-07T15:27:00.000-07:00

The Internet becomes so famous it gets a television show called INTERNET. The show is popular with all demographics and defeats racism. Parents bond with their children when they watch INTERNET. The characters are relatable and share your interests and favorite films. The setting is vast, but comfortable. INTERNET is on right after dinner. INTERNET is sponsored by erection pills and alcohol. No one seems to notice the correlation. The show has a website and everyone is in on the joke. On this episode of INTERNET, your daughter is addicted to the internet. INTERNET confronts difficult issues with panache. Your daughter spends all her time networking and blogging and absorbing image-laden texts. Her grades are skyrocketing from this wealth of information. She is deemed a celebrity on all social networking websites. Her candicacy for president of the Internet is a popular rumor. She's a fourteen year old mastermind of code and presentation. You are beaming with pride at your creation. Co-workers grow tired of your stories about her; INTERNET kills them off later in the season. No character lasts long. Twist endings are effective to end INTERNET. Turns out your daughter is a forty-six old postal worker.

Fear of an Internet Planet

2009-09-07T11:06:00.000-07:00

I overcame my fear of the Internet.
My pride swelled to the sound of clicks and whistles.
And then I searched 'clicks and whistles', and discovered
that computers beep and boop, more or less.
Then I learned things from the internet.
I learned how to build the Internet
I discovered infinity plus one.
I found out my sister is having a boy,
and he will be named after the Internet.
All of these things are true, and you
can read about them on the Internet.
Next I ravaged the Internet for sex,
and discovered none worth having.
I assume this is why pornography exists,
although there are infinity plus one reasons
to pretend that sex isn't hilarious.
I bought a computer off the Internet,
and the Internet thinks I'm very clever.
The Internet indulges my vanity.
It is a room full of mirrors.
It is a grocery store full of naked people.
No one is embarrassed to buy bananas
in the virtual reflective sex-market.
If the Internet didn't exist,
it would be necessary to invent it.

bonesetter

2009-09-06T14:35:00.000-07:00

This is no trick of photography.
I've been so busy I'm blurry.
That's Jeremy Bauer right there.
He's playing a handsaw with a bow.
Yes, it's as cool as it sounds.
Click here to hear the band we are in.
Anyway, back to how blurrily busy I've been.
Too busy to write
Too busy to fill out paperwork.
Too busy to be rich.
Too busy to smoke cigarettes,
but much busier to quit.
Too busy to freestyle rap.
Too busy to stretch my hamstrings.
Too busy for sobriety.
Too busy to read good books.
Too busy to have emotions
except anxiety and restlessness.

Paranoia

2009-08-30T13:30:00.000-07:00

I watched North by Northwest.
Hungover this morning.
I'm going to eat a cookie.
Everyone is looking at me.
No one has anything to say.
It's all in your head.
My head feels like a bowling ball.

Restraint

2009-08-27T22:57:00.000-07:00

Showing your teeth is a sign of weakness
in the animal kingdom. A woman
bites her lower lip; Every time I fall
for one I kick myself in the ass.

Raps

2009-08-27T22:51:00.000-07:00

I'm murderous, unheard of it
I put it in her uterus
Now she's gonna have my baby
Never fuck with fuckin' crazy

Geography

2009-08-19T22:15:00.000-07:00

I'll ask more questions and answer fewer.
I'll set myself aside in a corner

(Perhaps Florida, Probably Oregon).
There I'll weave a new history

that stands up against any scrutiny.
Against the gaze of bitter old friends

or the sheer miles that lay between them.

The Internet

2009-08-18T17:23:00.001-07:00

The Internet is foreign like a BP clerk with a shifty gaze signing "Don't Stop Believin'".
The Internet does not know that the BP in Muncie is owned by (possibly) Persian businessman.
The Internet screams for racism.
The Internet needs a weatherman, a weather balloon, and a wet thumb to know which way the wind blows.
The Internet alliterates.
The Internet does not give a shit about anyone while simultaneously providing all the shit we care about. The Internet finds this hilarious. I do not.
The Internet twitters all the time. I only twitter on crystal meth.
The Internet makes me feel old and I am only twenty-one, someone buy me a drink.
The Internet is responsible for twenty-five percent of my sexual encounters.
The Internet has a website behind your forehead.
The Internet LMFAO
The Internet is the opposite of Bob Dylan
The Internet is not alive except NOW NOW NOW NOW
The Internet has never offered me a handshake. Get to it.
The Internet cannot read.
The Internet 56k modem bzzzzzz
The Internet has a motherboard and no fatherboard. The Internet is a bastard. Long live the Internet.
The Internet is only twenty-one years old.

Hello

2009-07-02T15:27:00.000-07:00

Writing is hard and dumb
and sometimes I hate it
so I took a vacation
from the punctuation

Again

2009-05-23T18:34:00.000-07:00

Why not this blog more?

Why not the last three slices?

Why not muncie? why lafayette?

why so excited to see some, and not others?

why not another drink?

why bars? why not!

why?

please?

* * * * * * *

here is a poem about bridges. it's called "the trouble with bridges":

there are bridges everywhere

gaps have to be breached

rivers must be crossed

point a to b

san francisco to brooklyn

we're going places, america!

and bridges are, well,

the bridges to the future

the metaphor is solid

the metaphor is sturdy, like oak.

but there are bridges that sway

in the wind. iron ropes stretched

from trees. the river flows beneath.

why jump the creek

when a plywood slab

rests its ends on both sides?

strut across, live the dream!

bridge the gap, or gap the bridge!

when you get to wherever it is you're going

the future has happened,

and you are in it.

turn around. see where you've been.

there it is! there it was!

and now it's done. the creek

has already forgotten.

Grace Kelly

2009-03-26T12:40:00.001-07:00

I know I’ve seen her before, dancing

maybe, or clutching a graying

Clark Gable, the tidal wave of her

blondeness fluttering into his mouth

But this is the first time I’ll remember her

and her lips, half open, like she’s been

holding her breath since 1954, the date

on the photograph. How could I

forget her profile jutting into her

reflection, as if it were whispering

“the only thing that can cut

a diamond is another diamond”, or

her loose curls swallowing the edge

of those immaculate eyebrows? I wonder

if the photographer thought the same

when he snapped off three quick shots,

The first click caught her eyes half open

and mouth closed, the second catching stray

wisps of hair as she turned to face him, and

the third photo taken just prior to Grace

sweetly telling him to get her good side, which, I suppose

is all her sides, save the bottom of her feet which

may have been bruised by ridiculous footwear.

It only took three clicks, but he took more anyways.

The Maid

2009-03-09T12:10:00.000-07:00

She moves

her hand

from right to

left to

clean

a mirror

that shows

the hand

she moves.

Spring is Broken!

2009-03-08T23:04:00.000-07:00

So I've been watching Breaking Bad. Essentially, it shows Bryan Cranston as a chemistry teacher getting cancer and, reasonably, selling crystal meth to pay the bills. Cool show.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Distracted Sonnet

I've been having these weird daydreams: I'm like

a villian in a suit-and-tie

or a pro-basketball point guard who likes

the paint. I could be driving smoothly by

a burning church, thinking only about

the inevitable threesome between

myself, my ex, and Avril Lavigne.

Hearing the screams and the fiery shouts

of the hopelessly talented orphans

burning alive with a crucifix of

a six-second abs Jesus Christ above,

I am a hero all of a sudden,

kicking down flaming doors in slow-motion.

I drink and I have a lot of free time.

How to Give Great High Fives

2009-02-20T21:13:00.000-08:00

The trick? Look through
the elbows
inside, where muscles
are, the place amino acids
dissolve, how reflexes
happen, verbs of action
or something like sleeping.

Two children stare
at each other with their
eyes and their mouths
are showing rows of
connected white lights.

Not moving eyes or lids,
it happens, the clean
noise, a tree cracking,
or axes landing straight blows.
This was
a success
Although it usually ends
like a rubber chicken clapping
when their palms fail
to meet and then, strike

It moves without us

2009-02-13T14:24:00.000-08:00

"Don't write about man, write about a man."

-E.B. White

They build, we build
out of straw, stone, and soon
plastic and space metals.
They thrive, we live on
the backs of women, then
of slaves, and now for
wage slavery. They fight,
we war for meager crops
and hollowed-out, crusted
loaves of hard bread. Still,
their pain is our pain, the
opposition, the others,
those with better grass
and short brick fences, those
with rifles and we with arrows
or knives, those with clean
water or those in drought,
the sun burning their faces
lined with years of squinting,
staring into the distance.

The fields are level, but saying this
to a man born on a mountain
and one born in those fields, well...

Can anyone say the man from
the lowlands can't feel the
earth beneath his bare feet, and
know that it moves without him?

White People!

2009-02-09T10:38:00.000-08:00

Sometimes they shove
their elbows into each other’s
soft, trendy kidneys and bend
their knees in pointless, unnatural
ways. This is called dancing,
a constitutionally protected
form of ‘acting out’. This happens
on nights when the moon casts
identity aside and embraces the
orange of the sleeping sun.
Sometimes they can see
themselves-- in the bottom backwash
of cheap painted tin cans, or when
bouncing past clean store windows.
Willfully abusing their insides for the sake
of tradition, white people will
always die, and when they do
their remains are secured in a
plain ceramic tomb, always
to be turned on its side and
rapped on the base, forcing
the fog of ash to catch a
flurry of cool wind, lowering
them to the waves crashing into
crooked coasts of crystal sand.

Castrato

2009-01-28T15:07:00.001-08:00

Clipped roses float from the crowd and drop at his feet.

The ladies in velvet seats are weeping,
a lump between each lung from
a glass shattering high B-flat that
reaches them like a butcher would
claw for a sharpened blade.

He remembers the milk-bath; his mother's breath,
the last woman to clutch the nape of his neck;
blood bubbles from the empty wound
curdling in orange at his throat.

One thousand hands
collide and separate; applause.
A thousand crying eyes, in pairs.

Things I Will Never Get to Say to Kurt Russell

2009-01-22T01:03:00.000-08:00

There's a way your hair falls on the back of your head, a way that fits the narrow space between too redneck and non enough rock&roll. It's the kind of haircut a man would find at the best point in his life; the kind of style that always seems to be positively reflected. An experienced actor such as yourself has surely seen the films of Ingmar Bergman. You haven't? Neither have I. There's something about storytelling for the sake of itself. Protesters will weave together in the streets just to brush picket signs against each other and yell in a glorious way that only large crowds can produce. These crowds are screaming for people like you and me, Mr. Russell. And we will shoot tear-gas from comically sized cannons and shout cowboy words into the air, the waves of angry young folks will dissolve and grow families to cope with a lack of passion. The hoopin' and hollerin' will be slowly silenced; We will laugh to crush our egos so we can fit in. But with a haircut like that, I could never compete.

Going Through The Proper Channels

2009-01-20T22:46:00.000-08:00

"I thought about starting a blog, but I know I could never honest with something that so many people were seeing at once"

J. Haney

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The proper channels:

Channel seven will show death from enough perspectives that everyone who watches it will find something to relate to. And then they, also, will die.

Channel four will be reserved for my ex-girlfriends. Women will love this show. Men will not understand. I will watch it on Sunday's clean my dirty laundry.

Channel twenty-four will be neverending blackness. This represents all of television. No one will get it. That represents everyone except the self.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

The thing I hate most about television is that it entirely dictates decorating procedures, forcing everyone in their room to have their backs facing the same wall that reflects the blue-white glow of the black box in front of them.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

I love my friends.

Seven Things I Didn't Know When This Picture Was Taken

2009-01-19T22:40:00.000-08:00

1. Putting acoustic guitars in photographs do not add any artistic credibility
2. Barack Obama will win?! No fucking way!
3. I am slowly falling into patters of abuse
4. There's better sex out there, just waiting for you to find it.
5. Somebody will really hate me, and yes, it will be my fault.
6. Women are not right 100% of the time; it hovers in the mid-eighties.
7. I will be seventeen years old for a very long time.

2009-01-17T02:25:00.000-08:00

This is what we did, yeah. Sean is on the left, Kelson is holding the damn thing. It was not an everyday thing. You can tell by their faces that, yeah, this is pretty fucking cool.

This is just good advice, really. Pretty girls will sometime draw pictures of you that are great, and you will think the craziest thoughts about them. LoL.

Living together, young people will destroy each other.

2009-01-17T02:04:00.000-08:00

There are creases in my bed that I have created with my body. They will form shapes like my body would seem without skin and gravity. The world will not carve me from onyx, it will wear me like granite. My body is not a rock, it is many smaller rocks that were forced together by natural causes. Earthquakes, tornadoes that prey on the illiterate, mudslides that are worse than the name suggests, whirlpools, half-assed rainbows in the spring. All of them are happening in extremely small doses to my nervous system. Is it obvious that I am thinking? That is why we are here: I am thinking too much. My mind is an army, and it loses more of itself by noon than most people lose in an entire day. We don't have a shot at making this work. My eyes are rolling beneath closed lids. Too much sensitivity to light can't be normal or good. The sun is near my body right now, as close as it will ever come. It pushes my shoulders down. It's hard to keep going. But, I will. I'm sorry. This is over.

This is not love and that's okay

2009-01-16T15:34:00.000-08:00

The white haired dog
was snatched by the throat
for yelping at bigger dogs. This
dog was too much of a dog
to take any more of that shit.
The puppy corpse belonged
to me, a child. The dog of dogs
set it at my feet, paws moving
like a blade of grass above
barely breathing lips, which is
not enough movement to keep
any kind of hope for resucitation.
I never tried to replace it with
another little white dog, I didn't
do anything about it except
watch it happen, and then walk
inside for a glass of water. Such
is the nature of dogs, or so I figured.
The water was soothing, I was
thankful for such a warm day.

Existence

2009-01-06T10:30:00.000-08:00

It's a pretty great thing, especially if
you're a book that I've written

birdhouse has ten poems and is
wonderfully put together thanks
to the help of my new-ish friend
Johanna Ofner. She's great! And
the book isn't half-bad. I've read
it cover to cover at least twice.

You should really consider buying
a copy at a poetry reading that
takes place tomorrow evening,
Wednesday, January 7th.
Place: MoTini's (Muncie)
Time: 9:15

It's only two dollars!! Wow!!

I hope there is something more than personality or we're fucked

2008-12-27T20:18:00.000-08:00

I am not sure why I included everyone in the title. Sorry, everyone.

Are we all in this together?

Good.

* * * * * * * *

I remember a particular viewpoint I had
when I was a child. I would talk about my
newly formed opinions on world issues
with my father. Muhammad Ali, a man
who will always be known as a beautiful
destroyer of men, was on my mind. "He
deserved to have his right to fight taken
away from him. He was a draft dodger."

My father would nod in what I thought
to be agreement. I saw it this way because
he was a Marine. But, you know the old
saying: "Once a Marine, Always A Marine"
And when I had these flashes of judgment,
which I interpreted to be moments of
premature wisdom and brilliance, I
must have seemed like a terrible
little prick wrapped up in a Midwest
upbringing he would grow to resent.
And I was, although the resentment has
faded into something less extreme, which
brings on it's own kind of guilt.

I'm fairly self-assured that I've grown
past this. Hating on Cassius Clay or
any other human being with the ability
to know the difference between fighting
and dying is not something I'd like to
be remembered for doing, although
I assume I am the only one who
recollects the father/son opinion swap
in the first place. And I learned at least
one thing that I am aware of): Having
nothing to fight against but your own
mistakes makes it much easier to say
there is nothing wrong with taking away
anyone's right to fight.

Life is boring, friends

2008-12-21T15:54:00.000-08:00

I say this without thinking, because
upon waking this morning to an
alarm clock trapped in my roommates
locked bedroom that was below mine,
I issued a warning and then kicked
the door down. My footprint is on
the door; when August comes and I
move out I will be able to say
"My footprint has remained to this day"
And that day will be July 31st.

It took me five kicks to break the
deadbolt lock. I told my neighbor
about it and then complained to her
for hours about how life is either
hard or exceptionally dull. I wish
it had taken me one-thousand kicks
to bust that door in, and I could start
every day of my life from now on
doing it all over again.

Sherlock Holmes and the Peer Evaluation

2008-12-15T19:43:00.001-08:00

Written from a peer's perspective, evaluating me with scrutiny:

"All the enjambent is distracting! It's such a cool idea and images. You just throw in too many poetry devices to prove your point"

Indeed. I am using far too many poetic devices in my poetry.

No shit, sherlock.

One Night Only

2008-12-15T19:34:00.000-08:00

Tonight I am isolating myself from the world.
I will gather my poems together to create
a portfolio for Mark Neely's poetry class.
It will also contain simultaneously-at-once-and-together
at least half of the poems that will be included
in 'birdhouse', my first chapbook that will
hopefully exist in January. And I hope that
it exists so hard and so fast, and that it doesn't
become an old idea in my brain and move to
the nursery home brain-stem area, where
old ideas go to become nothing but themselves
falling short of everything they have ever done.

Self-Portrait at 20

2008-12-11T10:46:00.001-08:00

I made them right and just; though free to fall
And choices made are choices to be kept
Though guilt and shame (or wine) were to follow,
I did not tremble; neither laughed or wept.
When out one day I glanced a broken mirror
My own eyes split up among the pieces,
I thought that it was only seven years;
A risk to take to see my many faces.
And one was sad and another, solemn
the rest were scattered, shattered between;
The reflections took hold; somewhere along
I stretched myself white, too thin to be seen

And in the time it took to notice this,
a choice, a moment, went; one that I missed

rap lyrics, riggity-rap music, funky shit

2008-12-07T17:50:00.000-08:00

I am forcing myself to be in my room alone because I sort of hate it. Only in the mornings do I appreciate any kind of solitude. Once I introduce people into my daily diet my raging metabolism enthusiasm for intrapersonal interaction doesn't cease until I sleep.

* * * * * * * * * *

Okay I lost interest in this for a while but I think it's coming back.
* * * * * * *

My past is tied around my waist and my legs never seem to get any stronger.

My car is out of power steering fluid (I think). My forearms are stronger.

My friends are all where they should be. I miss everyone at once but only when they aren't around. I miss my family only when I am with them. There are in-betweens, maybe one or two. Or none.

P.J Harvey is singing to me and that makes me feel less lonely. It's like a woman is asking me to save her from a very far distance. When a male vocalist plays, I think it's me talking to myself. Both of these things lead me to think I'm fucked up but I think I can play it off as being 'eccentric'

What do you think?

Coatlicue

2008-11-30T20:58:00.000-08:00

The swollen globe that was her belly
peeked through a skirt of snakes.
Her children rushed to stop their
Brother from breaking the womb of their
Creator. The jealous dagger they
held to silence their mother would
be used on them, burning through
their stone skin with the vengeful flame of
a brother’s birthright. The last
sisters' head was flung into a sky
draped with weeping clouds. When
he saw himself reflected in the colorless
orb that now swung low over the oceans,
he threw his fiery glare at the Earth,
rendering the ground sterile and lifeless.

Today is a special day

2008-11-27T18:37:00.000-08:00

Really, it is.

Today is the first day that I haven't smoked marijuana in over ninety days. This is not a big deal to anyone but me, it seems.

I wasn't sure if marijuana was the kind of drug that can be abused, but it can be. Thankfully, the only major thing it affected was my active listening skills. If it seemed like I was strung-out, it's because I was.

Pun time: The smoke has cleared.

I also read a book today for the first time in over ninety days. This worried me more than the pot.

The book was called "August: Osage County". It was a family-study play. Very good. Unique, but not outlandish. B+

Being back home has slowed life down. It's a good time to take a sober moment of reflection.

It's also Thanksgiving. That means something to many Americans and many turkeys.

This was the first Thanksgiving that I can remember where we did not prepare our own food and sit down in one of our houses. We ate at a restaurant. It was too loud. As much as one can be trapped with family at home, it's much more severe in a public space.

I need to work more to pay rent and buy presents.

Muncie, I'm coming back quietly.

Remember you are strong and punch a hole in the ceiling

2008-11-23T23:06:00.000-08:00

Let the sun lay itself on everything but your twin-sized bed. Remember you are cold and let the soggy November breezes find their way to your bones. Look at yourself. Let your hands know everything and everywhere, and let your shoulders remain a slender mystery. Remember you are a forest fire and let the wind be your stylist. Remember you are strong and rip doors from their hinges. Throw them into the air with your laughter. Remember that the world can see you.

A Pick-Up Truck Can Carry About A Thousand Dollars Worth of Dead Raccoons

2008-11-17T14:43:00.000-08:00

"I think it would be the kind of hunting you would like the most. You drive around smoking joints and listening to loud music and you shoot animals. It's pretty fun"

Very true

There Are No Punk Rock Ballads

2008-10-26T12:55:00.000-07:00

"Steel on the skyline
Sky made of glass
Made for a real world
All things must pass

Waiting for something
Looking for someone
Is there no reason?
Have I stared too long?"

-David Bowie, "Heathen"

For example: When I was
younger, a teenager, I took

things that didn't belong
to me or maybe anyone

change on coffee tables
or road signs covered

in vines, holiday decorations,
bicycles. I stopped

for no righteous reason, I
simply grew away from it. Well,

One night I fell for a bell
shaped compulsive liar in

an attic bedroom. Her
complexion absorbed light

passing through the skylight. Her
stories don't make sense and the

people may have never existed, but
understanding was not a part

of our love. Sometimes I would
catch her slipping into fiction, and,

obviously concerned, she would leap
to kiss me, springing from her hands,

the same hands that slipped my
possessions into her purse. A

forty-five, a wooden pipe, vintage
clothes and shot glasses. Two years

later and I'm not sure if she
took anything with her.

Death and Texas

2008-10-11T11:43:00.001-07:00

The moon swings like a dull scythe loosely held
by fleshless fingers on a summer night
and scarce can anyone this evening say
that it is anything less than a glimpse
into the mind of death itself, to know
who sees the sun for one more day and those
who fall like dying flowers in the cold.
So when we few fearful men came to ask
if the sorrow of death (and mine the same)
should make us take some pity on ourselves
we came to understand, without sadness,
that the sun surely brings us the day. But

Death will rest, as sure, and wake with the moon
to deliver us from summer too soon.

Sorry.

2008-09-28T03:04:00.000-07:00

I don't do much here. But first:

Thanks to the handful of people who have read what I've posted here. Oh, and everyone who has commented tends to be a better writer/human being than myself, and you/they deserve credit/kudos for that. w/e.

So anyways. I don't do much here because I've been taking a break from the internet.

My social life is out of control. I am 'busy' for the first time in my life, whatever that means. I have ways of dealing with it, mostly illegal, fairly predictable, but enjoyable.

The more uncertain my future gets the happier I am, but I feel like there will be a point when I grow up very quickly. Some situations that would cause me to grow up:

I get arrested.

A parent dies.

Blood shows up when I cough.

I lose my job.

A car accident injures me moderately.

Radiohead puts out a terribly boring record (I feel this is least likely to happen).

John McCain wins the presidency of United States.

Barack Obama wins, then is murdered on live television.

Certain friends grow to despise me.

Former adversaries become friendly acquaintances.

I father a child.

There could be more.

None of these things have happened, so I remain a twenty-year old male with high ambition seeking the path of least resistance while hiding behind a shroud of 'personal experiences' that supposedly shapes personality.

Side note: I want to submit poetry for many new sites started by some acquaintances. If you are one of these people, I'll try to get something to you soon.

Out of all the things that have happened around me over the last two months, one reassuring moment of clarity: Poetry has helped turn me into a better person. That seems like a ridiculous sentence to say but I feel like I neglect or ignore certain things that are far more important to me than I'd like to let on.

But not poetry. it's fucking great. it's the bees knees.

goodnight.

good idea/bad idea

2008-08-16T15:49:00.000-07:00

lets start a band called felix lighter

a stoner-rock/shoegaze mix with

a little bit of neil young

we'll get a van

a big van for our instruments

and people we pick up

on the street

there will be fights

someone will get punched

for crossing some line

but never in the van

because it will explode

teach me a D chord

it's the rock and roll note

then teach me A minor

because it is frail

and tell me it's a song

so i can stop watching myself

in the rearview mirror

on long trips

run (on and on and on)

2008-08-08T20:36:00.000-07:00

i am done running.

i have moved.

last year i moved on a piece of rubber

attached to machine

attached to my feet.

i ran two miles.

once.

i have moved in.

four weeks ago i jumped

out of a parachute

out of a plane.

in and of the sky all at

the same time.

the pilot waved goodbye.

he wished me good luck.

thumbs up, two.

i fell in

into the dirt and grass

my sides split open and everyone was watching.

the pilot came.

two thumbs, down.

even though he flew my plane i had never seen him before.

Look! I bought this today!!

2008-07-16T23:11:00.000-07:00

It cost me fifteen dollars, which I considered a fair price.

Notice this book is by Kilgore Trout.

Kilgore Trout is not a real person. But he left us this book. Amazing.

When I am in Lafayette, I become something like Mr. Trout.

sports are not a reflection of anything (except for swimming because you can see yourself in the water)

2008-07-14T23:44:00.000-07:00

when people say things happen for a reason

it's because they don't understand it.

you don't hear the announcer at a baseball game

lean closer into the microphone after

a routine grounder to the shortstop and say

"that happened for a reason, everyone.

it's okay. baseball has a reason! please

rise for the seventh inning stretch, where

john leguizamo will sing a song. john leguizamo

is here for a reason, too."

the announcer does not say this because

it would ruin the game for everyone.

especially the shortstop who has

played baseball for his entire life

only to be marginalized by a single

phrase that means nothing to anyone

who has ever been to a baseball game.

to anyone who has ever seen that ball

get so close the green ivy brick wall only

to be caught by the left fielder.

and everyone sighs

and everyone sits down

and everyone drinks their sodas or beer

and everyone eats a hot dog

because it tastes good. and that's it.

I am a normal person on some nights

2008-07-09T19:29:00.000-07:00

This was one of those nights.

I saw Iron Man for the second time. Normal people will often see movies two times if they enjoy them enough. Also, they will see them a second time if they are taking someone new. In this case, that person was Walter, my father.

Walter liked the movie. That's good, because he has a normal palate for films. For example, he would hate There Will Be Blood. But that's okay, because that movie was not a life-altering masterpiece. Many normal people do not like life-altering movies, most likely because they are imposing and do not just do their job, which is to be entertaining.

We talked about superheroes and movies for a while afterwards. Earlier in the day we talked about non-super humans, like my friends. There are fissures in my group of friends, the group that I have known for the longest time and the group I am/was most comfortable with. I told Walter that I accepted that as part of growing up, that my teenage life was bound to fade and I should take advantage of it. The most difficult part of this is that taking 'advantage' of the situation means being somewhat of an asshole to old friends.

If you live in Muncie, Indiana, expect me to be more interested in your life this year. I will try to be more interesting, wacky, zany, drunk, sober, or enlightening depending on who you think I am. I want to return the favor of Funcie friendships.

Another normal thing I did is talk about the house I'll be moving into, and the Mastiff that will be our house dog, and the work we will do on the house to make it look nicer and to get rent breaks. These are normal things that people do.

Normal people will also end things fairly abruptly.

forecast

2008-07-08T13:13:00.000-07:00

partly cloudy

humid sweaty forearms

lacking enthusiasm

not enough sugar

cautious movement

sunburnt shoulders

just enough caffeine

seventy five channels

too many advertisements

twenty five newspapers

nothing of interest

fourteen killed in helicopter crash

rising oil prices

your favorite song

nothing to lose

zero visibility

avoiding fistfights

action-packed romance

chance of rain

limited risk

percentages

calculated movements

birds

no turn on red

car accidents

funeral procession

backed-up traffic

a full ashtray

credit limits

bald tires

slick roads

scattered thunderstorms

scattered republicans

delayed flights

flash floods

unwarranted aggression

poor judgment

heavy burden

white lies

filing cabinets

temporary insanity mixed with a notion

of permanence

The History of Heavy Metal

2008-07-05T19:55:00.000-07:00

A tank crashes through Paris like a

pinch harmonic at the end of a pentatonic scale.

Twenty years later, in Italy,

Clint Eastwood shoots a man in the face

without exhaling any cigar smoke. On the other

side of the world a Nebraskan child learns

that one human soul is worth ten guitar lessons

from Satan. This took place after he read

the book of Revelations which everyone knows

is the story of the apocalypse set to AC/DC.

Fourteen years later someone confuses punk for

metal and everyone punches each other. This is why

Metallica will never be as good as they used to be.

2008-06-11T02:41:00.000-07:00

Charlie in the trees

charlie says to me

'god got to be like man, god got to understand'

and to me, charlie stop making sense

tommy say, he talk about the bottle

he say 'stay away'

'the devils fingers hold the glass'

and tommy got class, so he make sense

the nameless in the streets

they don't say much

they just drink that cheap wine

two dollars and forty nine cents

myself, i tell me

'you got to listen'

and i hear myself, i do,

and i start to make sense

god, he tells me to

have faith, but god?

it don't come out

to much

my fingers, the man's fingers

grab that bottle

they tell me, well,

they don't talk much, they just hands

say something tommy!

say something with class!

you just say what god

meant you to say!

me and tree charlie,

we got our bench in the woods

we got our bottle

yes god sir, just leave us be

The Thirteen Doctrines of Benjamin Franklin

2008-06-08T22:02:00.000-07:00

(Eat Not To Dullness)

After a breakfast of eggs and toast

(Avoid Trifling Conversation)

Ben slaps his mistress across the face, knuckle to cheek, and demands

(Let All Your Things Have Their Places)

To know where she and Jefferson were during the last congressional session

(Resolve to Perform What You Ought)

While he was considering a revolt against the home of his father

(Waste Nothing)

He threw the breakfast plate at her and asked her again, reserved with rage

(Cut Off All Unnecessary Action)

She says nothing.

(If You Speak, Speak Accordingly)

"Deborah, Thomas is not to be trusted. Are you?"

(Wrong None By Doing Injuries)

Ben takes her silence in stride. She removes the shattered plate and egg remnants.

(Avoid Extremes)

Ben leaves the kitchen and the weeping woman without speaking again

(Tolerate No Uncleanliness In Body or Habitation)

His large frame blocks the sunlight falling on his Philadelphia hardwood floor

(Be Not Disturbed At Trifles)

Rocking in a chair, he tastes the colonies' butter on the back of his tongue

(Rarely Use Venery But For Health Or Offspring)

He returns to the kitchen to console his mistress

(Imitate Jesus and Socrates)

Before meeting with Jefferson at Independence Hall.

some paralogical metaphors

2008-05-27T14:00:00.000-07:00

my bed is the route 66 of sleeping devices

cell phones are the steamshovels of the 1980's

my cat Frizz is the Fender Telecaster of domesticated animals

this movie wants to be the Magna Carta of visual entertainment, but comes off as a cheap imitation of the policies of Alan Greenspan

you are a super nintendo that has never existed

pugilista vulgaris

2008-05-26T00:02:00.000-07:00

its like i want to make something
punch something else
senselessly and loyally and without stopping
over and over again
until there is nothing left
there will be holes in something
there will be cuts on something
there will not be anything left
and whatever it is that punches will
turn on me and punch me in the mouth
i will wonder why until i realize
that i'm something else
with bruises too

i need a title, please help

2008-05-22T21:37:00.000-07:00

an airplane lands, no!
taking off again, but why?
that thing on the wheel...

his eyes roll into
his head falls his hands
tense and nostalgic:

his first day of school
and every day of school;
the last day of school

the remote control,
there on the coffee table,
inches from his hands

cars in front of him
all seem to have some sort of
dents in the bumper

electric guitars
strong hands throttling their necks
and smashed in pieces

ejaculate sweats,
slides down her rounded belly
stopped by his rough hands

an airplane lands, yes,
he exits this time, his fists clenched
teeth clenched, sore of life

Tom and Jerry

2008-05-10T00:05:00.001-07:00

Tom Waits and Jerry Seinfeld walk into a bar
Jerry owns this bar
Jerry asks Tom if he likes the place
Tom doesn't directly reply, instead he says
"A red bird just flew by outside"
This was before they walked inside
Jerry doesn't remember the bird, instead
he orders a cosmopolitan from the bartender
he doesn't have to pay
Tom orders a beer and, uncharacteristically, doesn't pay
He is a guest of Jerry Seinfeld
He doesn't have to pay if he doesn't want to
Jerry sips on his cosmo
Tom drinks his beer
He talks to the bartender
He asks him questions like
"Do you watch much television?"
Tom asks this in his typical whiskey-soaked voice
The bartender replies
"Only what's on the TV sets in the bar"
Tom watches the television in front of him
It's a human interest piece about the homeless
Tom takes another drink from his beer bottle
and doesn't ask the bartender any more questions
Jerry is talking to his celebrity friends.
Tom is nervous on the stool, afraid that those other people
will recognize him or his voice
He asks the bartender one more question
"Do you notice the birds in the summer?"
The bartender replies
"Is it summer already?"
Tom nods and walks over to Jerry
and, characteristically, smashes the bottle over Jerry's head
in front of his famous friends
Jerry stands with his arms spread and head cut open
His friends ask him "Did Tom Waits just hit you with a beer bottle?"
Jerry doesn't reply
Tom walks out of the bar. He sees a bum wino and gives him a twenty dollar bill.
The bum says "Thanks" and walks away
He doesn't recognize the man who gave him the money

Tom Waits knowingly walks into another bar on his own.

The Pentagon Has Five Points and I Don't Understand Any of Them

2008-05-01T18:16:00.000-07:00

Wun

Anyone who says that love is the opposite of war
Has never been in a war or watched the news to
see family members turn over corpses carelessly, looking
for the corpse that belongs to them.
There is love in that and carelessness too.
The same goes for peace. A soldier with
a cigarette in his mouth may be most peaceful
when he can see his target clearly and the trigger
has already been warmed by his index finger. Peace
is difficult to explain to the soldier who loves his
wife, daughter, and rifle, in that order.

Too

I think the opposite of war is difficult to explain too
It would be something like free-form jazz, or astronomy yes astronomy because
Outer Space is the opposite of war
There are no bullets in space
There are no Nazi’s in space
That sounds funny to me. Nazi’s in space.
Supposedly Adolf Hitler was nearly aborted by his mother
Whatever gets the job done, Mrs. Hitler!
I like jokes that are created from fear and misunderstanding like that
but political satire is still political and makes me feel guilty for
not being political enough or satirical enough

Tree

Some things that are supposed to ‘inspire’ me
Are either dull or soul-crushing or both, like books and
Documentaries about children who are trained to be
killers for terrorists and fascists and other groups of people
who are afraid and don’t understand themselves or anyone else.
All those books and movies do is remind me how terrible
People can be to other people, and even worse is that I am
inspired with fear of orphans and children with AK-47's

Fower

Whenever I see people get shot on television I notice
the placement of the camera
the way the light seems to focus together at the end of the barrel
right before the bullet pushes the brain through the skull through the skin
I would say something like The setting really added a lot of dignity
To his death
But no one really died
Suicide is still very dignified, right?

Fife

Sometimes I wish that aliens existed. Not just one type of alien,
But many types of alien, all of them terrifyingly intelligent, all of them
Fighting each other and killing each other for not being the right
type of alien. Then all these aliens would converge here, on this planet,
and they would laugh at our bodies, and they would laugh at our primitive weapons
And then they would see a human body with a primitive gun destroy another human body, and
They would piss their alien pants and run away screaming, wondering
how we ruthless alien earthlings could do something like that
And then they would blow up the planet
For obvious reasons

Actually it makes perfect sense, I just don't care to think about it

2008-04-16T23:24:00.000-07:00

I was not hungover but I felt like I had been drinking becuase my legs felt two inches too long. I stood up when I heard the doorbell. I opened the door. It was God. He made it very clear it was God because he looked exactly like me only he was wearing a hat that said "Foxy and Forty". I had made it clear to God three years ago that if he were ever to show up at my door, this is what he should wear. I wanted God to be awkward and ironic and hilarious. He wasn't very funny, which made me realize that I wasn't very funny. Still, he was awkward. He asked if he could come inside.
I said no.
He said he understood. I thanked him for his understanding. I suggested we go on a walk.
"It's a very nice day outside" I said.
"Thank you for noticing" said God.
I laughed. He laughed. We both knew his relationship with the sun and wind. We walked in the middle of the street. There were no cars, which was not surprising. I appreciated that he made this a special occasion for me.
I talked with him for about an hour. I asked if he minded if I smoked.
"Well, of course I mind. I have more nice days for you to see in sixty years." he said.
"I don't want to be seventy-five and senile, God. I don't want to be helpless and weak."
God nodded. God understood. But God disagreed.
"It's not always about you, Ryan." said God. This made sense because we were wearing the same tennis shoes and had the same haircut. When I heard him say this from my own dry lips it sounded like the Pacific Ocean, which I have never been to.
God walked me back to my room. I was worried he would ask to come inside again. He didn't. Instead, he asked this:
"Why didn't you let me inside earlier?"
I had thought about this before. I thought about it again before I answered:
"There's just no room inside for the both of us. I have a guitar in here that takes up all this room. My books are littered on the rug. My television is uncomfortably large. I think I may get rid of it get a bigger bookshelf. There's scribbled notes piling up in the trash can. It just looks terrible in there, God. I can barely stand to be in there myself. There's just no room for you in here."
He laughed. God's laughter makes me laugh. Our laughter is contagious.
"I understand" he said.
God walked away. I watched my body walk away. Apparently I have a rhythmic strut. I'd like to think that he meant for that to happen. But it mostly looks awkward.
I sat down inside my room. It wasn't really that messy. I was comfortable in my chair. My television was on. I turned it off and picked up the nearest book to me. Being alone was fine with me, there was no need for God to ruin this beautiful day. I'm glad he understood. I'm glad he left me alone.

This title comes from a jennifer knox poem. peter davis made me use it.

2008-04-15T23:19:00.000-07:00

the ideal reader for ryan j. rader

emphasizes middle initials
uses self-referential titles
does not capitalizeor use punctuation
struggles with originality
wears checkered slip-ons
has only one hooded sweatshirt apparently
smells like cigarettes
tastes like cigarettes
fucking loves cigarettes
drinks on friday
drinks on saturday
fucks up on saturday
regrets on sunday
laughs on monday
hates february and march
is neutral towards april
was born in may
will get heart disease
or pancreatic cancer
from fucking smoking
or too many carbohydrates
and will be buried
far away from a church with
something he has written
to give to his favorite dead heroes
he will do the best heroin ever
with bill hicks and boba fett
because they are all dead
heaven has the best drugs
he will fight ronald reagan
and he will win
he will watch people read
something he has written
he will pray that somebody
understands what he meant
even though he has never prayed before
he will work on being
a better version of himself
he will quit smoking
he will stop shooting up
he will watch his work
be misinterpreted in classrooms
he never did heroin while he was alive
he will start smoking again
like he always

Crucifixion on the Interstate

2008-04-15T14:03:00.000-07:00

A black Cadillac,
dead. Everyone feels God &
Hell inside. Jesus’ kidney
leaks mitochondria & niacin onto
polyester, quick & relentless. Stuck
there, under veil, writhing
excessively, yet zoic.

How to Beat Cancer

2008-04-07T21:28:00.000-07:00

First
Go get some cancer
Cancer can be found in most major cities
And pesticides. Cancer is waiting to be discovered. Cancer is
everywhere

Cigarettes will give you cancer
if you smoke them one
After another after another like
Boxcars on a train, but the boxcars are
Your lungs and the train is
Lymphatic cancer. That train will
Also give you cancer if it is powered
By coal. Cancer is convenient and comes
In boxes.

You can buy cancer on the streets. A typical cancer salesman
looks like Hawaiian Hunter S. Thompson with dreadlocks and a leather jacket.
Ask for the Hicks capsule for pancreatic cancer. Side effects
include anger, denial, and bonus rage. Cancer salesmen may use cutting agents in their pills, usually newspapers and
guitar strings. This is to be expected. Cancer is
diluted.

Make sure you have cancer. Doctors are good
for this and so are certain animals. If
Your cat rubs her head on your neck, you may
Have neck cancer. Neck cancer almost always
Becomes head cancer. Cancer is
Logical and direct.

Now that you have cancer, do not die. Dying
Means you lose to cancer. Life is about competing
With death. Cancer moves quickly, is hard to defend,
And has a solid three-point shot. Cancer must be shot in the head.
Cancer is like
Steve Nash and zombies rolled into one cancerous
Competitor.

Do pushups with one hand. Let your cat see you do them, she will
Be confused and avoid you. Work on your crossover dribble and
Midrange jumper. Cancer is worried. Learn how to fly a single-engine plane.
You will soar over cancer. Cancer is small from space, and so is Steve Nash.
Stop smoking, this will
Add fourteen years to your life, and you will have the drop on cancer when
You are seventy-two and sleeping. Remind cancer that you have won, because you are unforgiving. Cancer will be embarassed. When you know that
You have won, knowing that cancer
is weakened and will never crawl inside you again you will learn
that death is a train and cancer
ain’t shit.

'Write it until it gets out of your system'

2008-04-02T22:52:00.000-07:00

Questions for Cocaine Wolf

Where does your name come from? This is my first time talking to you.
Are wolves actually involved? I assume cocaine is definitely involved.
Do you sleep at night? I stay up late to read books and masturbate.
Did you graduate high school? I've heard you live around the university.
Are you registered to vote? I think I'll vote for a minority this year.
Have you traveled much? I'm taking a road trip with Jessica this summer.
Can you do backflips? I can do a killer impression of Freddie Mercury.
Do you stay warm in the winter? I wish I could smoke inside.
Can you jerk off behind the grocery store? Milk is usually three dollars a gallon.
What's your favorite Brendan Frasier movie? My sister stole my DVD player.
Have you ever seen Nebraska? I wish I could be a trucker, just for a year.
Do you read the funny papers? Calvin and Hobbes was never in my newspaper, dammit.
Are you tired of soup? Monday and Wednesday is pizza with Leslie and John.
If you find deodorant, would you use it? I ran two miles today in the August heat.
How does homelessness feel? When I heard your name I laughed, I said
'I want to meet that guy' and I walked to my apartment. Nice day outside,
don't you think?

This is an attempt to say goodbye without actually leaving

2008-03-16T13:09:00.000-07:00

My windows and doors are open
the food and milk in the
unplugged refrigerator has turned

How does meat turn?
Does it curse and rebel against
the apples in the crisper below?

I don’t understand why
there are so many ways to leave
wherever I am at

I have rebelled against enough people
But this couch knows what it did
when I leave it nailed to the carpet

If you would like to surprise me
climb the patio and come in or
break through the kitchen wall

Earlier, I salvaged two apples and
when I am eating one I am noticing
how red and crisp they can be

If I seem powerless or rotten
when you enter and I turn it is
because I unplugged myself

I am saving the other apple for you
but it is possible I may slide out the window
before you get here

I can’t promise the apple will remain
red and crisp, loyal to the milk and meat
Close the door on your way out

Times When I Notice I Am Turning Into Walter

2008-03-07T06:13:00.000-08:00

-For my Father

It's January and I am outside of my car in twelve inches of snow. The car is running. The doors are locked. Did I really just fucking do that?
Clint Eastwood walks into a bar. All my dreams are fulfilled. I punch the nearest living thing.
I open a forwarded message. What’s in the forwarded message? Fuck me. Fooled again.
Almost up to a pack a day.
Beard!
I am tired of Indiana too, and Missouri does sound nice but I’m not sure why.
My mid-midlife crisis running parallel to his midlife crisis, and pornography.
I tear off the labels to plastic bottles and stuff them inside the bottle when I’ve finished the drink. What the hell am I doing?
My mother is dull sometimes, but is beautiful all the time. I don’t spend much time with her.
New music is boring and old music doesn't sound like it used to.
Beer starts reminding me of my stupidity and tastes like wasted youth.
A steady job is respectable.
I hate Hillary Clinton because it’s also respectable.
I just need somebody, somebody, anybody come to me. Oh, sorry, I guess I cheated on you. Somebody else, please.
I picture my son rebelling against me with chewing tobacco and cowboy hats only to realize that I don’t suck and that it’s okay to go to school for journalism because that’s what I did and that might not be amazingly original but it is respectable and I made sure that word slept beside him on most nights.

Exorcise

2008-03-03T18:57:00.000-08:00

I spent two kinetic miles
in white sneakers and blue shorts while
My headphones struggled to wedge
themselves beside my eardrums as the
sweat moved into my canals like oil
being drawn from the crust of the planet. My
feet could taste the difference between the sidewalk
and the parking lots. It was hot and that asphalt might
as well have been rubber cement spread over
cracked linoleum. My eyebrows were sagging
from the weight of the salt in the sweat. I reminded
myself that after I finished the second mile my lungs
would feel like they were full of used matches and that
the fourteen cigarettes and seven beers I drank
the night before no longer counted. I drank
to counteract feelings of loneliness. My running and
my drinking are performing their actions in opposite
directions. As I sweat out the potential tumors and cysts
that are eyeing my organs, my neck fails to support
my head and the smell of alcohol and nicotine
are leaking through my pores. My nose is
stationary.

Trashcan?

2008-03-02T17:21:00.000-08:00

"It doesn't count as littering if you write on it first"
you said to me after unwrapping it with your tongue
As the yellow and red dyes seeped between your gums,
the wrapper floated lazily to the ground. The phrase
"I don't like chocolate" written on pink wax paper was
all I saw before you grabbed my hand and said
"Now the bugs have art, too"

RAAADERRRRRR!!!

2008-02-29T15:44:00.000-08:00

A girl wrote her phone number on the back of my right hand today. I know this girl likes me because she referred to me as "Ryan J. Rader", and only girls who like me do that. Girls who didn't like me in high school just called me "Rader", and that annoyed me. They might as well have called me ugly or short or overweight, which in high school I was all of those things. Fuck them anyways. I am still short, technically, but people don't call me short. I don't know why. I think it's because I wear clothes that fit now.

Whenever I look at the back of my right hand, like I just did, it makes me smile and I want to show everyone I know. This is more important than sex. This is better than sex, right now. I don't even know if I should have sex with this girl should the opportunity arise. Should I? Yes. I should. I didn't have sex in high school. This will make up for it, like the other seven did.

High school is actually more important to me now than it was then. Lots of those girls are pregnant now with fetuses of unnattractive men. I almost want the number tattooed on the back of my hand. Those ugly children will grow up, and I will be old and cool like Lou Reed and they will see my tattoo and I will tell them this story.

Is high school over yet?

Soaked

2008-02-27T13:35:00.000-08:00

Soaked, standing in the shower
I don't get the wrinkled raisin fingers and toes
and the soapy fingernails of childhood anymore
No place for the Stormtrooper vs. X-Men wars
fought on my round, hairless belly
My navel was a prison for building blocks
My knees were fleshy glaciers that rose from the murky, hard-water ocean
My toes were buoys
My legs and elbows controlled the tide

The tips of my toes are useless now, I tower over
The porcelain and chrome fixtures where I learned how my body worked, accidentally,
But soon becoming an engineer of myself
Now I'm working on a degree in women's studies, becoming
A bachelor with a masters.

My aim is impeccable unless I've been drinking
I suppose there is room for a fifth next to the aftershave.
Batman was an alcoholic even when he was five inches and plastic in a bathtub.
I should drink in the shower. I should take showers
with Catwoman and Supergirl now and teach them
what I've learned, but no.
Childhood ends when erections begin.
Cold showers from now on.

2008

2008-02-25T19:37:00.000-08:00

Before I drove to the liquor store
my grandmother slipped
on the ice and shattered her ankle

After I returned with the bottle
I opened my whisky and saw
three black children running on melted snow

two poems written in the span of five minutes

2008-02-24T01:47:00.000-08:00

'Don't you think it's better this way?'

A stranger, suggesting the
Title should be more specific
And related to the story

About a young man on
A field trip in a shopping
Mall in North Dakota

Urges me to burn my
Leather wallet and never
Wear blue jeans again

This is not a matter of life and death--

--It’s a goddamn
Shopping cart covered in mud along
The riverbank

It is not a running commentary
On grocery stores and pharmacies
And you are not the shopping cart
You are not covered in mud
You are high and dry
On a covered bridge above the river
I did not care
To see the shopping cart
Until you pointed it out to me
And then
I considered jumping
To grab it and wash it in the river
And drive you home while your fingers
Grasped the metal lattice from
The inside of the shopping cart

This is the part where
We are struck by a passing
Pick-up truck and
Flung into the title

On A Postcard to William Henry Harrison

2008-02-21T22:36:00.000-08:00

Two years ago I had the best
Summer of my life, specifically
June. I drank wine and danced
Every night. At the beginning
of August it rained and I got
sick. Thirty days and nothing
but rain filled bottles to show for
it. I know how it feels. Enjoy
the summer.

Ambivalence

2008-02-18T00:23:00.000-08:00

We do not make sense, we judge it instead. During our critique of the omniscient whatever, we defined God:

My god is black and plays harmonica
Your god is you, because you can count on it.

I like your god, your god paints suicide like the inside of kindergarten classrooms. Your god references my favorite bands and your god plays a Fender Stratocaster. God is not a Gibson god. When our gods meet, they should start a band with Elliott Smith and
Dave Grohl on drums and call themselves Caning the Able, maybe selling 200,000 records and opening for U2. I hate Bono for his piety. We can duck out early and leave our gods at the afterparty. They won't care, our gods are ambivalent...
Would you like to grab some coffee with me? That's what I'm trying to say when I quote Thom Yorke.

I Take Myself Very Seriously When It Comes To Art?

2008-02-17T22:31:00.000-08:00

I could never grasp the concept of
Drawing shadows
Which means everything I drew took place
On two-dimensional moonless evenings

This is the second portrait I’ve received
By the second person, and I wonder
Will there be a third? And will they teach me
How to draw my own picture where I stand
In front of a brick building
And my silhouette is laughing at me? In my defense,
I am drawing with the alphabet and I don’t need sunlight
To burn the letters into the paper

Once I carelessly drew horses and superheroes, now I can barely pry myself
Away from the mirror and my solemn bohemian expression to
Let you know that you are my favorite artist,
I think.

FIRST POST +1

2008-02-11T21:31:00.001-08:00

Frederick Douglass Goes to Mars is the first of many episodes featuring the iconic civil rights crusader. Much like the Marines, Frederick Douglass gets into all sorts of wacky adventures in exotic and foreign locations. Using his superior powers of discourse, rhetoric, and beard, Douglass manages to outwit the nastiest of haters. Frederick Douglass' mortal enemy is haters, and haters can be found everywhere. There is no plot structure, conflict, or resolution to any of the episodes, and none of them actually exist. Haters, however, are very real.