I have moved my blog. Update your feeds. Throw a party in someone’s backyard in the blog’s honor. You don’t have know the person who owns the backyard.
New home. New name. Plans to post way more.
Wordsforguns.com
Wednesday, September 02, 2009
Saturday, August 22, 2009
It's Raining Caskets So Don't Bother Looking for Shelter
The light is dead, but not quite dead; it’s only sleeping in a dream state waiting to be awakened and let to do it’s only job, make pupils hustle its way.
The birds are gone.
The rats have all hustled away due to the competition for control of the ground.
The numbers swell, each creature widening and heightening in size. They all wait for the rustle of the light—its rebirth.
God is going to have to drown them all, science be damned.
“We can save the kid behind the counter,” an angel harks looking down on this cluster of a fuck.
“What the hell, why not,” the deity says as he takes a slow and dreamy sip from his big dog mug. The furry pup ears glued to the sides of the mug shake with the sipping tilt motion. “I’m going to go back to bed. If a problem arises, you know… locust.”
It’s always locust, the angel thought to itself as it twisted and twirled its fingers lightly over the underbelly of some clouds so they would burst. “Tickle a cloud too hard and a state of the art boat will need to be built” is the first rule of cloud release. The angel recited this over and over and over to avoid any more failure.
The light still slumbered. The boy sees the growing mess outside. Legs are losing length and hips are adjusting and contorting. In a violent defense against the rain they all grow shells, little campers of bones. The time has come. A chord is pulled.
The light lives, and an orchestra of yips, keens, and howls shake the dirt as the gravel cracks. Fourteen cars get turned over in the rush.
The clouds begun to laugh, a little too hard.
The birds are gone.
The rats have all hustled away due to the competition for control of the ground.
The numbers swell, each creature widening and heightening in size. They all wait for the rustle of the light—its rebirth.
God is going to have to drown them all, science be damned.
“We can save the kid behind the counter,” an angel harks looking down on this cluster of a fuck.
“What the hell, why not,” the deity says as he takes a slow and dreamy sip from his big dog mug. The furry pup ears glued to the sides of the mug shake with the sipping tilt motion. “I’m going to go back to bed. If a problem arises, you know… locust.”
It’s always locust, the angel thought to itself as it twisted and twirled its fingers lightly over the underbelly of some clouds so they would burst. “Tickle a cloud too hard and a state of the art boat will need to be built” is the first rule of cloud release. The angel recited this over and over and over to avoid any more failure.
The light still slumbered. The boy sees the growing mess outside. Legs are losing length and hips are adjusting and contorting. In a violent defense against the rain they all grow shells, little campers of bones. The time has come. A chord is pulled.
The light lives, and an orchestra of yips, keens, and howls shake the dirt as the gravel cracks. Fourteen cars get turned over in the rush.
The clouds begun to laugh, a little too hard.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Been A Long Lunch Break.
It has.
I didn't plan to not write for a while. It just happened. Like a baby. Like cancer. Like a fistfight turned into an orgy all that's left is what happened who cares about the path it took, just clean up after you done.
I moved across the street but my internet didn't move with me, and this was not my choice but the fuck up of a company. All remote times of internet are reserved for the words of music and items that pay bills. I haven't even checked a single rss feed on a blog in over a week. I wake up in the middle of the night wonder if my igoogle can kill me if it gets big enough. My eyes shut and I hear a wet mouth open.
I saw district nine.
I rode my scooter through a flash flood after it was over.
It felt right.
During the movie people were grabbing their arm rests with tension, hate, and inpatient fingers craving some blood.
Human blood.
A good film should make one desire, even if only for a moment, the accepting destruction of your own species.
Give it up for good art.
This coffee shop serves wine and beer. This will be my downfall.
Among all the others.
More words are coming........
I didn't plan to not write for a while. It just happened. Like a baby. Like cancer. Like a fistfight turned into an orgy all that's left is what happened who cares about the path it took, just clean up after you done.
I moved across the street but my internet didn't move with me, and this was not my choice but the fuck up of a company. All remote times of internet are reserved for the words of music and items that pay bills. I haven't even checked a single rss feed on a blog in over a week. I wake up in the middle of the night wonder if my igoogle can kill me if it gets big enough. My eyes shut and I hear a wet mouth open.
I saw district nine.
I rode my scooter through a flash flood after it was over.
It felt right.
During the movie people were grabbing their arm rests with tension, hate, and inpatient fingers craving some blood.
Human blood.
A good film should make one desire, even if only for a moment, the accepting destruction of your own species.
Give it up for good art.
This coffee shop serves wine and beer. This will be my downfall.
Among all the others.
More words are coming........
Sunday, August 02, 2009
Shit Must Get Done, or So I Am Told
I got shit to do.
That shit I just spoke of is all over the place and hurts my head most days.
The pain is like a scraping, it begins in the middle of my brain and stretches out over my entire brain as a wet noodle conquers a plate.
My escape as of late has been the movies, but I'm over that. We can burn all the screens and record the smoke it creates, but please don't show anyone what you captured. Keep it to yourself.
The other night everyone at a film seemed to want to either light up their phones or throw candy at other people's faces.
The phone behind me had a hallow ring.
"Yeah," the man answered. The movie was only halfway to the point of credits.
The other line talked very little. "I got yo' money," He yelled. "I gonna hide it in your ass!"
While leaving the film one of the pretend adults who threw all things gummy ran up to me wanting to touch my arms, as if my tattoos can lick the insides of fingers. I refrained violence and bought my girl an ice cream cone.
Last night two old ladies chatted. Their words were what action happened on the screen.
Man on film gets into a car.
"He's getting into the car," one woman said.
Man on film taste a woman.
"They're having sex."
Man on film punches another man on film.
"They're fighting."
I don't remember the movie, only my refrain.
The new issue of The Chapbook Review is out. I interviewed Jamie Iredell about his chapbooks, his soon to be released book collecting those chaps, and he talked about the predestination of naming a child Ike. I want to name a child Judas Nixon and see what happens. Call it science.
In the issue Thomas Cooper talks, and so does Tina May Hall. Lots of rad ass chapbooks get reviewed too. I need to finish reading the issue, but you know... that shit.
It's noon and I woke up just to cross off the day.
That shit I just spoke of is all over the place and hurts my head most days.
The pain is like a scraping, it begins in the middle of my brain and stretches out over my entire brain as a wet noodle conquers a plate.
My escape as of late has been the movies, but I'm over that. We can burn all the screens and record the smoke it creates, but please don't show anyone what you captured. Keep it to yourself.
The other night everyone at a film seemed to want to either light up their phones or throw candy at other people's faces.
The phone behind me had a hallow ring.
"Yeah," the man answered. The movie was only halfway to the point of credits.
The other line talked very little. "I got yo' money," He yelled. "I gonna hide it in your ass!"
While leaving the film one of the pretend adults who threw all things gummy ran up to me wanting to touch my arms, as if my tattoos can lick the insides of fingers. I refrained violence and bought my girl an ice cream cone.
Last night two old ladies chatted. Their words were what action happened on the screen.
Man on film gets into a car.
"He's getting into the car," one woman said.
Man on film taste a woman.
"They're having sex."
Man on film punches another man on film.
"They're fighting."
I don't remember the movie, only my refrain.
The new issue of The Chapbook Review is out. I interviewed Jamie Iredell about his chapbooks, his soon to be released book collecting those chaps, and he talked about the predestination of naming a child Ike. I want to name a child Judas Nixon and see what happens. Call it science.
In the issue Thomas Cooper talks, and so does Tina May Hall. Lots of rad ass chapbooks get reviewed too. I need to finish reading the issue, but you know... that shit.
It's noon and I woke up just to cross off the day.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Live Through This
I sipped my coffee. Down the gullet, find the stomach, search out the blood, give me a reason to jump, to type, to skip, to make phone calls where I call everyone “dude” and end the call with a “don’t fuck yourself. It will make me love you less”.
I stood in line wanting coffee number 5—the number at which I can no longer hear the loud voices of the children that jump off the chairs and entertain their deadened parents. Two women were in front of me.
“Yep, yep,” One of them said. Her hair stood tall. Two bundles in her hair stood higher than the rest. I thought about making two paper airplanes and recreating 9-11 in her hair. But I refrained. I rewarded myself later for such self-control.
Then the other woman spurt out some knowledge to console her big haired friend, who had a frown like she knew her hair looked like a NY pre 9-11. “If he won’t text you,” She yelled, “he sure ain’t gonna fuck you.”
The other day—actually like a few weeks ago—I was informed I have a piece coming out in the next issue of Thirst for Fire. I can get shit published in a post-Michael Jackson world. Holla.
I stood in line wanting coffee number 5—the number at which I can no longer hear the loud voices of the children that jump off the chairs and entertain their deadened parents. Two women were in front of me.
“Yep, yep,” One of them said. Her hair stood tall. Two bundles in her hair stood higher than the rest. I thought about making two paper airplanes and recreating 9-11 in her hair. But I refrained. I rewarded myself later for such self-control.
Then the other woman spurt out some knowledge to console her big haired friend, who had a frown like she knew her hair looked like a NY pre 9-11. “If he won’t text you,” She yelled, “he sure ain’t gonna fuck you.”
The other day—actually like a few weeks ago—I was informed I have a piece coming out in the next issue of Thirst for Fire. I can get shit published in a post-Michael Jackson world. Holla.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Saturday, July 04, 2009
It All Leads to Something
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.
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.
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