do not sleep forever, dear

Got my medical bills back and they’re so inexpensive, it’s a wonder people bother to be injured in america at all.

Funny thing, i’ve been planning on making a new post for a few days, but somehow have nothing to say now. Went on an island adventure recently, which was all kinds of fun. Accidentally wrote a novella, science fiction. Did some critiques on Joseph Quintela‘s chapbooks, which should be published this summer if i am to be king and decider of all things ever. He got my experimentalism fluids going, which, i mean, it’s where my head’s been at for years, but i’m always holding myself back, trying to keep stories going, and not pander to my own nonsense and fall into asemia, which i’m always in danger of. I’m not much of an experimentalist, when it comes down to it, because when i begin that way, i get rather incomprehensible, like my existential nightmare of a werewolf novel, which is about ninety pages of just unreadable prose, as is my twenty page verse novel in progress, which is like a linguistic jungle full of knives instead of blades of grass. But that’s all and aside. Not even sure what i’m on about.

Waiting to hear back about the novel yet, though it’s only been twelve days. I don’t know. I had so much to say in my head. Life continues as normal. Lots of writing, lots of working. Going to hopefully start writing pieces about my life in Korea again for ThunderDome, which is full of new content right now, so check out the homepage there. Big things in the works there, too.

What else? I wrote a poem, or something. I think this was yesterday.

Made a new plan, too, about some possibly cool things i’ll be in the process of doing soon.

I fell in love with a girl for a moment and a moment more but the moment was lost in waves and written on wind.

first words of the last poet

Been growing dissatisfied with publishing and don’t feel like going through the trouble. I just want the transfer of ideas to be instantaneous, from my fingers to your brain. Upload, jack, rewirte. In that vein, i may just start posting little ditties of amusement here. I’ve been writing fairytales at work, longhand, and they’re a great joy to me.

Lots of experimentation lately. About ten stories in the last week. Beginning to try once more to be published, too, and not just hoard all my lovely words that you lust for.

Two posts in five minutes! Losing an organ must’ve changed me more than i can properly admit, though this could get me onto a topic i’ve been avoiding thinking about completely and wholly because of the ramifications it has for my entire worldview and may lead to me being so completely disgusted with my body that it’ll rot away.

Take care, Star Child.

one hundred eighty

Read A Heaven of Others: Being the True Account of a Jewish Boy Jonathan Schwarzstein of Tchernichhovsky Street Jerusalem and his Post-Mortem Adventures in & Reflections on the Muslim Heaven as Said to Me and Said through Me by an Angel of the One True God Revealed to Me at Night as if in a Dream by Joshua Cohen today, which, yeah, is a super long title for a very short book, not even two hundred pages long. It’s fantastic, though. Hard to capture what it’s like, but i want other people to read it, because i–not love, for that’s not the right word–enjoyed it immensely. It’s dreamlike and softly told, ethereal, barely there, but forever present, if you get me. He also does what i love, which is writing long surreal unending sentences that bend, but don’t break. In short, he does what i’ve always been aiming at. And he succeeds.

Taking kind of breaks in reading The Tunnel by William H Gass as it’s a very difficult book to read straight through. I kind of lose steam after twenty pages. It’s dense, ya dig, and i’m about one hundred fifty pages–these pages being quite large makes it more like three hundred or so pages–in and there’s no semblance of plot–which is hardly a bad thing–but there’s no movement either, which is a¬†deterrent. It makes it difficult to keep going. While he crafts these sentences beautifully, so far, it’s just sentences and madness, which can only get you so far. Normally, i would’ve just given up, but i’m finding it easier to read by breaking it up with other people’s words. So, yeah, today read that Cohen novel.

Fill me with smoke and fire
making a pyre on which to choke
all these words i once wrote

sixty nine

The weather’s glorious, but i’m trapped working and working. Gotta try to not let my head hang. Keep your chin up, son, for there’s miles left to go.

I wanted to see
if fire could burn me
so i stretched forth my hand
and gave one heart
You took all three
and a little more of me

The poems are getting retarded. I shan’t do it for many moons.

Trying to keep my head up.

sixty five

Ghoul is up over at Writers’ Bloc magazine, which, incidentally, is one of my favorite little webzines.

I woke up this morning
with a noose round my neck
I took me to the coroner
to see what he suspects

He told me, ‘Billy Jean’
then he coughed and he spat
‘there’s not a man i seen
that don’t quite know
what that oughtta mean.’

Well, I hung down my head
what more for a man to do?
I picked up my noose
waved him goodbye and so long

The day was just starting
but a millstone was lurking
round every corner
behind flashed smiles
Bright sun, naught to run

I found me a treebranch
a fitting crook like a solid rook
where the wind blew less
and the sun shined warmest

Up on that greencapped hill
the whole city gave me a chill
some imperceptible thrill
smiling above the city of shill
I tied up the rope, tight as a will

Hanging here in the cool air
the years, they’re slipping away
like the hours of some lost day
I smile only to show it no more

Wrote that poem on the fly for sillies a few days ago.


I’ve been all flim flammed the past couple days, or, i guess, week. Me head’s kind of all over the place and i’m moody, which isn’t very strange, but it’s probably bothersome to others, but, really, they should be used to such activity from me. Just this general annoyance with everyone and everything. it comes, but it goes, and i can smile and fly once more.

Not today, though. Intolerably bored and i think i’m a bit lonely, as this time of year tends to make you. The outside, this barrenness, this impenetrable white, it seeps inside and burrows deep until your lungs seize up and your heart beats black. You see these faces, look in their eyes, and it’s all vacant, as empty as this month where time stands still and everything’s dead.

And i see angels, hear them, for surely they hang around when there’s naught else to do.

We’re bound together

by a thin red wire.

You hold me up with shaky hands

just to watch me tumble

down that hole.

You’re off with another,

but i’ll tug on that wire

and you dig me out

with a kiss on the eye.

‘I’ll never let you go.’

and i believe

because you say so.

The formatting’s retarded there. I should delete it. It’s a stupid poem and i hate writing poems unless they make me laugh while i’m writing them, but, whatever, i can do whatever i want here because it’s my stupid site.