blog, poem


Folks get upset about the wind; but you gotta sweat it out once in a while, and then the wind is lovely.

Girls have that way of turning your day around. Backwards. Upside down. Just because they wore a dress, or they said your name right.

Eat it up, it’s good for you.

Love is just a measure of how quick you will forgive ’em. She could run her truck through your bedroom walls and you’d still hold her tight. She does no wrong, and you kinda like the way she pisses you off. She knows when to piss you off, and how to do it, and just how much, so that she’s still held tight.

No matter what you say, you’ll fall in love again. It isn’t up to you.

I think pancakes are always better when someone else orders them. I think people should walk on sidewalks as if they were driving on a road. Slow to the right, please. I gotta get somewhere.

I think it’s sublime that I was once a child. I think it’s sublime that I no longer look like one.

This beer has a metal lick to it, like a pipe, like the one you move around a Clue board.

I think the folks we despise have something we secretly want. I think some folks hate the president because he has influence. I think some folks hate themselves because they’re afraid of wanting that thing they want. I don’t have the fix, but I guess it starts with owning your faults.

Eating dead things will make you feel dead. Sometimes it’s that simple.

Sex used to be the drive, and now it’s maybe top 10. Same goes for keeping up with fashion, facebook, and all the rest of it. The world is too loud. There’s no room for the piano.

A piano in a hallway, stuck between two bedroom doors. Chopin’s Nocturne 55, number 1. Four chords, a melody, a lazy afternoon, and dust in the lightbeams.

This is lovely. All of it.

A striped shirt, a snowy blue behind her, light hair in a loose knot on top the skull, a slight smirk, aware of the lens, aware of her elegance, bathing in it, cheekbones, a nose. A virgin neck, a naked collarbone, loose ends falling from behind the ear. She is lovely.

Power grids and a nightmare that fucks you up for a while. Ice cream “dates” that are only dates in retrospect. A general sense of dread. Entwined ankles and exotic kissing between unreal gasps, gusts of wind through the open window. A summer of erotica.

The quiet Tuesday night that brings it all back.


blog, poem


I ran around for a couple hours on Sunday; the sun was spilling yellow all over the place, and the city kids had it stuck on their clothes. When I finished, when my legs fell out from underneath, I tore open an orange and took in that nectar, that orange juice.

Two hours before, I watched a video of a man yelling into the desert sky, hollering about the urgency of being on the planet. The man cares and you can hear it in his voice. He’s out there yelling “your lungs are temporary” and “this dirt is so special” and “ah!” all loud, all over the desert. Listen to this man.

Listen to him!

Makes me want to shout it out. This earth is so goddam special. Being alive is jazz hands. I am so stoked about this.

Met a chick a couple nights ago who asked if I thought she was a “tit” and it made me laugh out loud. A real good chuckle, as I waddled back to my subaru, hobbling on my achey knee (on account of all the sun-running). That laugh echoed into the chilly night.

Dipped this mint tea bag into the hot water and took it in.

Stop listening to the shitty irony. The type of nonchalance that spews from the mouths of folk who grew up thinking it’s cool to not care about anything. I am so sick of this. I am so vehemently sick of this. Instead, you must rip out your heart and staple it to your sleeve.

I’m calling you out. Give it up.

The only two resolutions I’ve given myself this year are to give more gifts and meet more people. I think about my uncles who would walk around town shaking hands with everyone, holding doors open, making the chat. People love that shit. I love it, too, when the chat is nice and easy. I want to say hey to more strangers.

I’ll run a marathon in february. I’m not ready, but you’re never ready. That goes for it all.

Sometimes you have a dream that you’re waking up next to your old lover, and you don’t think twice about it. You just roll over onto them and fall back asleep in their hair. There’s no doubt that you can love someone your whole life, regardless. I wish we could be more honest about that.

Fuck, shit, and goddam are three words that academia is lacking.

Dallas Clayton is teaching us how to love again.

Wherever you go, leave flowers in your wake.  Leave flowers in your wake, burn pastel memories into the gray.

I’d like the girl I love to be there, at that race. I’d like her to be holding up a sign that says something good, something that gets my toes to the very end. I haven’t been too good about keeping love around, but I’ll work on it. One day, she’ll be there, and she’ll love me, and I’ll love her right back.

You gotta tell people exactly what you want, because traffic is loud and everyone is on their phones. Say it slow and well, and do 80%. Only then will you find your help.

I don’t think we need coffee scented candles, really. You just gotta put a pot of coffee on.

Certain words just grab the eye right, like “occult” and “pestilence”. The best part about writing is juggling around the alphabet and bending up all the rules. Lots of folks tell me I write nice, and I always tell them to read Kurt Vonnegut.

I read more Vonnegut this december. He has a way of springing up from the page and flopping right into your tomato soup:

he was watching the clouds. they were lovely things, and the sky they drifted in was, to the color-starved space wanderer, a thrilling blue.” – The Sirens of Titan

“A thrilling blue.”

That’s a good juggle.

I don’t preach it a lot, but eating vegetables is the truth. Everything else is poison.

Bowling is also the truth. Don’t chill with anyone who doesn’t want to bowl. They’re probably the same kids tweeting about wanting to die (ironically), forgetting that they will (unironically).

When your birthday comes around, take a minute to read all the comments. Chances are, you’ll be taken back to a real happy time with everyone that scribbles on your wall. Chances are, most of these people won’t know each other. But they all know you.

Weed is worth smoking once, but it’s not worth smoking once a day.

I want to give more gifts because it taps into the real warmth. Better if the gift isn’t something you can buy. For some odd reason, I think about the line Bradley sang back in ’95, about giving all your money to charity. The Chili Peppers sang about the same thing. A lot of us teeter on the edge of giving it all away.

I think we give it all away when we run marathons. When we conceive. When we teach a class, when we jump off a bridge somewhere tethered only by our ankles. When we hold up signs in the bitter wind at the end of the race.

I ran around for a couple hours on Sunday; the sun was spilling yellow all over the place, and the city kids had it stuck on their clothes. When I finished, when my legs fell out from underneath, I tore open an orange and took in that nectar, that sweet orange marmalade.



In the desert, all wide-open,

and upside-down,

the yellow sun raked the sand.

and the six-toed ants

dug black holes into the crusty salt,

burrowing and dotting the earth with whiskers.

I saw in the glimpse of some hellbent mirage

the shape of your bellbottom hips

and sunday afternoon polka dot blouse,

the thought of it now bringing me cigarette tastebuds.


upside-down, I watched your vicious knees

bend to the sound of some distant trumpet horn,

your face snarled in a ragtime menace

your spine curved like a yellow fingernail

your hair ripping across the naked sky like a dragster on asphalt,

I could not breath, like coughing,

everywhere ashes coated my molar gums

and burned my thirsty eyes

and the terrific razor scream of that hellish brass

rattled through that big old place,

that big old empty space, that desert.


In the desert, all wide-open,

and upside-down,

the yellow sun raked the salty sand.

and the orange sky squints like cataracts

through that fingerpaint blur

to find your face sour like lemons

and cold with thick disdain.

as my knuckles hang like rope in howling winds

and echoes sing your body song

a dance atop the whiskers,

the ants swallowed in the tremors

the ants buried in their home.



Elephant Pulse

I’m having an anxiety attack.

Fucking christ I’m having an anxiety attack. I want to just write and not delete a thing and have this anxiety attack on paper in front of you so you can read it and feel it and feel claustrophobic and asphyxiation and slobber and tension and fucking hell all the shit that’s pushing into my heart right now and through my veins and god damn it.

I’m having this anxiety attack and it’s in regards to a couple of years ago when I felt really really depressed, just extremely depressed, and it was the hardest time of my life and it was the hardest thing I had to do, but I had to do it, and I think that’s what regret feels like, because I still think about it all 700 something fucking days later. Fuck. and I miss it, there’s a sick disgusting feeling inside of me right now that wishes I was depressed in december 2012 again because for some reason it felt very very very familiar and very very very similar to the feeling you have of home, except it’s not a good feeling it’s a bad bad bad feeling but it still feels really really good for some fucking reason and I want that feeling right now and I want december 2012 right now right now right now.

I’m having this anxiety attack because I want to want to have sex but I feel no sexual drive like I used to. You grow up as a boy and you want to have sex with everyone and now suddenly, all of this year in fact, I haven’t wanted to have sex with anyone. It’s just not a feeling I have anymore. It’s like 7th on my list of priorities and shit I think about and that’s terrifying. I feel like I’m too young to not want to fuck everything in sight. I’m only 24 why don’t I want to fuck everyone.

Fucking christ I’m having this anxiety attack because I want to be somewhere else so bad. Everything here is just used up, like an empty box of crayons, it’s all just used up. I have nothing else to do here. I want to be somewhere else so I can make a new me and start from some other beginning and live some other life that’s not this one. I want it because it’s so close and I just want it so so so so so fucking so so so so so bad.

I’m having this anxiety attack because I need to feel accomplishment every day. I got a fucking haircut today and I almost had the anxiety attack I’m currently having because this lady just lives her life and she fucking hates it and I felt it for her because she wouldn’t look me in the eye not once she wouldn’t look me in the eye and that broke my fucking heart because this lady cut my hair off and didn’t look me in the eye once not once not one time did she look at me. She just lives her life and cuts hair and that’s it and I felt the misery and emptiness and lack of purpose and accomplishment that she lives with I felt that through her fucking hands when she was cutting my hair and not looking me in the eye.

I’m having this anxiety attack and I’m typing this fucking anxiety attack out so quickly. My fingers are just pushing these keys down and there’s tons of noise below my nose just tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap a million fucking taps and it’s loud and it’s relieving in a sense but mostly it’s just pushing more blood through my fingers and through my brain and my thoughts are faster than you could ever imagine and I’m wondering if by now you are even reading tap tap tap tap tap or if you’re pissed off at me tap tap tap tap tap tap tap or if you’re pissed off at your mother of if you’re shopping online for some fucking cardigan for Christm tap tap tap tap tap tap or if you’re getting fatter and older or if you’re wishing you could fuck me in some life or another or if you’re wishing you didn’t fuck me in this life tap tap tap tap tap tap tap or if you can literally hear every fucking thing I type because this goddam keyboard tap tap tap tap tap is so fucking loud that I tap tap tap tap tap tap tap

I’m having this anxiety attack and I don’t want to check my phone and I miss all of my ex girlfriends and I love all of my ex girlfriends and I miss all the people I ever fucking met in my whole life I miss every single one and I’m realizing that you can’t forget anyone you can’t forget anybody you can’t forget them they are always in your head always they are always going to be in your head every single person. I’m having this sudden memory of a friend from first grade a friend from first grade, his legs were dysfunctional, his name was Victor and he walked on crutches and I fucking vividly remember the way he walked around school he was in first grade with me and one day I went over to his house to play and he would fucking walk into his room with his crutches and it’s funny to think about that memory because as a kid I paid no heed to the fact that this kid couldn’t fucking walk like me and that he needed crutches I just knew him as Victor and I just can still see him walking in my head just walking along with his crutches and that fucking breaks my heart a bit now, but it didn’t then.

I’m having this anxiety attack and I wonder if anyone knows what it means to be alone what it means to really love being alone what it means to float what it means to love someone even if they didn’t have any legs what it means when someone tucks you in at night what it means to have a cesarian section what it means to know every single planet in order what it means to lose your mind just a little bit just for a second because that’s what a fucking anxiety attack feels like and I hope you can feel that because it’s fucking terrifying and I wonder if you know why you are alive and I wonder if I hadn’t gone if I would be here and I wonder where I would be if I did and I wonder I wonder I wonder I wonder I wonder a million a billion a trillion fucking things all day every day and I wonder if anyone else wonders anything at all.

I’m having this fucking anxiety attack and I wish she just looked me in the eyes just once.