Monday, January 29, 2007

Sunday, January 28, 2007

Cat I Stole

rock me rock me

rock me like you never did before.

Dragons, themselves, are uniformed and common phenomena. Their inherent plurality is decidedly individuated: what connects one to another is not a lake of fire or bloodline or even what we'd call genetic trifling. Heirlooms with dragons on them, on the other hand, are very sparse. People have been viciously slandered and eventually bedridden because of a family fuse blown over granny's dragon drawn rolltop desk or great uncle Theodocious's dragon wall clock--the one with the tail that ticks off the hours. You know.

If your man ain't jealous, I declare, he got an evil mind.

The last recorded encounter with a living dragon occured on the Isle of Mann in 1764. The seas were high and unforgiving. 17 men on their way out to sea for an 8 week fishing excursion encountered what they thought to be a series of small boulders on the coast. It had not been there three days earlier when they moored their boat and headed inland for supplies. There are no drawings and not a man among them could accurately describe how the thing moved when it finally did.

You should have been there last night and heard what the big dipper said.

In the particular instance of St. George, there are varying reports. The most interesting being the one that was turned into a house by Antonio Gaudi. How he turned the story into a livable abode happens to be unexplainable in and of itself, but it's there in Barcelona accosting the locals and pilgrims alike. His version has steel bars over the eyes, which are windows and the scales are the roof and I don't know where the sword comes in.

One guy I know thinks he's hard to get along with.

Friday, January 26, 2007


1 black IKEA $6 lamp, off.
1 astrological paperweight, 12 sided.
1 1/4" headphone jack.
2 blue post it notes with the names of blues artists written on them
1 fortune stating "Don't kiss an elephant on the lips today. Lucky Numbers ..."
1 Leatherman in leather case, appropriately.
1 Talladega Nights Schniglet.
2 letters from Stephen Failla Jr.
3 tags from a Le Tigre jacket, received in the mail.
3 W-2 forms.
1 computer screen.
1 pile of bills paid.
1 two year old pack of winterfresh gum.
1 clear plastic ruler.
2 harmonicas (key of G and key of A).
1 rubber and miniature hand with numbered accupuncture points.
1 civil war bullet.
1 canoe race silver medal.
1 buffalo head nickel.
innumerable stacks of paper.
12 pens of varying color and width.
5 packs of matches.
2 unfilled prescriptions.

Sunday, January 21, 2007

Plasma and playoofs

It's sunday and this is nostalgia:
and empty entrance into another form of life, something like pouring a glass of water. The glass before, the glass after.

I'm watching the Bears and Saints play and it's a pretty solid game. Snow's coming down and the Bears can't do anything on the ground and the Saints are looking like they should pull away if they don't turn the ball over in the second half, but we'll see about that. If Grossman can pull his shit together, then it'll be another story.

I'm coming to believe that I have too many Ryan Adams albums--this will be my small confession. He's entirely too productive. I guess that's not a fault, but something that sets me a bit green. This could also be reinforced by the fact that he reminds me somewhat of my ex-girlfriend's ex-boyfriend. Hmm. Embedded truths have a weird way of nudging their way to the surface of one's consciousness. In the middle of complete distraction, you could recognize them and then lose them as readily. It's funny how few things are ever really over.

The itunes library is incrementally growing, currently in alphabetical order and album by album. It's much faster work than it was on that ancient machine I had been running, but still takes a goodly amount of time. There is a stack of books sitting next to me that is just above knee high that I need to pour over and pull poems from, but distractions set themselves about me like pigeons on a wire. And I rarely do anything to scatter them.

How in hell did Berrian come down with that ball? Jesus marimba! The Saints are giving the game away. It's official. It's also good to know that my life is mine again. I don't rightly know when it went away from me, or when I pressed pause, but I'm beginning again to know the glass that started this and what's being poured.

A pearl of wisdom from an old hashed conversation in college with J.B.:
"I feel like life is a glass of that's full of the past. I keep drinking it down."
"Yeah, I know what you mean."
"But where does it go? I just keep swallowing and don't know where it goes."
"Well it's in us, I guess."

This is nostalgia: One day we'll all dig together.
For better or worse and whatever the hell that could mean. The glass before, the glass after.

Thursday, January 18, 2007

moss and fountain soda

The high lines of the train rumble overhead and water is coming on like it were fauceted, but the weather forecast says rolling stones gather at the bottom of a hill where everything they touched also gathers.

On the television two men beat on each other until they're bloody and afterwards a man cracks jokes about the day's events. The mail came and in it another name to be assumed, a girl's name that sounds familiar. Cigarettes are snuggled in their packs and sold. There are too many people here and they don't notice each other. A bottle of Coke costs two dollars. Only some of this is the matter.

The floor needs attention. Needy floor, sticky in spots. Watch out for this, and step carefully around puddles.

Step around carefully. Puddles. Isn't that a dog's name?

The joke goes like this: nobody gets it.

Wednesday, January 17, 2007

movement, glacial

sewing the gaps and plus. absolve continuous dramamine consumption. to do: listed like the curb and channel. here a guide, there an animal in people's clothes, and over there a little plastic phone to talk to. please refer to the future installment language on the back of this statement where the names of the lost are gathering. a mouthful of water, the body in training. there an aboslute conviction, here a crumpled newspaper. both printed under scrutiny, itself.

assign the topic and terms of your agreement. rough cut. cheeks ballooning and air that evacuates, a sound like water. to talk and talk with needles, a cut of fabric. the garden plants need tending. here a formica countertop, there a wispy t-shirt. the people gather their undergarments to hang and cry. the future is speaking accrual, a body of water in training. over there a little plastic bottle to sign away with motion.

Wednesday, January 10, 2007

Notice: Premier George Walker Bush did not say God bless you.

there are many truths: those that are without us and those that are with: the list at McSweeneys mentioned bottles of red wine late into the night and fighting depression, along with ham sandwiches in the park. The latter not being late at night, while both substituting for pina coladas and getting caught in the rain.

The premier Gdubya said may the author of liberty guide us. And then he went on and on about tigers. Look: that tiger’s got a long neck and spots, and that one over there is just a lump of grass, and that other one looks suspiciously like a precocious child—but you better watch, it’s eyes’ll getcha when you’re least expecting it. And the puffy-tailed fox-raccoon with the hairy eyes is a conspirator. They’re out for us. He kept saying in that comedic tejas drawl as his head grew filled with zoo animals. Look at that crazy ground tiger climbing them wires. If you pitted a single tiger against a whole army of turtles armed with throwing stars...

I am not asleep. There are the truths that we make to stand in for the truths that others suggest, and they all have little letters. I am not sitting at the bottom of a well with a pack of matches and my sore hands. I am not a train station in Indiana or the girl I thought could easily drink a gallon of milk.

Nobody ever sneezes at the end of a presidential speech, so I’m glad he changed his choice of words but the tigers in the grass and the tigers that are not striped but wearing wings and the lion that started this all and spiderman, even, who is called a tiger at the end of that second movie--they are all vicious and unforgiving.

Thursday, January 4, 2007

Playing with the babelfish

So this babelfish site is kind of fun and I threw a bundle of words into it and translated them through a couple of languages and back into English and this is basically what it came back to me as, though a little reshaped:

licked by the dog of family
Or laudanum. A sockful of the simple buttons. The care filled. What is lost in the collection. Tell me the wishes that you kept under your breath while the candles disappeared rotten. Your dissected name of the face of the cake and given around the room. Was it to descend your face in glazing, to be tasted and candy on each part. To want for inversions. You knew this at the edge of three bus you clean were licked by the dog of family. It is there in the images. With me that took longer. I never had a dog.
To the list which is repaired with card people:
friends always wish that we worry enough
We pay attention. As the whole of cork on the teeth of forks certifies. Cats and foreign cities that a dismembered Christmas tree placed under the legs. We will send the next year to them

if it can the conjecture that of nobody
about an else
and a cigarette does not think differently, smoke
to pay attention and smile
since you wrinkle

I am close, you steer clearly. You said it, each time,
if here compassionate is not you
like what you see, that, like, what you hear.
All the clap shut closet doors and dirty laundry on the floor. Since I am
there in the city, I smell finely for now. All to applaud it
doors of box
of wall closed and dirty laundry on the floor.

What it means to be amused with a head full of snot the color of alien blood. So this is how you begin to share...

Tuesday, January 2, 2007

The compassionate year

I stand by, you steer clear.
It's bowl season and the upsets are happening.

Asked what keeps him going at age 80, Paterno joked, "Good pasta, a lot of good booze. Drink some of that Kentucky bourbon."