January 2012
1 post
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the click of miracle
at the quarterhorse meet at Hollywood Park around 5 p.m. if you are sitting at ground level in the Pavilion the track appears to be above you and in the strange shadow- sunlight the silks are so bright the color is like fresh paint on canvas and the faces of the jocks look heroic. it’s a grand time then a perfect and peaceful photograph dream- ...
December 2011
8 posts
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Too Sweet
I have been going to the track for so long that all the employees know me, and now with winter here it’s dark before the last race. as I walk to the parking lot the valet recognizes my slouching gait and before I reach him my car is waiting for me, lights on, engine warm. the other patrons (still waiting) ask, “who the hell is that guy?”
I slip the valet a tip,...
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John Ruskin Considers the Nature of Water, Circa...
A found poem from Ruskin’s Modern Painters
Now the fact is that there is hardly a roadside pond or pool which has not as much landscape in it as above it. It is not the dull, muddy, brown thing we suppose it to be; it has a heart like ourselves, and in the bottom of that there are the boughs of the tall trees, and the blades of the shaking grass, and all manner of hues, of...
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Terms of Endearment
Sweet biscuit of my life, I’ve been thinking of your smile and how I’d steal a little bite of it if you were here; of the delights I’ve known in the alleyway between the whitewashed storefronts of your teeth; of how I’ve pressed one smithereen after another of mille-feuille, mousseline of late-night conversation upon your lips, forever poised at the brink of...
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Prince - Little Red Corvette
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Holy Ghost
The congregation sang off key. The priest was rambling. The paint was peeling in the Sacristy. A wayward pigeon, trapped in the church, flew wildly around for a while and then flew toward a stained glass window, but it didn’t look like reality. The ushers yawned, the dollar bills drifted lazily out of the collection baskets and a child in the front row began to cry. Suddenly, the...
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World, I am your slow guest.
November 2011
11 posts
1 tag
What’s for dinner tonight? Red wine and tylenol.
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Voices on Jukebox Wax
Pulling our Stetsons low, we whispered songs to sweethearts who clung so close we danced in slow motion, heartache of steel guitars, vows we swore with our bones. Their hair was the air for an hour. We breathed and held them close, ignoring the war for the night, voices on jukebox wax winding around like a rope. One week we kissed them hard and rode off, swearing we’d bring back...
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I’ve been trying to upload a song for the past 15 minutes and it’s not working out. And yeah, it’s totally a Drake song.
Whatever, Amy Pohler. It’s Friday night and you don’t know my life.
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I got a Netflix account to stream a movie I wanted to write about for a class. I didn’t watch the movie yet, but I did watch all of Better Off Ted. 13 hours later, I can only declare it a success.
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Lady Lazarus
I have done it again. One year in every ten I manage it— A sort of walking miracle, my skin Bright as a Nazi lampshade, My right foot A paperweight, My face a featureless, fine Jew linen. Peel off the napkin O my enemy. Do I terrify?— The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth? The sour breath Will vanish in a day. Soon, soon the flesh The grave cave ate will be At home on me ...
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October 2011
21 posts
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As I Walked Out
Don’t tell me you’ve never dreamed of this – of waking in a room with a wide open window,
the air clear and ringing after night rain; of needing no other reason than a sky
the unbelievable blue of which sends you flitting deftly through the house
past the year-old jar of nails and flies, the pile of dishes in the sink, and out the back door
where you’re caught for an instant...
Lately in the mornings I’ve been waking up curled into a corner of the mattress. It makes me think that it might be too cold to always be sleeping alone.
It’s not that I want to be in a relationship again. I don’t even really miss specific people anymore.
What I want is to just to lay my head on a boy’s chest, and feel him breath softer for me.
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I want space to be by myself and my thoughts, and I’m going to take it. Sorry, loved ones.
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safe
the house next door makes me sad. both man and wife rise early and go to work. they arrive home in early evening. they have a young boy and a girl. by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house are out. the next morning both man and wife rise early again and go to work. they return in early evening. By 9 p.m. all the lights are out.
the house next door makes me sad. the people are nice...
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Waiting
Left off the highway and down the hill. At the bottom, hang another left. Keep bearing left. The road will make a Y. Left again. There’s a creek on the left. Keep going. Just before the road ends, there’ll be another road. Take it and no other. Otherwise, your life will be ruined forever. There’s a log house with a shake roof, on the left. It’s not that house....
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XXL had Tyler the Creator interview Nas for its upcoming November issue. Here’s an excerpt that starts off delicious and…takes a dark, unexpected turn.
Do you like cheese? I love cheese. Cheddar or Swiss? Swiss. Cheddar for the most of my life. Today, it’s Swiss. Sick. That’s cool. I love fuckin’ cheddar. That’s my shit. Why? Why did you ask? I don’t know. I just want to know. I...
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253 →
a novel for the Internet about London Underground in seven cars and a crash
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Forgiveness
Father Cahir kept us holy. He smoked cigars in the confessional. He had a distracted air about him, as though he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do next. I don’t remember what he taught. History, probably. It was his liberal attitude as a confessor that made him a legend. No matter what you confessed to, he always barked out the same penance: “Three Hail Marys and...
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Watch
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Mambo Cadillac
Drive me to the edge in your Mambo Cadillac, turn left at the graveyard and gas that baby, the black night ringing with its holy roller scream. I’ll clock you on the highway at three a.m., brother, amen, smack the road as hard as we can, because I’m gonna crack the world in two, make a hoodoo soup with chicken necks, a gumbo with plutonium roux, a little snack ...
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Catalog with Illustrations
The beauty of an old desk blotter where ink stains grew into the shapes of ships in a turbulent ocean, and the ticking of the clock in the sunlight thickened by dust. The clacking of the typewriter keys, the big zipper sound of the carriage return, and the sound of the struck bell muffled in the drapes. The air was rich with time, when there was still time. The letter ripened...
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It’s Decorative Gourd Season, Motherfuckers. →
September 2011
29 posts
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Phone Call Idyll
I want to live in a town where the women wrinkle their eyes and say “Mmmmmmm,” a little sexy. Like, a small town where it’s a morning in early spring, and things smell sweet and dead like cold sand or a chewed-on pencil, and the wind twists the STOP signs, and you don’t have to go to work or school, just drive around all morning, drive past the...
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Tegan and Sara - Love Type Thing
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Windy Evening
This old world needs propping up When it gets this cold and windy. The cleverly painted sets, Oh, they’re shaking badly! They’re about to come down. There’ll be nothing but infinite space then. The silence supreme. Almighty silence. Egyptian sky. Stars like torches Of grave robbers entering the crypts of the kings. Even the wind pausing, waiting to see. Better...
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No thirsty dreams last night, but my lips feel pretty dry. A trade off.