odd. odd. odd.

I spent most of my evening photographing an 66-year old friend photograph an orgy with a bunch of friends and the weirdest and most interesting thing I saw all night was a beetle having a fight to the death with a spider in my parents basement. I swear. You'd think the spider would've been more brazen, but it was in retreat mode the whole time. A classic rope-a-dope technique. There was no way it was going to be able to punch or bite through the hard exoskeleton, so it was going to have to tire the bugger out.

Life is interesting sometimes.

[currently listening to NEW YORK LATIN HUSTLE]

going for a stroll

working backwards from now, naked on a futon, between two box fans and a grown woman

the chapter of the book is called "necrophiliacs anonymous". the book I'm reading, not the one I'm writing. that chapter, at this point in time, is tentatively titled "chapter two"and if I actually finish it, it'll be the artistic high point of the last two years

an ambulance sits in the alley, with its motor running. a girl with glasses sleeps in the passenger seat. the driver's seat is empty. the back window is fogged.

the girl with the fake name rides by on her bike. she must have just gotten off work at the bar. she's monochramatic except for tghe lipstick (like a Frank Miller comic), and put together well. I'm not, so I don't say anything.

I got her real name once, when I was working as a doorman and bouncer.
slight power corrupts slightly, to the point where I'll go up to a pretty girl, introduce myself, and tell her I like her art

a carful of hipsters slams into another car full of hipsters on logan boulevard, and shit stays mellow. one house is all yard, with an elegant birdfeeder, another has it's own waterfall and lagoon. these are not the people who complain about gentrification, and they are not the people who gentrified the neighborhhood

I steal a crazy man's bench by the statue when he walks away, and instead of confronting me when he returns, reasons that the invisible people he was yelling at, have moved to a different bench anyway








[currently watching EVERYTHING IS ILLUMINATED]

the only two poems I ever bothered to memorize

I ran into Ari yesterday. She was on her bike heading for the 20khz open mic and she'd been given bad directions. When she went off in the right direction, I thought about heading out, but I didn't want to bring anything so I tried to remember if I could remember any of my old performance pieces. Amazingly, I did. Here are two old poems that at this point, I'm prouder of memorizing than I am for writing.

1. This one is dumb but it used to win teen slams when that's what I was all bout. It was never meant for the page, because a lot of it is humor derived from changing my tone, pace, and inflection. The way to make it work was to go up, talk really slow and awkwardly, play off my nerdiness so that when I got all oddball and slammy, it was a kick, and when I got to the rapid fire part at the end, it was a surprise.

I'm not Black Jesus/Chewing the Fat

I may be a bad mamma jamma
A grand master slammer
And a badmothershutyomouthI'mtalkinaboutSANTA ANNA, motherfucker
But no matter how hard I try
I will never be
BLACK JESUS

For most people, this wouldn't be much of a loss
But when you've...
Achieved
As much as I have
You just wanna reach for the stars
But it's no use

When I have a child
When the time is right
I will tell hm
Or her
Or them
Or it

"Son (or daughter or whathaveyou), THIS is AMERICA
And with a little hard work. you can be anything you want
Except BLACK JESUS
Don't even try cuz the world will pass you by, and call you a lotta things that ain't half as nice as BLACK HESUS"

So I see Flava Flav on VH1 the other day
And I don't cry
Because thugs don't
But I feel like I should shed a tear
For the world has passed him by
And I tip my bottle
And I tip my cup
And salute

It's the Flava
It's the Flava
you wifebeating cracksmoking motherfucker you
It's the Flava Boyeeee
and some girl says she don't wanna hear it, she says "My virgin ears"
My virgin ears (?!) would maje a Q-tip like a dildo
but this is too sophisticated a basis of metaphoric imagerey as situationist philosophy
so I sit back
watch Fox news
and sketch out a poem about Britney Spear's titties

a spurt in the shurt left hurt the fans with the plans to sing and to dance and romance like the idol she is til she became his a virgin to the surgeon who sees them to ease and to please like a sacrificial cow but just how did the best breasts in the west barter a martyr and how does it feel to be Generation Y

a little girl cries
but who cares
cuz pop music sucks anyway
amirite?


2. This one I wrote after one of my friends OD'd. I was really broken up about it because it happened at my house and I knew he had a problem and I was trying to get people to not give him drugs. I wanted to write something about it when I found out but I didn't have a pen or paper so I wrote something that rhymed so I would still have it in my head when I got home. The grammar in the beginning is fixable, and it would look less stupid on the page, but it sounds better when I read it this way:

[Never Titled]

He was the hostest
With the mostest
With the most voracious noses
Until an accidental overdose'd
Black him out on Sunday night
And he wouldn't see the light til Monday
Without the help of
Intravanous intervention
And how much prevention would've kept him out of the ICU
I dry my eyes because I knew
Because I knew and didn't bother
To take the time to tell his father, and
Sometimes even a junkie'll believe his own charm
When he left Sunday night on his friend Tim's arm
I told him to get home safe
Only six blocks away
From his own neighborhood
Perhaps the walk'd do him good
But
There's a demon that inhabits his alcoholic mother
That rides the double helix of the man that I call brother
And from or for this demon his whole life had given chase
And maybe he wasn't meant to make it back to his Dad's place









[currently listening to "Onward Christian Slater" by Bert Susanka]

why Sarah and I shouldn’t work together

a partial list of things we make jokes about that confound our coworkers, especially the one who seems like he wants to look cool around us

Anal Cunt
Zines
Pogroms
Papa Legba and Baron Semedi
Too Much Metal for One Hand

there are more, and I'm here for one more day so there probably will be more as well.

In other news, I've been doing data entry til my eyes bleed. The highlight of my last tw working weeks was when I was filing some guy's info. His na,e was [something] Ognenoff and his email address was beef_strognenoff@[something].com.

[currently listening to JUSTICE]

someone tell me I’m a good person for not strangling the cats

A couple days ago, I washed two blankets just to see if the dryer worked. It didn't. It took about twenty minutes, prodding it with a paperclip and hitting it with a shovel to get it going, but I finally got the blankets dry.

I come home today and find a bunch of cat turds on the two blankets. My bed has about six fucking blankets spread out on it right now and the cat went right for the two that were just washed.

Not that the rat is any better. I just washed his cage and changed his litter and the thing still fuckin stinks. But Bukowski is my rat and I love him. The cats are Autumn's, they have no interest in cuddling, and they have stupid, retard paws instead of hands.

So please, someone tell me I'm a good person because the cats are still breathing.








[currently listening to MANU CHAO]

national public radio wants me to do crystal

seriously. it's like one of two drugs I've never tried. I mean, sure, if you overdo it you could get one of those nasty purple holes in your cheek, but my friend _____ had one of those, it healed up, and now she's ten kinds of hot, and there's not even a scar.

there have been two shows this week that have bandied about phrases like "meth is the perfect drug for artists" and "there's no such thing as writer's block on meth" and "after a couple months I was just swimming in my clothes"

I think I should do it.
Maybe it'll get me a job at Vocalo, so I have another radio outlet once WLUW gets raped, cut up and served up by the administration at Loyola.

an outlet that pays me
pays me enough money for meth.
and maybe shoes.



according to a David Sedaris anecdote on This American Life, "crystal meth makes two kinds of people: bad artists and good sex partners." I've already got a foothold in both camps, so I should probably go whole hog about it.






[currently listening to THE GOSSIP]