sexy hanging garden on a trellis with plums of sex

Thank you to Didi Menendez: I am a Man of the Web.

Yeah, that's what I thought too.

everybody everybody everybody knows


I do not totally regret life.
Sub pumps and chirp colored
crosswalks, Charlie tokens
and Yuri and Whisper and Pat
and then and who and hello.

Amherst is a box of scarfs.
Of cider and oak sweatervests.
Of scarf flavored doughnuts.
Portland's a basement of punks
with duct tape over the Prius.
Vancouver is a troop of bi
bicyclists who stir honey into
mate with drizzle sticks and zines.

Thank God Vancouver isn't Brooklyn,
God. Thanks. Meanwhile, I want to
shit on you if you walk a cinder
block across New Jersey because you
"must." Oroville, in the motels of the
AM hours, the new tattoos will keep
you up. Don't talk to me about must.

What is Santa Fe? Tallahassee?
Montenegro? Reykjavik? Perth?
I want you to meet this crook
in my foot and deliver it over,
over and over and ever again.

Ashley is sad that I'm not in
or anymore. You can take me
anywhere but I won't moor.
Ashland is Alex and Bryan
and who and hello in whose
kitchen. And then the hug is
suspect, maybe, a thing of
collapse. To skate on ice a
thousand miles a blink might
make for a pretty jail break.


dong dong dong

Someone's struck the pretty witch.


What I mean is this article, where Melvin Jules Bukiet denounces a lot of fluffy bullshit.

He is overzealous, sure, but come on. How is this not right:
Unfortunately, it’s false to all human experience to find “growth” in tragedy. In fact, the dull truth is that pain is tautological. The only thing suffering teaches us is that we are capable of suffering.

If you read Bookslut (or the American Scholar, I guess), you've already seen this article, but I basically want to invite my friends to read it. That's pretty much all this blog does. Friend invitations. Requests.

Carry on.


don't harsh my mellow


Green tea in a milk jug,
tap water in a wineglass,
fruit flies in a fixture,
the fake in this gesture.

Ketchup and champagne: AWOL
all morning. Millions of ball
oons that no one ever demon
strates for Powerpoints

or Sir Etcetera. The little
like of things okay,
the put it off skew--
tomorrow is all don't

harsh my mellow. How I;
I loll on you, my little um.

: yes

I don't know how to introduce this link. I very much enjoyed this post, and I empathized and identified with much of what Reginald speaks of. Not all of it. Everyone is a little bit their own language, which is usually a drag but is probably good for the time we have.

"Working Class Hero" from Reginald Shepherd.


growing old in 1849


You should invent a retarded hemp android
instead of playing bingo with your mother.
Age is not just the good ship New Excuses
but a way to like sad foods and clean
less teeth. Each day I want a little
said, a little different said, of and to
my face. O a lark the range of human salt.
O the luxury of handling a person's care.
O why did you turn the shower up cold?
Oh. Sorry. I only wanted us all to awake
mid-stride, amid the crockery thieves and
early bedtimes, stews and old sweatpants.
My thing is with getting from now on. Yes,
I would like to skip anything that lives just
so bad advice can have a job. But-- but--
The reason I never met you at the depot is
not clever. Please let go. I will pass out.
I like to build small promises and sew them
fast, but people keep slathering me these
looks--shit, just tell me what to do, okay?


a ^ versus a carrot

NOÖ Journal [seven] is online!

That is font size seven for issue seven. Victory.

In other victory news, I have completed my 1st Visit to New York quest and saved the princess. Thank you, Nick. I will see the realpoetik reading at the Bowery Poetry Club on October 4th and probably buy a bagel or something.

What else should I do in New York? How do I get a peanut butter stain off my shirt? Which is more dire? Do you like Dire Straits? I don't.

Here is a picture of the old York:


ass power

a call after 'the project'
by Jack Christian


the distance between us is like how motivated i must be to wash the dishes

On the first of May, I told you "all" that I would blog long blogs about emoticons, rollercoasters and Airborne. Will this happen? Think of it this way:

1) The sun still holds some sway over the ocean

2) Steve Earle doesn't appreciate the fact you can probably check your email from an Amtrak train. Um, I couldn't, but theoretically sure.

3) Noah and the Whale's "5 Years Time" is the best pop song since last Thursday. Or since commedia dell'arte.

Ergo: if you care about me at all, please post a picture of breakfast (any kind is okay; do you eat red beans and rice for breakfast? great) in the comment section. Practice your image linking. Goad [me] into something.

P.S. Not my! photos.


new york sleeping bag

New York sleeping bag found. See above.

A few people have asked about pictures. Here are some pictures from my cell phone.

You know exactly what's going on, you just don't want to admit it.

Emilie was born on a Zeppelin above Paris, Texas.

Chris is a maximum strength antacid tablet.

"How is it going over there, Mike?"

This is the picture from high up in the UMass library which a Friends character might take and post on his blog.