thunderbirds are actually cats. sorry. you should have been told sooner.


No, not "home" -- you haven't even bought
a real lamp. Friends you tell them all of
flesh and local compromise, this act is
act this, ignore that, silly rabbit:
you are not where I reach at in sleep.
I sign birthday cards on the night bus.
Sundays I jar the apple mash for Bea.
When you say always with the fucking
apples, you mean: "Bea? Listen. On you
he stews so much that he cuds this new
love. Chews later. Who does that shit!
Love has a half life and molders or
something." And so we go, each among the
other, a game of open hand demand, with
marbles suspected beneath the skin.
We suspect sex on a train in the woods.
Maybe a bad call, a drunk walk in April snow,
a boxing match to story up the scar you
won't. What want do you hoist and schlep
to town? What will you bet? This, he says,
and scoots across a tin of yellow mints.
Okay? We lift our cards, avoid the tell.
We try to guess whatever look we share.


lonely people are evil

A pathetic, sadistic screed by Josh Olson about two lonely women and the things that happened between them.

No wonder History of Violence sucked.

Josh Olson's new theory is that he is the final arbitrator of "good" and "evil" because he can cuss a lot and isn't fat or something, I think.

Since I can't legally re-post the picture that wraps the story, please make sure to look at it here. You might have to scroll a bit: it's after the paragraph where Josh Olson hopes the woman in the picture gets murdered.

Yeah. She's a regular minotaur. Go get 'em, Josh.

Okay, this is a seriously weird "moral" issue and I want to know what sorts of reactions might spill. Please comment.


apple pie air freshener

I just finished reading a William Gay story that mentioned "an autumnal look of distances." Which is vague, abstract, overly clinical and clunky with vocabulary--but also perfect. No more Nick Drake records needed. That clause is a linguistic summary of Fall.

In other news, I have a story coming out in the new Backwards City Review. I lost a contest to someone with a complete sentence for a name (BJ Hollars), but they decided to print my story anyway. BJ's excerpt makes his story look pretty cool. One time I had a friend named BJ. He went out with a girl I knew from theatre, and I seem to remember something about strip poker and an orgy. Another kid I knew from theatre moved to Sacramento and spends most of his life now "clubbing," high on E. "Clubbing." I think clubbing is 3% dancing, 4% E, 5% going to the bathroom, 25% drinking fruited vodkas, and 63% sitting outside, bumming cigarettes, and talking shit about people in the way of a drum machined powered Truman Capote knockoff.

My story is about a nub.

Please order a copy of Backwards City Review and read it.

Support literature.

Literature has more E's than E.