3.27.2007

little brother thinks the road is straight and fine

I'm so backlogged with email that I never blog.

I am frustrated.

3.20.2007

100th post: out of control identity destroying poem posting frenzy

You Are a Nice Young Singer-Songwriter

You are a nice young singer-songwriter.
Two kinds of alcohol: one for hand sanitizer,
the other for barley wine and cheap wine.

You are not willing to hop a train.
Seamus is and slays the mandolin.
Charlie's in jail for having a dumb beard.

You are, at the moment, a talented hairdresser.
Politics is full of people in mobile caravans
who spend one night per month 100% sobbing.

You are a nice young singer-songwriter.
Eighty-four profile views today, nineteen plays,
well-mannered queries to the MP3 blog I Guess I'm Floating.

You are frugal when it comes to groceries.
Honestly, I will sleep with any haircut
out there. Sleeping is not that weird, sir.

You told your family several lies at Christmas.
Now you're stuck in Montana without a tire jack.
Townes Van Zandt had, for a soul, a squirrel nut zipper.

You are a nice young singer-songwriter.
Everywhere you go your fingers are slender.
Some of your meals are excellent and free.

The lute, the lyre, the songs for God and Madonna,
dangling from the tongues of the children
with the blackberry stains and the games.
Ash hands, ash hands: we all fall out, boy.

3.07.2007

avery has a slice backhand

In other words, I once played tennis with an older gentleman named Avery. But I also just published a short piece in a new anthology of fiction called Avery:

Avery 1 Cover


There are stories from Stephen Dixon, Ander Monson, Dean Bakopoulos, and Richard Grayson. It's a healthy size. I'm not done reading it, but I enjoy it. And every story has some awesome illustration. Snag a copy, maybe?

3.05.2007

NOT! : barrage of confident overtures

What Do You Owe Your Zip Code?

Hey, no smoking
on the go-karts.

We skid stopped past the
off ramp to browse this van:

a cult's old blankets
and off-season Clementines.

That's nice, that bracelet
jingles like a dancer caught

her ankle in the algae.
She is a Viking slave.

Take now, a night hiss,
a slur of proud-ass barns

and the crooked tickle
of satellite dishes.

Squint for rainy promises
or the rainy promenades

that never go down.
Oh, this is no cello analogy
you weepy motherfucker.

These parking lots
are places to park.

Issac sells safety
razors in the arcade tent.

You may try to barter
with a fist full of

swallows. Let me say
this just this once:

That's a long ass way
from a deal.