Enemies

Max and his friend were in their lair in the basement. Stella and I were in our lair in her room. We hid under the blankets. We received this letter. So we were like, bring it, bitches!

Better Person

Perhaps I could drink less or do the laundry more. I may be able

to more frequently extend gracious gestures to strangers.

I could be a better teacher, father, husband, brother, and son.

I could be a better musician, lover, graphic artist and writer.

When at a restaurant, a person could always leave a larger tip

and I am certainly a person. Today, I saw a person flagrantly

litter and I did not

get up and retrieve the litter, but I did condemn her

in my mind, thinking, I was better than she was. I could be a better

person than that. I should probably be more gracious

with my forgiveness and should probably be less

hopeful for apologies. I'm really awful on the whole.

I should probably purchase less gas, less energy, less water.

I should do so much less. I should do less so much more

often. It's impossible to catch the guy who is leading

this race. But I could try harder. That's what I'm doing, Tina.

Motherfucker! What do you think this is about?

Meeting Arrangements

Arranging meetings is part of life and must

be attended to with

the same diligence applied to other aspects of life that are likewise

attended to. First, there must be a person elsewhere and

he or she will have to find a spot in the universe

coinciding with your spot in the universe

and at a specific hour, etc. In a perfectly namable

set of coordinates. How nice it is to have numbers! or not, especially

when they mislead you

into thinking an equal sign that might not even be possible.

You have hopes!

You make phone calls!

You do this stuff in anticipation of something, man!

This isn't just good times until it becomes something more.

A whole lifetime happens and is gone, in a sad way,

out of the door over the dirt floor.

You are alone with memories and voices through communication

devices

and just a small, still drop of water falls through

your beard.

A tear in your beard is a very great country song.

Though the education one receives about song-yness

is lacking, one must trust in something

to be pure about. Without some sense of self-rightousness

we'd all be naked little imps with no hard on.

Believe me, I'm open to certain possibilities! Trying!

Loving the Affected

I was standing there, like, no way! I'm not fucking kidding!

No way!

But there was another reality and that was a real deal happening

that was, like, not "no way," but, like, "yes, man, do it."

This terrible place in life that we move into, it's not ours for the taking,

rather, it's just ours.

Imagine the way police cars screech through traffic in a 1970's cop movie.

Imagine the reality television shows that show you humans who are worse

than yourself.

When you really consider the details, it's staggering. Or not. How do

you appreciate an older movie star actor or actress?

Do you like blue jeans and strut? Or satin and suave? It's not an

important question,

but not asking it would be a dereliction of duty. Course, there is

no duty, only empty fainting sounds.

The whole cast of faintees is semi-upset by their involvement, while

they understand there is no choice.

The ape in the circus is fake!

The cape and the top hat are fake!

Your little moon is beautiful!

Around the Area

The area around the area is the place

you're trying to find. You want to find this place,

lay down in it, rest your head or whatever

and then, man, you just deal with it.

This area, this placed area, is between the

verge and dirge of something else.

Many lonely people have witnessed and wrestled

with an extremely fast blue grass song, so much

so that there's nothing left at all to hear, even

the fiddle player who rattles in a number of

different directions at once, even that sound

couldn't be emptier. My whole life, with

people around me, many of whom I love a lot

and some of whom I get very tired of, we are

like cabins in a forest, drifting through the woods

only because none of us are real. Dear red-headed

children, dear lost little robins, dear poor deers,

rabbits, strong avian types, and whiskery cats, please

hear these problem I am trying to pinpoint. You know,

consider yourself a fucking dobro if you have to,

but the point is that you elaborate toward

something very funky and right-thinking. It doesn't

matter to any of us if you live or die. That's

not really the issue. There's something more to

consider, just understand what you're getting into,

Tina.

The Crime

Being a criminal is situational. Either

the situation or the act happens or

other things may happen. It's often awfully

ambiguous. The situation or action is

often palpable but also possibly not

happening. What doesn't happen happens

often. Often, the non-happening is happening

so frequently that you can't even feel it.

That's when the law gets involved and

they start hassling or not hassling you,

or taking you into to custody or not, and,

my friend, there you stand as a regular asshole.

Not alone in the world, but not exactly as

part of a team. At those moments you freeze

into an idiot that nearly everyone knows. If

they don't know you, they think they do or

want to. It's all the same. Meanwhile,

a goofy quilt of sameness seems ill-formed

and loopy. Like stupid after-dinner mints

and other ideas that aren't good or bad all

on their own. I just make it up. Like you,

a poor imagination.

Videos! Music! Animation! Just Click!

Little Bird, Little Church

The Bombs

No Cure

Yes, Dear

Something Under

The Scary Hinge

Devil Overcoat

Above are youtube videos I made of songs from "Horses in the Chest". You know, I know nothing (other than what I learned doing these) about making videos or animation, but it's been a terrific way to waste tons and tons of time!

Hurts

There is an action in the world referred to as

suicide and people take this action from time

to time and they leave behind friends and family

and loved ones of other colors and then those

people live with the loss of the person who used

the suicide action to leave this place for something

better. I don't mean for heaven, or nirvana, or

some sort of beach resort where there is always

an open bar and open buffet and parrots saying

words and beautiful people walking around in

angelic bathing suits. The something better they

are after is simply something not here, and so

they go, to see what is not here. And what they leave

behind is what is not here, anymore. They leave

this space that was once full of humanness but is

now full of a complete unfullness. And we, the people

looking at this unfullness, feel anxious and scared

because it was all so simple and so easy to accomplish.

To watch the world drain and become empty is easy.

There is suddenly more air everywhere. Everywhere

you look all you see is more air. And air is a good thing

but more air is scary and so you try to breathe it

all in as quickly possible. There is this idea that you

can convert it to life. And you can. It just hurts.

Kent Johnson Has Ideas about Poetry! Poetry! Poetry!

Kent Johnson was critical of the fact that I allowed some of my poems from Poetry! Poetry! Poetry! to be included in The Best American Poetry 2010. So he wrote me an e-mail and told me. I appreciated his interest. Then he asked me if it'd be cool if our exchange was published in a newish, very cool, journal from Micah Robbins, Sous Les Paves. I said, sure, okay. So that is what is above.