women want to shag him and men want to be him

the aboriginal dick cavett AKA ryan manning has interviewed me for thunk. he is a walking internet recluse/enigma/meme/elvis and you can stalk him here.

i dreamed the sky was full of fireflies and the fireflies were lightbulbs. then i woke up and thought the sea was at my window because the wind sounded like waves and someone's windchimes sounded like caravels.


victory march, love is not a

strike that, reverse it. leonard cohen and 50,000 other vibrating vocal cords are singing hallelujah into my otherwise unchecked voicemail inbox. so make that one regret. partially that i am now duty bound to press nine every fourteen days for the remainder of the time i spend breathing. but partially also that i was not there next to a particular person while breathing.

yesterday was 100 degrees and today was 60 degrees and i blame televangelists. the heat summoned the insects from pockets in the earth and now they have nowhere to go. at night the insects sound like blinking cellophane eyes or sine waves or little knives sharpening. yesterday i went european because i had stopped thinking about razors and started thinking about how in a year i would braid my legs and underarms and it would be pretty. yesterday i had mapped out colder latitudes to inhabit shyly (reykjavik, saskatchewan, seattle, moscow, tierra del fuego, new york) and today i need a blanket. no more firestorms.

sean lovelace's account of running the boston marathon is both incredible and hilariously diverting. it could be that i am currently bleeding and listening to dylan, but i cried a little at the part about veering left at water stops then laughed at every mention of dog punting, every mention of subarus, and
the part about the man running with an oxygen cart in tote. expect nachos.



i've made a carpet of things in decay. i know one day i am going to wax nostalgic about newspaper ink and arctic animals and then quietly chant the fibonacci sequence in mandarin.

many good things at willows wept review, edited by molly gaudry. i am looking forward to her book we take me apart forthcoming from ML press. i really like this poem by crispin best. and his for every year project. contributing would likely be good for your health.

molly also has something at everyday genius, the latest spiral arm of publishing genius press which makes people better and air cleaner and subways less syphilitic.

i am not at coachella. so far i have no regrets about this.


warehouse eyes, arabian drums

i have a very small something in the april elimae. basically, cooper renner is amazing. said issue is a sweet sweet burlesque, lush with good company. it feels exotic to me. like opening your mouth and expecting coconut. it smacks of sandalwood. i like the tirumal mundargi story a lot. i love the penultimate line in jimmy chen's story, and the rest of it equally so (also looking forward to his book typewriter forthcoming from magic helicopter press). i love the ben mirov story, kimberly ruth's poem, howie good's poem, elizabeth ellen's story, dave erlewine's story. j.a. tyler's story is beautiful in its own tongue and in the way the words leaf and page are entangled, like how in some languages other than english those two things share one word. i love noah falck's poem. and i got to practice my arabic (eric nusbaum).

the april word riot is live. good things to surround and engulf there. dirty dirty amoebas.

i preordered kathryn regina's i am in the air right now. i am excited. i get paid soon and will go on another small book binge. maybe soon i will either need to sell organs and eggs on ebay or move to the shantytown in sacramento to support my addictions.

i had other words but forgot how they should sound when they emerge. or i forgot how to make them. my tonsils are little volcanoes sometimes. scheduled maintenance outage.


wild things

i dreamed the sea was made of polaroids, and in each polaroid was an eye, so that the sea was blinking by the million. when the waves washed ashore they were little glass piles of laminated paper. i was happy watching the polaroid waves but felt sad for them because they rolled with so much verve and form in the sea and seemed to just quietly collapse/die when they beached. a wave rolled in and i looked down at it. the polaroids flickered in and out of light like the individual squares of television snow, the eyes still blinking around my ankles. i woke up craving a burrito and with a flaming lips song in my head.

i have something up at juked. i am humbled to appear among some really fantastic people there.

john madera has compiled an obscenely epic novella list from recommendations by many cool people. this might take a while.

i like having a president who reads where the wild things are. i like having a president who can read at all.

on the topic of wild things, there is this:

maurice sendak + dave eggers + spike jonze + arcade fire. there is cause to be excited.



hope all is well in chrono-synclastic infundibulum. i salute you.

i did divide by zero, and i erased my math

i have had some green wine.

i have something up at the new DOGZPLOT. it's about fuck the po-lice and fuck punctuation while we're at it. the rest of the flash and the new issue is brilliant. i like j.a. tyler's story very much. i like the michelle reale, verless doran, elizabeth ellen, brian allen carr and ben tanzer stories a lot. i like the jay snodgrass poem very much. the entire thing is fantastic. barry graham runs a tight visigothic ship over there which consistently rapes and pillages my brain. i am happy because a small box from powell's books arrived containing barry's book the national virginity pledge, along with other tasty things (by j.a. tyler, shane jones, blake butler, ellen kennedy, david foster wallace, etc.), the absence of which were making me a philistine. there are wonderful chapbooks forthcoming, including kathryn regina's from greying ghost, and i am preparing a small list for round two. this is why i cannot afford a cat.

i have also been shamelessly stalking matthias svalina's napowrimo blog about how to become a very productive entrepreneur. i go through periods of flux between desiring to do nothing but write and desiring to do nothing but read. i currently find myself in the latter period which is probably ultimately better for western civilization.


got a poison headache but i feel all right

  • feels like my glasses are splitting my eyes chien andalou style. i had a dream once with a scene exactly like the eyeball scene in un chien andalou except it was a black opaque contact lens inserted into my eye which bisected the eye and the lens was a new hallucinogenic drug and my vision became pixels and people were laughing together. then there was a meeting of seraphs at a table and the other seraphs swarmed and set fire to the seraph at the head of the table and he turned to a pile of ash on the floor and a woman was sweeping the ash out the front door. the occasional passerby was glancing in with piqued interest. this happened in a coffee shop or something.
  • i've just made falafel and severely burned myself
  • i like how the vacation prize on wheel of fortune is always either in hurricane alley or a site of ongoing drug war and political upheaval. ways i am too senile for my generation? 1) i watch jeopardy and wheel of fortune instead of going out. 2) i still have no idea how an RSS feed works. i'm still trying to figure out whether it's something you download or a virus or if it's made of cassette tape and copper twine or if it's in fact something you eat
  • vague thoughts of should i get a twitter account? mild thoughts of no, increased social anxiety. yet temptingly devoid of unsolicited animated glitter cat valentine greetings from annoying bitches. and chuck palahniuk has one?
  • pronounced thoughts of why is there a tornado outside and am i on fire?
  • cats are the ultimate literary accessory. i think i need one
  • good weather for airstrikes. maybe i will go to the sea


hypnotic states

hello you are welcome in this granfalloon

maybe there is a wavelength
running into and from the brains
of people whose dogs had tumours
and died on their left sides
in crab grass
after another ascetic holiday
and these people wane together
and always they are volleying
with the practice of centuries
thoughts without ever meeting


albino hare

the new issue of breadcrumb scabs is also out today. it contains things i like by adam moorad, ray succre, maude larke and d.c. porder.

i think i need this. it's good that you can regulate the emoticon use and the ratio of J to K.