∞

the parasites will love you when you're dead la la la la la

since my last, i may or may not have gone certifiably mad. i cut my hair with kitchen scissors in the bathroom sink after a firedance with nihilism. i traded places with the ocean. i came at the circle from outside. the distractions sprout tentacled distractions which sprout other infinities. i offered myself as a temporary storage vessel to daniel johnston should he need to transfer his consciousness anywhere. i shook hands with the atmosphere and the economy. both had sharp canine teeth and positive things to say about the other, though i suspect this was the requisite social nicety. i set a serious deadline for infinite jest. i stopped communicating with people. i laugh maniacally at mentions of the challenger explosion and photographs of ronald reagan. i think often of appalachia.

and else has happened
say hello to my little friend



not that one. but similar.






i am a bad parent. i abandoned it on an escalator. i fed it dishwasher tablets. i let it watch scarface. i raised it in california. maybe you would like to adopt it? it could make a decent and biodegradable doorstop. you could practice your dart throwing technique on it. you could regale it with stories of vietnam. you could send it on an aeroplane to russia when you are done.

my humble thanks to michael at bedouin books for giving it such a handsome skin in which to live. i could not be happier to be part of the caravan. if you are not currently living in a cave, gourd, or tepee, my recommendations of their entire past and pending catalogue defy the gravity i have known.

if you do live in a cave, gourd, or tepee, perhaps you should contact me and we could combine resources.

i wish i had a horse's head; a tiger's heart; an apple bed

a series of redshifts

plenty gum soured in the cheek; half-hardened;
full-harboured
plenty remold wanting
plenty spit wanting
crowded palette; mostly distaste for gum



i will await the legalization of marriage to music. in the interim i will marry a six-legged cat who treats me badly. i will be popular in missionary-plagued countries. my profession will be taking bets on whether the human race succeeds in colonizing the jovian moons before the sun engulfs the earth. i will have 50 million years of job security.



heavy rotations of sparklehorse, grizzly bear, four tet. circling by the latter goes koyaanisqatsiward in influence i think. saturday by the former churns acidities in me today.



drunk all of LIT #17 & licking the bottle. deep digging sasha fletcher & anne boyer.

some news older than larry king

> kill author 5 (octavio paz) featuring eric beeny, molly gaudry, marvin k. mooney & & &

two things in/along/side madmen & madwomen i respect in pear noir! 3; and a carte postale about martin scorsese; and kgm's carte postale which is maybe my favourite thing by her ever

pank 4 i am told is circulating by owl express. happy to be nested there & excited for it to crash my mailbox

& rejection section. what's your confection?

& speak of cats, this at diagram

& a bewildering kindness; being an apospecimen award from a cappella zoo; thank you colin & else



tahiti 2.0

may your shade be sweet and float upon the lakes where the sun will be made of honey

jerome david

dreamed a submarine wreck & bear fetus in a petri dish
it hurt to have the bends

so long & thanks for all the bananafish



days are now swirling aloud with cancer
i now bathe during thunderstorms
congress is still a glorified fraternity house

here are some objects i adore enough to keep in my bed & wake strangled, bleeding & with indentations of them on my face

{first year}, mlp
i is to vorticism, ben mirov
play, mathias svalina
cheap headphones
six feet under season five

lately when i think of writing i visualize this



watching a lot of early conan
listening to a lot of neil young
rereading, refalling for we take me apart

this



new my name is mud
new series (pl.) @ pangur ban
this by eric beeny
believe my poorly-constructed yet sincere blurb and buy this
everything all of the time @ pank

the earth is not a cold dead place

amour telepathy for haiti

today is not a palindrome

j.a. tyler was kind enough to include something of mine in mud luscious X.0 alongside gena mohwish, david erlewine, adam moorad, zachary bush, andrew borgstrom, howie good, michael hessel-mial, more good people. meanwhile the man behind the curtain continues to put everyone to shame with 13 books in print and en route. there is much to anticipate and never a dull moment.

and then there is X.0
and diagram 9.6 containing roxane gay and ben mirov
and things which might give oprah an aneurysm were she to read them

cellar door

gorged on lists & the semantics parade
reached a pavlovian vomit reaction to xmas music

still climbing out of self-imposed brain valleys

right now there are kites in iceland


i want to put paul simon in my pocket & talk to him in open public

if i am honest i have no interest in self-defense

sometimes in los angeles it is fun to taunt the celebrities with your anonymity

here is why i rarely write "stories"
you can laugh it is healthy
thanks to crispin for making a generous warm place for it

my chickens are being razzed
my museum is being fucked
i am being taken apart

i find this film highly underrated
maybe try to imagine that's not enya

the contents of my lungs are mostly the result of a handful of supernovae and years of poor ventilation

out of practice. kneesliding. was near starting the i-am-dead rumour but i am neither a close enough nor a reliable source.

i have been in my state's capitol. home of barbara boxer, cactus, streets paved with VHS copies of the perennial classic jingle all the way.

it is hanukwanzmas. let's take off our kaftans and dance, fry up some latkes, set fire to indoor trees.



it has only just struck me that the year is taking the decade down with it. i am typically not aware of these things. when someone says something that implies what day it is, it usually comes as a surprise. i choke on the elements in my windpipe and am practically offended by wednesday.

my top five albums of the year:

animal collective - merriweather post pavilion
akron/family - set 'em wild, set 'em free
st. vincent - actor
the flaming lips - embryonic
grizzly bear - veckatimest

honourable mention is thao & the get down stay down

officially added to my as-yet pending top five books of the year:

kristina born's one hour of television. my favourite is page 79. the first line is "enter your house to win great prizes". what follows gives me good chills. i advise not operating heavy machinery during or after reading OHOT. i advise not attempting to sleep or walk or generally utilize any cognitive processes after either. j.a. tyler wrote a handsome review located here.

my punctuality is stunning

the new issue of > kill author = j.g. ballard = those cats have impeccable taste
read it or pygmies will stab you. true this is not a festive thing to have happen but probably best to take precaution.
this by crispin best makes me feel vodka-warm about where literature is going or where it goes in the middle of the night. maybe there is a wormhole in his chest which displays the future. someone should verify this. crispin is legend in this way. this is by a talented (non-internet, legitimate human) friend of mine. there are other brain cell-imploding materials herein by the likes of cami park, ani smith, daniel bailey, rc miller, more.

many great recording artists fell victim to bad production decisions in the 1980s. lately i have been listening to paul simon's bad 1980s production decisions.

what else?
bought tarot cards because i have no use for useful things + rain because the layers of city strata under ours are parched + admittedly hot for dexter morgan + directionally polarized lately and trying to parse things down + finally saw synecdoche, new york & was elegantly ruined, wordswept, lungs paper thin for two hours + missed that feeling + received and read the nightmare filled you with scary by shane jones and the feeling relapsed sweetly + fingerless gloves because the moon laughs its secrets and you are more apt to lure them out with dexterity intact

this carries not unlike the shining:

note found on pillow

i am redividing inside you.
have a nice day.

faux pas/fox paw

i dreamed i was holding a severed starfish in my palm. i welled compassion.

i am diseased. i know this because i do not recall swallowing any knives, syringes, bees, or matches. i have taken to writing any of the twenty standard magic 8-ball responses on post-it notes and attaching them to my throat.

reply hazy, try again.

today i am happily devouring the failure six and prose. poems. other good things in the queue/mail/future:

one hour of television - kristina born
mockery of a cat - lily hoang
i am richard simmons - ben tanzer
boots walking in america found a trophy - krammer abrahams
museum of fucked - david peak
when the cats razzed the chickens - mel bosworth

mel is awesome. you can see him lend his awesome vocal cords to some words i wrote here. you should subscribe to his awesome project. and order this now. it will stave off senility and baldness and give you x-ray vision.

and bedouin books just released howie good's ghosts of breath. it is beautiful and smells of clean band-aids and the adhesive lick part of envelopes. i once mistook someone for the adhesive lick part of envelopes. it happens.

binge & pear noir! & nano

i have been paid which means book binge. also there was that elephant chariot and monocle i wanted to buy.

i have a(n) (overdue) list which includes

the failure six - shane jones
adam robison and other poems - adam robinson
one hour of television - kristina born

prose. poems. a novel. - jamie iredell

&

pear noir! #3 is on the launch pad frothing. i get tourettes twitches reading the lineup. thank you daniel, patty & eileen for inviting me along for the ride.

NANO # 3.1 is also cracking its way out of the jesus egg. read this by jimmy chen. preorder a copy here.

wherein a bag of beans is on my back & other things happen

there is currently a microwaved bag of beans on my back. this is one way to tell whether you are loved. or a corporate slave and possible victim of aneurysm. in my mind there is no distinction between the two. my memory goes to bermuda these days. memory just traipses around ticking.

i saw the orionids and they were burning medicine.

(not the orionids nor a bag of beans)

massive thanks to the notoriously enigmatic editors of > kill author for this kind gesture. i think i want to elope to ukraine with them. make pixelated babies with legs growing from their heads. and definitely read j.a. tyler's jimmy and his father and the ways about them and emma j. lannie's proxy if you have not already and be as stunned as i am as to why my name has the fortune of appearing alongside theirs.

remember sammy jenkis.

ثلاثة

> kill author numero 3 is screaming wet. i trust > kill author to kill me. i would have their babies then promptly cover their heads with paper bags. within are these demigods: eric beeny, mel bosworth, jason jordan, michelle reale, drew kalbach, howie good, other megaliths. to tango with the likes of them is the most murderous of pleasures.












cur rent ly /// in side:

- kaddish, ginsberg
- walking the black cat, simic
- this by eric beeny at for every year
- follow by lauren becker here
- mediation by mel bosworth here
- embryonic, the flaming lips












- the dream of 13.0.0.0.0
- oil paint & blowdryers
- vodka, green wine & fiber optics

i'll eat you up i love you so

sabbatical

i dreamed i was skiing pregnant

i woke with blood on my pillow

i bought honey, acai,
acetaminophen, two lemons for the ill
read half of scorch atlas in a hospital parking lot
the hospital was under construction
the scaffolding was a monster's skeleton
its horns were elevator shafts in the future
this was when i realized
there is no one left in this town
who remembers the tact needed to speak to water

today i did not mistake tethered bear traps
for shoes
ankles will heal

let ferment the weathered objects

no engagements today
no people

just the only three kinds of leaves
of which one is paper

i have an idea for a literary magazine. but i think it would consume time i do not have pocketed to spend. i will invent harder about it.

i think caspian may be delayed until winter/early 2010 while bedouin books undergoes various metamorphoses. in the interim one day there will be nothing to show that we were ever here by scott alexander jones is out. i quite like this title.

some lately favourites:

- wood by shane jones
- a boy by lauren becker
- this by j.a. tyler
- this by keith nathan brown

meet me in montauk

drums, unscroll, ken jennings

my current gmail session displays this advertisement in the margin:


sleep apnea? play a didgeridoo.

there is a busker who plays didgeridoo and hang drums on the santa monica pier. he wears corduroy and birkenstocks. he also has a business card and a lexus.
i do not know whether he has sleep apnea.


this is a hang drum when it is breathing




there may or may not be dirt in the yerba mate i bought. nice fertile dirt full of bones and clay pots and other debris from civilizations built over. i wonder if this is what happens to fair trade in a bad economy. in lieu of money, compensate farmers with the water they would have otherwise used to clean the dirt off their product.

was wanting to delve into murakami for quite a while so i bought kafka on the shore.


sometimes i think about font. i think about it being a factor in the amount of attention i give certain words. i think words behave differently depending on what clothes they are wearing. words dressed in courier look like balloon animals. they are less dense, somehow allowing time to savour sound. they look like they live in refrigerator boxes and scream at intervals about endorphin bursts. lately i am giving arial doubt benefits. i think of arial as the lingua franca of online literature. it is best worn under flannel and probably sold at american apparel. do you enter different mindframes, or write differently, depending on font? do you have a weapon of choice? does font even matter?

unscroll numero trois is alive. the words there are dressed in times new roman and carry cocaine, percocet and dynamite in their briefcases. i am happy to have something there alongside andrew borgstrom, michael bernstein, jeff crouch, alex stolis, ben spivey, david peak, eric burke, jeanette marie sayers, and none other than cooper renner.

big fan of gargling cinderblocks by eric beeny. it is portmantotal magic. if you are asthmatic or infertile, reading this could cure that.

PANK is looking dapper. check out its makeover and september issue. it features teeth-kicking pieces by brandi wells, cami park and frank dahai, among many others.

so young to be tired so tired got younger

- 9 9 9. happy scorch atlas day.

- i start a new job tomorrow. am nervous. will need to relearn conversation and circadian rhythm. will need to limit tea intake to under five cups per hour. and no more snorting lines off the interns.

- there is a fan-severed fly corpse on the floor and i am leaving it there to remind me of how cliche televised funerals are becoming. i named him cornelius. i saw him happening toward death, tried to save him but he happened too quickly into the fan. pathos everywhere.

- i like this post by molly and the ensuing discussion. which reminds me of something entirely unrelated. i think wherever narrative is chronology or linearity, i am tired of narrative also. but narrative is many things. i too wonder whether the word narrative, what it wants to mean, is obsolete. i think narrative as understood sometimes becomes something elastic, and much like a label. i am reluctant to say everything is narrative and reluctant to say nothing is narrative. the word seems too easily rationalized. i considered dada. i considered whether there were words in the english language that can be placed on a page which are not anchors. like the word 'the' anchors something spatially and the word 'if' anchors something in time. maybe there are no words that are not anchors. maybe there is no answer other than just let language happen and evolve and nothing else matters. there is plenty of nothing from which many somethings will out. when there is nothing make more.

- some guy was twittering in congress. then larry king wore a rainbow pastel tie. real men wear rainbow pastel ties. except for the tie part.

- elimae and decomp this month are pocket-sized, but lethal. i like this by ravi mangla, this by lydia copeland.

- 1504. j'adore.

party like a sephardi

i bought a pocket-sized green moleskine that smells like chlorine and sex dolls.

a man in an israeli restaurant all but offered to be my sugar daddy.

i dreamed it was 321 degrees outside which is not far from the current temperature.
i dreamed i was sailing on sine waves. then on tectonic plates. then through downtown rome. the boat carved wakes in pavement. then salvador dali told me to join twitter.

currently inside:

- invisible cities, calvino
- columbia poetry review #22 (tao lin, dorothea lasky, noah eli gordon, joanne kyger, julia cohen, johannes goransson, gregory orr)
- a public space #8 (adrienne rich, mahmoud darwish, ben lerner)
- a shoegaze relapse; souvlaki by slowdive
- visiter by the dodos

currently want/excited:

this
this
this
this

heat delirium at the moment. polar shift. malfunction. considering sleeping under the riptide tonight. anemone pillows. ryan seacrest on fire.

zebras are reactionaries /// antelopes are missionaries

something tells me it's all happening at the ZOO
let's talk dirty to the animals

you are worth hundreds of sparrows

twice tried to see the perseids
twice fire obscured them
maybe october

watched lars and the real girl and liked it

listening to weather systems by andrew bird

someone gave me a voodoo bracelet with obscure black and white symbols on it. the bracelet may or may not be trying to kill me.

in print, currently inside these ---
zyzzyva (vispo issue), opium (infinity issue), tin house (appetites), redivider v.6.1 (thanks again, jason)

in electric, currently inside these ---
> kill author, PANK, the collagist, noö journal

if you are currently choking to death alone in your apartment and failing to self-heimlich against your desk, or if you are at a median point right now between an airplane and the ground and clinging to a laptop computer, you should read these words immediately and feel better ---

milk like a melted ghost by eric beeny @ abjective

xyrophobic me by mel bosworth @ PANK

downturn by stephen daniel lewis @ > kill author

gossamer by ben spivey @ > kill author

excerpt from human beings are toys by sam pink @ > kill author

important things to know about career girls by roxane gay @ > kill author

asdf;lkjadg;lkjxoimdfsv;slkerjowhbgs;lkcfff just read all of > kill author already

at the end of this story three months will pass by crispin best @ noö journal

sammy by jason jordan @ PANK

if you are choking very slowly, or a birdcloud has fastened its beaks to you and begun flapping its wings very hard, i highly recommend reading the above issues in their entirety because there is no lack of the what that is found in the where. ideally i hope neither of those things is happening in your direction. i hope you are safe and do not have to share your bed with spiders tonight and that someone is combing honey through your hair.