So I realize I haven't done shit in months. Well. Life kind of got in the way with things like mono, grad school, oral surgery, and cat cancer. Anyway. I have a new chapbook coming out soon and a more traditional zine and two cooking zines. I'm reading at an event called Blacker than Blago at the Gacy Hole in Pilsen this coming Saturday (see also: February 13th) and I'm tabling at Chicago Zine Fest in March.
Are you excited? I'm excited.
8.2.10
7.2.10
A new project located on a new site.
Hey everybody. So I have a new project thing going. It's got some audience participation to it and it can be found here: http://frequentlyamandaquestions.blogspot.com/
Here's the explanation behind it:
Okay. So this is a piece I’ve been working on since October 2008. It’s set up like the F.A.Q section of a website only it’s a mix of the personal essay, the lyric essay, prose poetry, and various other types of experimental nonfiction. A few sections from this were expanded on in If Only We Could Be As Civil As A War.
Anyway, this is where YOU, faithful reader and supporter of the literary arts, come in. For a five dollar donation you, 1. can help keep a roof over my head, 2. help this project eventually have a real website built by someone who isn’t a jackass with minimal HTML skills working within Blogger templates, complete with it’s very own domain name, and 3. can influence the directions in which this piece goes.
How do you influence this piece with your donation? It’s kind of like buying a brick when a school builds a new gymnasium. As the whole piece is centered on frequently asked questions, you get to submit a one sentence long question/essay prompt. Maybe you want more of what I’m afraid of or what I’m thinking about or fuck, maybe even what makes me happy, just so long as the question you ask is something that can be answered in essay/prose poem form not Formspring form. I will use every prompt I receive and if it’s something awkwardly worded or something, I’ll communicate with you on it. And once it gets a real website, I’ll have a page of contributors or benefactors or what ever you’d like to call yourself.
So how you buy this prompt is as follows: you click the little donate button on the side of the site and donate five dollars. You then email your name and prompt to ae.tee87@gmail.com. I will have your prompt written, posted, and indexed within three weeks.
And if you don’t really want to donate but still like think it’s cool and stuff, feel free to click on a couple of the ads and check back frequently.
I would also like to add that once I am employed and a website is taken care of, any continuing donations that exceed hosting fees will be split between a fund to print a book after a couple of years and a group of revolving charities including Plea for Peace and the Icarus Project.
Here's the explanation behind it:
Okay. So this is a piece I’ve been working on since October 2008. It’s set up like the F.A.Q section of a website only it’s a mix of the personal essay, the lyric essay, prose poetry, and various other types of experimental nonfiction. A few sections from this were expanded on in If Only We Could Be As Civil As A War.
Anyway, this is where YOU, faithful reader and supporter of the literary arts, come in. For a five dollar donation you, 1. can help keep a roof over my head, 2. help this project eventually have a real website built by someone who isn’t a jackass with minimal HTML skills working within Blogger templates, complete with it’s very own domain name, and 3. can influence the directions in which this piece goes.
How do you influence this piece with your donation? It’s kind of like buying a brick when a school builds a new gymnasium. As the whole piece is centered on frequently asked questions, you get to submit a one sentence long question/essay prompt. Maybe you want more of what I’m afraid of or what I’m thinking about or fuck, maybe even what makes me happy, just so long as the question you ask is something that can be answered in essay/prose poem form not Formspring form. I will use every prompt I receive and if it’s something awkwardly worded or something, I’ll communicate with you on it. And once it gets a real website, I’ll have a page of contributors or benefactors or what ever you’d like to call yourself.
So how you buy this prompt is as follows: you click the little donate button on the side of the site and donate five dollars. You then email your name and prompt to ae.tee87@gmail.com. I will have your prompt written, posted, and indexed within three weeks.
And if you don’t really want to donate but still like think it’s cool and stuff, feel free to click on a couple of the ads and check back frequently.
I would also like to add that once I am employed and a website is taken care of, any continuing donations that exceed hosting fees will be split between a fund to print a book after a couple of years and a group of revolving charities including Plea for Peace and the Icarus Project.
22.7.09
How were we born into this mess?
Tiny bits of tobacco have made their home scattered across my bed, lap, keyboard. Essentially nothing within a three-foot radius is immune to the loose tobacco. Your bad habits slowly became mine too as my heart traversed all the miles between us like a tumbleweed.
I started smoking your favorite cigarettes to make you seem more real when you felt physically intangible. If I could taste you, you weren’t just an apparition of a chilly backyard acoustic show and a month of anticipation that culminated in a tender night spent in a hotel room where everything felt warm and full the only time that winter. If I could taste you, you weren’t just a voice, frequent messages sent via some sort of electronic medium, and a void in my bed that felt too cold and too big all winter long. Blake Schwarzenbach from Jawbreaker was right when he asserted that it gets loneliest at night in “ Kiss The Bottle.” You’d tell me how much you wanted to be there to keep me warm while I slept but that didn’t happen until things fell apart leaving me dropping these tiny bits of tobacco everywhere as I clumsily go about the slow rolling mechanics and the formation of saliva seals.
I do this alone in my bedroom because the night that you infiltrated my heart, you infiltrated my lungs as well. What made me decide to brave the two hundred some miles between our lives was standing nestled together, shivering in that alley a block away from your campus. Something about our sporadic kissing and taking alternate drags off of your cigarette, the last one, in an effort to keep a little warm charmed me in a way I didn’t understand then and still don’t now despite the fact that hindsight is supposed to be a perfect 20/20. From then on, cigarettes were your placeholder, filling the gaps in the empty days until I’d see you again.
I do this alone in my bedroom at three o’clock in the morning because I’ve barely got the hang of it and it’s still too messy of a process to be done in public. It’ll likely always be too messy of a process to be done in public. My mother always tells me, “It’s a good thing I didn’t name you Grace because you don’t have any.” I can’t say that she’s really all that wrong. I wonder when you learned this. Was it just from my sheer clumsiness that leads to my shins being forever bruised? When I called you drunk on the way home from an awkward party and told you I missed you and I was sorry if I was being annoying, I just missed you so much and I kissed the bottle when I should have been kissing you? Was it just from knowing me?
I do this alone in my bedroom at three o’clock on a Monday morning because I am approaching the end of the free packs having handed half of them out under the guise of smoking but not being a smoker. I don’t think this label fits so well anymore these days. Though I’d lean on you sometimes, just to see if you were still there emotionally, I smoked to feel you physically when you weren’t there and now that the distance has quadrupled, my wallet can’t handle you if you come in a pack. So three dollars and some assembly required it is.
I do this alone in my bedroom at three o’clock in on a Monday blinking back tears because anything with a filter tastes like a bone dry version of your mouth. At a thousand miles away and barely talking, you’re reduced from the hand I thought I needed to hold in order to conquer the world to a black cloud in my lungs. I swear I’ll get you out of there someday, somehow. I’ll quit when I stop loving you or when I stop listening to the same Jawbreaker song on repeat thinking about how I painted you a prettier picture, baby. Or maybe I could quit if you came home and we tried to be like we were that fall: a little young and a little dumb with our vices keeping us warm when we couldn’t fully be there for each other.
I started smoking your favorite cigarettes to make you seem more real when you felt physically intangible. If I could taste you, you weren’t just an apparition of a chilly backyard acoustic show and a month of anticipation that culminated in a tender night spent in a hotel room where everything felt warm and full the only time that winter. If I could taste you, you weren’t just a voice, frequent messages sent via some sort of electronic medium, and a void in my bed that felt too cold and too big all winter long. Blake Schwarzenbach from Jawbreaker was right when he asserted that it gets loneliest at night in “ Kiss The Bottle.” You’d tell me how much you wanted to be there to keep me warm while I slept but that didn’t happen until things fell apart leaving me dropping these tiny bits of tobacco everywhere as I clumsily go about the slow rolling mechanics and the formation of saliva seals.
I do this alone in my bedroom because the night that you infiltrated my heart, you infiltrated my lungs as well. What made me decide to brave the two hundred some miles between our lives was standing nestled together, shivering in that alley a block away from your campus. Something about our sporadic kissing and taking alternate drags off of your cigarette, the last one, in an effort to keep a little warm charmed me in a way I didn’t understand then and still don’t now despite the fact that hindsight is supposed to be a perfect 20/20. From then on, cigarettes were your placeholder, filling the gaps in the empty days until I’d see you again.
I do this alone in my bedroom at three o’clock in the morning because I’ve barely got the hang of it and it’s still too messy of a process to be done in public. It’ll likely always be too messy of a process to be done in public. My mother always tells me, “It’s a good thing I didn’t name you Grace because you don’t have any.” I can’t say that she’s really all that wrong. I wonder when you learned this. Was it just from my sheer clumsiness that leads to my shins being forever bruised? When I called you drunk on the way home from an awkward party and told you I missed you and I was sorry if I was being annoying, I just missed you so much and I kissed the bottle when I should have been kissing you? Was it just from knowing me?
I do this alone in my bedroom at three o’clock on a Monday morning because I am approaching the end of the free packs having handed half of them out under the guise of smoking but not being a smoker. I don’t think this label fits so well anymore these days. Though I’d lean on you sometimes, just to see if you were still there emotionally, I smoked to feel you physically when you weren’t there and now that the distance has quadrupled, my wallet can’t handle you if you come in a pack. So three dollars and some assembly required it is.
I do this alone in my bedroom at three o’clock in on a Monday blinking back tears because anything with a filter tastes like a bone dry version of your mouth. At a thousand miles away and barely talking, you’re reduced from the hand I thought I needed to hold in order to conquer the world to a black cloud in my lungs. I swear I’ll get you out of there someday, somehow. I’ll quit when I stop loving you or when I stop listening to the same Jawbreaker song on repeat thinking about how I painted you a prettier picture, baby. Or maybe I could quit if you came home and we tried to be like we were that fall: a little young and a little dumb with our vices keeping us warm when we couldn’t fully be there for each other.
18.7.09
And Remember To Have Your Hopeless Self Spayed Or Neutered
The blue television glow washes over real life as you’re held down, nose plugged to have the confirmation of your present status force fed to you. Left upset and confused, you sit rubbing your sore cheeks where the fingers dug in to pry your jaws apart so that you could ingest (but certainly not willingly accept) this all.
Though you can’t seem to comprehend why anyone would waste their time standing for hours on a southern California sidewalk in a stupid t-shirt waiting for the chance to wear a nametag and jump up and down like an idiot, the glare of stage lights seems all too familiar as does the embrace of the washed up former improv show host now in the gameshow business as the successor of a man so old he likely reeked of formaldehyde as others are being called down to talk of wristwatches and picnic baskets. They rattle off numbers not sure whether to trust the screaming crowd or to follow their guts. And if they follow their guts, the slightly rotund bespectacled host finds them quite maverick for some unknown reason.
Once they get this wristwatch and picnic basket right (and will you look at these awkward first prizes) their next task is to make sure a little plastic guy doesn’t step off a cliff or to drop a hockey puck down a maze for what they hope is a new car but is usually just fiber tablets and some ugly plates or something. This accumulation of junk is all in anticipation for what these people hope will be the big one. Though first they must spin the wheel that is the biggest game of chance in all of this. Sure it’s possible to be brilliant at guessing games but nothing short of telekinesis will guarantee that this wheel will spin and stop in the spinner’s favor.
Now for the successful spinners. What is this next stage, the big show? Can you call it that? It’s just more guessing games and potentially shitty prizes.
This, my dear friend, is where you come in. Showcase number one. You’re a big deal because it feels like the person bidding went through a lot to get to you. But let’s face it, there’s nothing too outrageously special about you in comparison to showcase number two over there. You’re a brown velour couch in such an unattractive model that you should likely be called “the davenport” should you ever actually reside in one’s home and a blue tandem bike. Congratulations, you probably have the words Eagle Twin Cruiser tattooed on you somewhere or perhaps Stanley Fine Furniture.
As this couch and bike, you don’t feel like so much of a prize next to showcase number two, it’s a motherfucking trip to Hawaii. It’s all sunshine and gorgeous scenery while you are the textbook definition of awkward, especially if you happen to come with a lifetime supply of laundry detergent this week.
So of course you’re going to be passed upon by the one with the best wheel luck. This act will be much to their competitor’s dismay. And this competitor will feign enthusiasm as he bids upon you because you’re still better than walking away from this supposedly climactic moment empty handed.
There is a chance that both your bidder or his competitor will win both you and that trip to Hawaii. Should that happen, you’ll likely be shoved into the basement and forgotten until those couple days of paradise are over and then you’ll occasionally be a comfy place to rest one’s head.
Otherwise, it’s a 50/50 shot you’ll walk away the victorious showcase with the less than triumphant television quasi gambler. You’re still comfortable and quirky in your composition yet you’ll never quite be that once in a lifetime opportunity he was hoping for.
So you sit and ponder values and the tragicomic that this system of them seems to create and you can’t help but wonder if we can all be more than four days on the beach or a shitty couch and impractical bike if this system is reevaluated.
Though you can’t seem to comprehend why anyone would waste their time standing for hours on a southern California sidewalk in a stupid t-shirt waiting for the chance to wear a nametag and jump up and down like an idiot, the glare of stage lights seems all too familiar as does the embrace of the washed up former improv show host now in the gameshow business as the successor of a man so old he likely reeked of formaldehyde as others are being called down to talk of wristwatches and picnic baskets. They rattle off numbers not sure whether to trust the screaming crowd or to follow their guts. And if they follow their guts, the slightly rotund bespectacled host finds them quite maverick for some unknown reason.
Once they get this wristwatch and picnic basket right (and will you look at these awkward first prizes) their next task is to make sure a little plastic guy doesn’t step off a cliff or to drop a hockey puck down a maze for what they hope is a new car but is usually just fiber tablets and some ugly plates or something. This accumulation of junk is all in anticipation for what these people hope will be the big one. Though first they must spin the wheel that is the biggest game of chance in all of this. Sure it’s possible to be brilliant at guessing games but nothing short of telekinesis will guarantee that this wheel will spin and stop in the spinner’s favor.
Now for the successful spinners. What is this next stage, the big show? Can you call it that? It’s just more guessing games and potentially shitty prizes.
This, my dear friend, is where you come in. Showcase number one. You’re a big deal because it feels like the person bidding went through a lot to get to you. But let’s face it, there’s nothing too outrageously special about you in comparison to showcase number two over there. You’re a brown velour couch in such an unattractive model that you should likely be called “the davenport” should you ever actually reside in one’s home and a blue tandem bike. Congratulations, you probably have the words Eagle Twin Cruiser tattooed on you somewhere or perhaps Stanley Fine Furniture.
As this couch and bike, you don’t feel like so much of a prize next to showcase number two, it’s a motherfucking trip to Hawaii. It’s all sunshine and gorgeous scenery while you are the textbook definition of awkward, especially if you happen to come with a lifetime supply of laundry detergent this week.
So of course you’re going to be passed upon by the one with the best wheel luck. This act will be much to their competitor’s dismay. And this competitor will feign enthusiasm as he bids upon you because you’re still better than walking away from this supposedly climactic moment empty handed.
There is a chance that both your bidder or his competitor will win both you and that trip to Hawaii. Should that happen, you’ll likely be shoved into the basement and forgotten until those couple days of paradise are over and then you’ll occasionally be a comfy place to rest one’s head.
Otherwise, it’s a 50/50 shot you’ll walk away the victorious showcase with the less than triumphant television quasi gambler. You’re still comfortable and quirky in your composition yet you’ll never quite be that once in a lifetime opportunity he was hoping for.
So you sit and ponder values and the tragicomic that this system of them seems to create and you can’t help but wonder if we can all be more than four days on the beach or a shitty couch and impractical bike if this system is reevaluated.
10.6.09
A Schedule of Sorts
I'm doing two, maybe three readings this month and hosting two shows. These are things you should come to.
Friday June 12th @ 7pm*
Kitsch Cave (3040 N Spaulding unit B)
Musicians:
New Science Projects
Kids of Cons
Plum Union
Muyassar Kurdi
Readers:
Amanda Tague
Rosy Phinick
BYOB/vegan snacks/bring whatever you feel like sharing.
Donations to touring acts encouraged/accepted
Sunday June 21st @ 7pm Might have a vegan potluck attached to it.
Jurassic Park (1120 W Fullerton 3f)
Musicians:
Billy Mack Collector
Raechel Lee Ann
+tba (will update soon)
Readers:
Amanda Tague
Rosy Phinick
Donations to touring acts encourages/accepted
BYOB not frowned upon
Saturday June 26th Vegan Potluck starts at 730pm show at 8pm*
Kitsch Cave (3040 N Spaulding Unit B)
Musicians:
Red Skeleton
Plum Union
?
?
Readers:
?
?
Hey kids, so this is kind of what I'm doing for my birthday this year (it's the 27th and I figure hosting a show the night before is better than buying myself glass cowboy boot mugs and a glockenspiel like I did last year.) Originally there was a touring act but they found a show in Urbana that day but this is still going for "Goodfucking bye 21, you were too turbulent for my taste"s sake. I am still working on booking this at this juncture in time. emails me @ tague_k6@hotmail.com if you happen to be interesting in playing or reading.
BYOB/vegan snacks/bring what you want to share.
* The Kitsch Cave, like most house venues, runs on a little thing called punx time. That time is to get you here by intended start time (7pm=8pm start and 8pm=9pm start) That potluck however, is listed at proper start time. Got it?
Friday June 12th @ 7pm*
Kitsch Cave (3040 N Spaulding unit B)
Musicians:
New Science Projects
Kids of Cons
Plum Union
Muyassar Kurdi
Readers:
Amanda Tague
Rosy Phinick
BYOB/vegan snacks/bring whatever you feel like sharing.
Donations to touring acts encouraged/accepted
Sunday June 21st @ 7pm Might have a vegan potluck attached to it.
Jurassic Park (1120 W Fullerton 3f)
Musicians:
Billy Mack Collector
Raechel Lee Ann
+tba (will update soon)
Readers:
Amanda Tague
Rosy Phinick
Donations to touring acts encourages/accepted
BYOB not frowned upon
Saturday June 26th Vegan Potluck starts at 730pm show at 8pm*
Kitsch Cave (3040 N Spaulding Unit B)
Musicians:
Red Skeleton
Plum Union
?
?
Readers:
?
?
Hey kids, so this is kind of what I'm doing for my birthday this year (it's the 27th and I figure hosting a show the night before is better than buying myself glass cowboy boot mugs and a glockenspiel like I did last year.) Originally there was a touring act but they found a show in Urbana that day but this is still going for "Goodfucking bye 21, you were too turbulent for my taste"s sake. I am still working on booking this at this juncture in time. emails me @ tague_k6@hotmail.com if you happen to be interesting in playing or reading.
BYOB/vegan snacks/bring what you want to share.
* The Kitsch Cave, like most house venues, runs on a little thing called punx time. That time is to get you here by intended start time (7pm=8pm start and 8pm=9pm start) That potluck however, is listed at proper start time. Got it?
10.5.09
News. I have some.
So I made a little book. And I have copies on sliding scale sale/trade if you would like one. A copy will cost anywhere from free to three bucks or I'll take something you made with your own two little hands as a trade. If you would like one, email me at tague_k6@hotmail.com and we'll work something out whether it's a trade, a sale, or some other form of bartering system.
The book is called "this is my moat. these are my sharks. this is my drawbridge on fire." and contains three short essays, each one making up it's own section. Each of these pieces is a study in vulnerability in it's own way.
*********************************************************************************
I'm done with busting my ass on building a reading series for the South Loop Review now. (I paid 900 dollars to do a job that desperately needs to exist for an entire semester. Actually, the number of people working for the magazine who actually have time to really WORK on the magazine as much as it deserves/needs is super low.)
This means I will be updating this more and will be working on way more fun stuff. Like more books, writing/putting together some performance pieces, and whatever else I want to. I'm putting my etsy shop back up soon. Like bike tire wallets? Like little felt plushies? Like random charm earrings? What about scarves and crochet jellyfish pins and other assorted oddities? Yes? No? Maybe? Okay, good. I'm probably going to stick some books up on there too.
I'm working on one to two more books and a couple performance pieces. Subjects may or may not include awful parenting and Bruce Springsteen, inadequacy and Bob Barker's old job, and how the fuck does one make a costume of a moose that dresses up as Morrissey and does kind of a drag show?
****************************************************************
One final note: I'm doing a performance/reading at the Ball Hall Wednesday May 20th. It'll be way fun as there's audience participation involved.
Musical acts also appearing that night include Muyassar Kurdi, Aimee Bueno, Plumunion, and The Boy With The Broken Jaw. Lab Dance is doing something too.
It's at 8pm at 1621 N Kedzie and will only cost you a donation to the touring band if you're so well inclined. Also, I'll probably be bringing baked goods of some sort to this thing.
The book is called "this is my moat. these are my sharks. this is my drawbridge on fire." and contains three short essays, each one making up it's own section. Each of these pieces is a study in vulnerability in it's own way.
*********************************************************************************
I'm done with busting my ass on building a reading series for the South Loop Review now. (I paid 900 dollars to do a job that desperately needs to exist for an entire semester. Actually, the number of people working for the magazine who actually have time to really WORK on the magazine as much as it deserves/needs is super low.)
This means I will be updating this more and will be working on way more fun stuff. Like more books, writing/putting together some performance pieces, and whatever else I want to. I'm putting my etsy shop back up soon. Like bike tire wallets? Like little felt plushies? Like random charm earrings? What about scarves and crochet jellyfish pins and other assorted oddities? Yes? No? Maybe? Okay, good. I'm probably going to stick some books up on there too.
I'm working on one to two more books and a couple performance pieces. Subjects may or may not include awful parenting and Bruce Springsteen, inadequacy and Bob Barker's old job, and how the fuck does one make a costume of a moose that dresses up as Morrissey and does kind of a drag show?
****************************************************************
One final note: I'm doing a performance/reading at the Ball Hall Wednesday May 20th. It'll be way fun as there's audience participation involved.
Musical acts also appearing that night include Muyassar Kurdi, Aimee Bueno, Plumunion, and The Boy With The Broken Jaw. Lab Dance is doing something too.
It's at 8pm at 1621 N Kedzie and will only cost you a donation to the touring band if you're so well inclined. Also, I'll probably be bringing baked goods of some sort to this thing.
4.4.09
What Are You Afraid Of?: Things That Go Bump In The Ocean
Charming, handsome, intelligent, and will stone cold murder you. These characteristics are incredibly representative of two distinct mammals: Ted Bundy and dolphins. That’s right, dolphins are the Ted Bundys of the sea.
I don’t know what it is about them that is so terrifying beyond the fact that they’re more intelligent than a large percent of the population (including supporters of NPR) and some scientists believe that they are actually smarter than all humans and just got the short end of the stick. I just can’t bring myself to be okay with any sea creature that may or may not be smarter than Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Leonardo Di Vinci combined unless it’s Nessie. I would be one hundred percent okay with Nessie being that smart because Nessie doesn’t possess that smug dolphin face. I can’t trust that shiny wet mug. The gloss in those eyes seems to be made of sheer murder. You, too, would be pissed off if you were brilliant and had to live in oceans that those insipid little humans fouled up with their garbage and their oil spills and their vomiting over the railings of cruise ships after too many pina coladas.
Once while on vacation in Florida with my family, I went into this gift shop. While perusing the goods I bumped into something I thought was a person. I looked up to apologize and I saw that it was a man with a dolphin head wearing a wetsuit. I scream and immediately run out of the store thinking my worst dolphin nightmare had come true and that they were indeed trying to take over the land. Five minutes later my grandma and brother find me shaking and crying in the parking lot. Apparently, the nightmarish man-dolphins were mannequins with Plexiglas dolphin heads attached. I don’t know the identity of the sadistic bastard who thought that one up but I am almost positive I hate him/her.
I don’t know what it is about them that is so terrifying beyond the fact that they’re more intelligent than a large percent of the population (including supporters of NPR) and some scientists believe that they are actually smarter than all humans and just got the short end of the stick. I just can’t bring myself to be okay with any sea creature that may or may not be smarter than Stephen Hawking, Albert Einstein, and Leonardo Di Vinci combined unless it’s Nessie. I would be one hundred percent okay with Nessie being that smart because Nessie doesn’t possess that smug dolphin face. I can’t trust that shiny wet mug. The gloss in those eyes seems to be made of sheer murder. You, too, would be pissed off if you were brilliant and had to live in oceans that those insipid little humans fouled up with their garbage and their oil spills and their vomiting over the railings of cruise ships after too many pina coladas.
Once while on vacation in Florida with my family, I went into this gift shop. While perusing the goods I bumped into something I thought was a person. I looked up to apologize and I saw that it was a man with a dolphin head wearing a wetsuit. I scream and immediately run out of the store thinking my worst dolphin nightmare had come true and that they were indeed trying to take over the land. Five minutes later my grandma and brother find me shaking and crying in the parking lot. Apparently, the nightmarish man-dolphins were mannequins with Plexiglas dolphin heads attached. I don’t know the identity of the sadistic bastard who thought that one up but I am almost positive I hate him/her.
17.2.09
I Want To Curl Up In A Ball
I want to curl up in a ball, a tiny one, and live in your chest. Just for a little while. I promise not to be any larger than a red blood cell. I hear your left ventricle is nice this time of year. And even if I can’t compress myself to quite as tiny as the size of a red blood cell, it’s not like you don’t have the room in that enormous heart of yours. I want to see the world as it is to your circular system and be warm all the time. Maybe then I’d be able to feel my little toes for the first time since the first heavy snow of the winter. I won’t make a peep or clot or anything. I just want to live somewhere really special and honestly special for once.
I want to curl up in a ball, a small one and live in a teacup. Teacups are safe and warm and can withstand outside pressures. The contents whether they be brewed, an intoxicant, or a mix of the two serve to warm things from the inside out. There can be all the substance in the world in a teacup as you can eat soup from them. Dipping into the contents of ye olde teacup is something that never disappoints. I want to be the contents that never disappoint. And I don’t want the Sidebottoms of the world sneaking in as I sleep here.
I want to curl up in a ball, a huge one, and orbit something. Float mindlessly, pointlessly minus that whole tide thing for a couple epochs. Experience gravity as a friend for once instead of the cause of two decades and counting’s worth of skinned knees. I want to feel so pulled to something that I can’t help but hover it a devotion that would destroy the peace of the galaxy were it to ever wane or die. I want to be rock, carbon, and bizarre atmosphere yet full of a life no one can find.
I want to curl up in a ball, a moderate sized one, a me sized one and hide under these blankets from all the things that made me an errant blood cell, the invading Sidebottoms, and the pulls to orbit. I want this expanse of mattress to shrink with your taking up space. I want to unfurl into a little something better than what I curled up into.
I want to curl up in a ball, a small one and live in a teacup. Teacups are safe and warm and can withstand outside pressures. The contents whether they be brewed, an intoxicant, or a mix of the two serve to warm things from the inside out. There can be all the substance in the world in a teacup as you can eat soup from them. Dipping into the contents of ye olde teacup is something that never disappoints. I want to be the contents that never disappoint. And I don’t want the Sidebottoms of the world sneaking in as I sleep here.
I want to curl up in a ball, a huge one, and orbit something. Float mindlessly, pointlessly minus that whole tide thing for a couple epochs. Experience gravity as a friend for once instead of the cause of two decades and counting’s worth of skinned knees. I want to feel so pulled to something that I can’t help but hover it a devotion that would destroy the peace of the galaxy were it to ever wane or die. I want to be rock, carbon, and bizarre atmosphere yet full of a life no one can find.
I want to curl up in a ball, a moderate sized one, a me sized one and hide under these blankets from all the things that made me an errant blood cell, the invading Sidebottoms, and the pulls to orbit. I want this expanse of mattress to shrink with your taking up space. I want to unfurl into a little something better than what I curled up into.
12.2.09
Will you hold my hair while I purge the last million years of this life I've been living,
While fossils and artifacts of eras and epochs long gone dislodge themselves,
While I discard the drama queens that flock to me like mosquitos to the glow of suburban streetlights in late August after shredding them like paperdolls,
While I scour the cranial vault of aborted manuscripts for literary stem cells before burning it all down,
While history books of mistakes actually learned from go out with the empty bottles because learning is useless when others are involved,
While the notion that maybe we are all just some bizarre Venutian last chance cools unlike the planet,
While I make a landfill of time and space and material,
Making sure that all the while I don't wobble or fall as I banish the bacterium and viruses of what was and what has been,
And be there with a cup fresh water from the now once I'm done?
While fossils and artifacts of eras and epochs long gone dislodge themselves,
While I discard the drama queens that flock to me like mosquitos to the glow of suburban streetlights in late August after shredding them like paperdolls,
While I scour the cranial vault of aborted manuscripts for literary stem cells before burning it all down,
While history books of mistakes actually learned from go out with the empty bottles because learning is useless when others are involved,
While the notion that maybe we are all just some bizarre Venutian last chance cools unlike the planet,
While I make a landfill of time and space and material,
Making sure that all the while I don't wobble or fall as I banish the bacterium and viruses of what was and what has been,
And be there with a cup fresh water from the now once I'm done?
12.1.09
Wolfen.
Why are you still talking and asking and saying that you're concerned?
When you're more concerned with clawing out my eyes and cracking open my chest?
You won't be happy until you're wearing my insides like a merit badge.
I can read the malice in your hateful squint eyes while you stare.
Does your sheep's clothing ever get itchy?
I don't really know where I'm going with this. Besides the fact that I couldn't stop singing it over and over on the way to Bloomington Saturday night.
When you're more concerned with clawing out my eyes and cracking open my chest?
You won't be happy until you're wearing my insides like a merit badge.
I can read the malice in your hateful squint eyes while you stare.
Does your sheep's clothing ever get itchy?
I don't really know where I'm going with this. Besides the fact that I couldn't stop singing it over and over on the way to Bloomington Saturday night.
6.1.09
In the Event That I Get Married....
I think that the only way anyone would get me to wear a wedding ring is if it's THIS ONE.
1.1.09
Superheroes Are Just In It For The Ass
Just once you happened to be in the right place at the right time. Doing the right thing feels so nice. But then the rewards start to come rolling in.
Mmmmmmmm… Attention of the kind it felt like you always lacked. Now the girl treats you like her Tiger Beat pin up screaming her love in the street.
Save one dumb broad once and she starts roaming the streets in a wedding dress, a cardboard sign proclaiming you oh so dreamy though the only face she knows is the latex one. She’s in love in love in love and gets reckless so you’ll HAVE to save her. And you’re in love in love in love with the attention.
You’ve become a whore for saving the world, not knowing where else to look for meaning. But you give up on the world and focus on the girl. Peter Parker let Gwen Stacey go for the good of the city. If it weren’t for that hack journalist twat Lois Lane, you wouldn’t be doing good. (We all know she has the grammar of a twelve year old.)
So Clark Kent, fuck you. Spread ‘em wide and let the whole schtick in. If it weren’t for that, you’d be empty. Let it fill you up. We all know you’re really just a huge fucking pussy.
Mmmmmmmm… Attention of the kind it felt like you always lacked. Now the girl treats you like her Tiger Beat pin up screaming her love in the street.
Save one dumb broad once and she starts roaming the streets in a wedding dress, a cardboard sign proclaiming you oh so dreamy though the only face she knows is the latex one. She’s in love in love in love and gets reckless so you’ll HAVE to save her. And you’re in love in love in love with the attention.
You’ve become a whore for saving the world, not knowing where else to look for meaning. But you give up on the world and focus on the girl. Peter Parker let Gwen Stacey go for the good of the city. If it weren’t for that hack journalist twat Lois Lane, you wouldn’t be doing good. (We all know she has the grammar of a twelve year old.)
So Clark Kent, fuck you. Spread ‘em wide and let the whole schtick in. If it weren’t for that, you’d be empty. Let it fill you up. We all know you’re really just a huge fucking pussy.
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