Or, On Politics & Kanye West
Or, Some rambling before I leave for a few months
Or, whatever, shits stupid and nobody cares
What up, Fam?
What up, Fam?
The Teacher watched the bubbles race each other to the surface of his drink. It was a bastard drink, 7-Up and Knob Creek Whiskey on ice. It was the yellow of an ale and had almost no bite. He could have sworn he put in several fingers of the whiskey, but the soda held all the bite at bay. It was good and sweet in the late afternoon. It made his mind at ease at first swig.
Dear Alt-Right, More Pizzagates Please
If you are a fan of my work, you already know of my predisposition for conspiracy theories of all flavors. If you aren’t a fan of my work but are reading this, I love conspiracy theories. Something about the visceral need to escape reality, the desire to separate from the accepted, It’s in the base desire of all fiction writers. Our brains augment reality all the time to find ideas, and in conspiracy theorists, we find a similar ilk. A fraternal twin. Similarity shouldn’t be seen as acceptance, however. I’m more a fan than a researcher, an artist looking for a muse. Do I like conspiracy theories and read about them and dive deep into the bowels of YouTube for them? Yes. Do I believe them? Not really.
Here, have some more of my unfiltered giblets. See the first post of this nature here.
Even nothingness needs something to experience it.
I’m pretty depressed so my poetry should be better, and I only know it’s winter cause of the beer bottles littered around my room and all this rain that makes me swell with joy, and the USPS is lying to me about delivering my package so I’m sure glad I pay my taxes, futility is being sent pictures of myself they year my roommate and I starved ourselves to afford weed and wondering if I could get back to that, I want to get back to that, and simultaneously I don’t care, I can’t care look at all this fucking hair, look at the constant bags under my eyes, so why do the online tests only ever grant me mild depression, I self harm just not with blades, it’s a long con, that’s how I’ll kill this sack that carries me, see im gonna milk my sorrow as long as I can, get me back in college man, do the work do do do the work yet I’m so lethargic and so middle, so bland, I want to simmer this fat and let it sauté onions to perfect brown, I want to dance on a grave to see if I feel bad, I want a fucking meaningful text back, I want less of these fucking breakup songs on my shuffle, I want to wake up three years from now and I don’t want tomorrow, I should meditate again, I should masterbate again, I should talk to more people who hate me, I should figure out if I actually love anyone, ever loved anyone, how can you know if you actually felt love(?), how can we drop the cliches, how can I further wrestle my hypocrisy and air my dirty laundry, how does this help, how can I help, everything I do is for change and all that does is isolate me, as I transition to smoke, transition to shadow and dirt and no new form relieves the hurt, and I’m making myself cry from the honesty, Jesus how long since you’ve been honest with me, everything I do to numb the pain is just vacuous now, recyclable me with recyclable vices and all the false nices, and I’m pretty depressed so why the fuck isn’t my Poetry better…
Everyone always covers their cameras on their devices, I don’t know why. Comfort in the notion that some cares enough to watch à la Truman Show, comfort in letting someone else document this moment and preserve it forever, me with a hat and hoodie indoors, drinking whiskey and reading The Waste Land outloud again while Sylvan Esso and The Velvet Underground and all that shit I collect to remind my emotions they aren’t unique crowds the airwaves, the disappointment in my eyes as I read my old annotations and realize I’m not that smart anymore, comfort in the fact that no matter how small we all are, they still have deemed us worthy of study and shots, comfort in the fact that eventually there will be a documentary about me.
Captains log, star date 5/31/17… Hello Diane, it’s agent Cooper… extra extra, read all about… ladies and gentlemen of the court… in the red corner… hold onto your butts… LET’S GET READY TO RUMBLE. I don’t post to social media much anymore, here’s some of my thoughts to explain why.
This blog has existed for three years now, and to celebrate, here are three previously unpublished works from my most recent collection of poetry. The title of this collection is The Digging Hymns, and much like my first collection (Slump) it is unpublished, unfinished, and really just a snapshot of my writing from the age of 22 forward. If either my bodies of unloved work had to have themes, Slump is all about melodrama, angst, and being a fucking wanker. The Digging Hymns is, if anything, just more pretentious. Enjoy, and thanks for spending time with us.
The Great American Butt Tumor
I suppose a fair warning is in order. This is an entirely true story, being told in its entirety, with the purpose of a sort of political catharsis. It involves a lot of swearing and talk about sweaty, hairy ass cracks.
“I’ll take an extra large serving of nihilism, reality checks, and that good good music, por favor.”
“And write a joke on the box too.”
I recommend you don’t read this, it’s just the beginning of seasonal depression setting in.
“As democracy is perfected, the office of president represents, more and more closely, the inner soul of the people. On some great and glorious day the plain folks of the land will reach their heart’s desire at last and the White House will be adorned by a downright moron.” ― H.L. Mencken
“America is the wealthiest nation on Earth, but its people are mainly poor, and poor Americans are urged to hate themselves. To quote the American humorist Kin Hubbard, ‘It ain’t no disgrace to be poor, but it might as well be.’ It is in fact a crime for an American to be poor, even though America is a nation of poor. Every other nation has folk traditions of men who were poor but extremely wise and virtuous, and therefore more estimable than anyone with power and gold. No such tales are told by the American poor. They mock themselves and glorify their betters. The meanest eating or drinking establishment, owned by a man who is himself poor, is very likely to have a sign on its wall asking this cruel question: ‘if you’re so smart, why ain’t you rich?’ There will also be an American flag no larger than a child’s hand – glued to a lollipop stick and flying from the cash register.
Americans, like human beings everywhere, believe many things that are obviously untrue. Their most destructive untruth is that it is very easy for any American to make money. They will not acknowledge how in fact hard money is to come by, and, therefore, those who have no money blame and blame and blame themselves. This inward blame has been a treasure for the rich and powerful, who have had to do less for their poor, publicly and privately, than any other ruling class since, say Napoleonic times. Many novelties have come from America. The most startling of these, a thing without precedent, is a mass of undignified poor. They do not love one another because they do not love themselves.”
― Kurt Vonnegut,
“It’s time to rise, it’s time to walk the road of freedom, It’s time to throw off the yoke of oppression, Break free the chains n regain control of our destinies. It’s time 4 REVOLUTION”- Huey Freeman from The Boondocks