Just gonna leave this here…
Just sharing the hard work of some dry boi’s.
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?
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.”