Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Thursday, September 24, 2009

Walking Stiff Blues #13

(criteria of WSB)

cops cops cops cops cops
cops cops sirens sirens cops
U.seless N.uissance cluttering streets*

*I don't typically damn the man, unless he encroaches on my lunchbreak.

Wednesday, September 23, 2009

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

Monday, September 21, 2009

Walking Stiff Blues #9

(criteria of WSB)

big boobs, high hair, mascara,
tight pants and loud shoes
Queens broads exist on L train at 3pm

Saturday, September 19, 2009

Walking Stiff Blues #8

(criteria of WSB)

lamp glow over me on
couch watching film on computer screen
filtering reality

Walking Stiff Blues #7

(criteria of WSB)

empty streets, drunks
and slide guitar crowd the
neon "open"

Walking Stiff Blues #6

(criteria of WSB)

9:17am alone in circular conference
room -- round table, orange juice, English muffin.
day begins when solitude ends

Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Walking Stiff Blues #5

(criteria of WSB)

3 a.m. car ride to Brooklyn with 300 lb
driver proselytizing Carlos Mencia.
I fade with Manhattan lights

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Walking Stiff Blues #4

(criteria of WSB)

bellies butts bags boobs bunched
in rush hour train car, Spanish
voice lilts above 'em

Monday, September 14, 2009

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Walking Stiff Blues #1

light reflects off wet pavement
E Village Saturday night
skinny kids and cigarettes

Walking Stiff Blues (Criteria)

Ed White suggested to Jack Kerouac: "Why don't you just sketch in the streets like a painter but with words?"
  1. I'm going to write a handful of improvised 3-line poems (not haiku) each day for 30 days.
  2. I'm not going to edit them.
  3. Each day, I'll pick one and post it.
  4. Each poem will be written within a specific place/time of my day.

Tuesday, September 8, 2009


Excerpt from the rough draft of a novel/memoir/whatever that will likely be completed in 2011. This is my first time placing an excerpt of my fiction on here. But this is a short piece, and what the hell.

Hal loved a long drive for many reasons. He came of age in the golden era of the car and highway -- and I don't know how much nostalgia inspired his cravings for the road later in life, but rain or shine he'd often say "Today's a good day for a long trip." And he drove fast! He squealed the tires 'round the twisted mountainous highway of Northern California till I demanded he pull over so I could puke. I came outta the gas station bathroom to see a stranger laughing at me. Hal had told him what I was up to and why I was up to it.

"Damnit, Hal, slow down!" I yelled. He was at it again. "You're squealing the tires!"

"I can't hear it."

"You're half deaf, of course you can't hear it!"

He laughed while sliding into the passing lane, rounding a peak, and flying by a Winnebago.

He loved waking to a new landscape each morning. He loved the pure freedom of flying 'cross America and everything that represented. To Hal, you were rich if you had a car and some time to drive it long and fast. But more than anything, he loved to feel the rumble and roar of the engine beneath his crotch as he passed it all -- signs, cars, mountains, life -- always screaming forward to the next thing, whatever that was.

Sunday, September 6, 2009

Ambivalence and Valence

Image ripped off avesonprojectsc1

Had a nice time out with Robert, Laurie, and Ken last night. They are always refreshing because, like D___ in Tulsa, they are above the quarter-life crises bullshit. Though I'd like to think of myself in that way, I'm not really there yet. I'd like to grasp and live the idea that Robert posed: "An artist is simply a lover of life." But then Mary Oliver comes to mind: "Don't love your life too much."

The conflict in my feelings toward transcendentalism and humanism is reflected in my ambivalence toward high brow and blue collar literature.

Whitman was both, though he used loose structure.
William Carlos Williams claimed to speak in colloquial language, though his concepts were all but.
Hunter S. Thompson ever was a satire of reality in order to better hold a mirror to reality.
Rilke was transcendent and humanistic, not blue collar.
Lorca was high brow, other worldly, though he wished to write of the p
Salinger may fit all the above because he somehow managed to talk about it all with and without his tongue in cheek.
Dostoevsky was all.
O'Connor was all.

As in other areas of life, to be honest is to be. I shouldn't think of molding myself, but should be myself.

Over the last 10 years, the three closest to me in friendship and geographical proximity have all been over the age of 60. They're above the ambition, relationship drama, idea of cool, etc.

Maybe I'm closer than I think. Maybe I should stop thinking.

"A dissonance
in the valence of Uranium
led to the discovery

(if you are interested)
leads to discovery"

From William Carlos Willaims' Patterson