Tags: Bukowski, Fitzgerald, Franzen, Hemingway, Joyce, Kafka, Kerouac, Patrick Trotti, poem, Salinger
J.D. Salinger makes an appearance
on “To Catch A Predator: North Woods Edition,”
Charles Bukowski caught
at the local OTB trying to steal someone’s winning ticket,
James Joyce auctions
off his eye patch on eBay to help him in between books,
Ernest Hemingway argues
about guns in front of a studio audience on “Piers Morgan Live,”
Jack Kerouac admits
on “Oprah” that the only reason he championed Neal Cassady was b/c they were lovers,
Franz Kafka is arrested
on suspicion of arson while trying to get rid of his final manuscripts before dying,
F. Scott Fitzgerald is taken
to court for his role in the death of Zelda;
All the while Jonathan Franzen is secretly
contemplating starting a personal Twitter account;
wondering if the next great American novel can really be titled hash tag.
Tags: (Non) Fiction, Ali Michael, Art movements, Assemblage, Brand new stories, Cut ups, Dada, Dadaism, Debby Harry, Down with the Patriarchy!, Ex-girlfriend, Ex-girlfriends, Fragments, Gradient blend, I can see you!, Lips, Lust, Marco Sparks, Marilyn Monroe, Milton Greene, Monteurs, Naked ladies, Nonsense, Norma Jean, Nude Pictures, Ontological terrorism, Pop art, Storytelling, The Past, Time Travel, You can barely see Marilyn in there but she's there, Zen, Zen hand grenades
Switching from the old phone to the new phone. The folder entitled “Naked Pictures Of The Ex.” I go through the pictures, remember the good times, remember the bad times, critique the past, relive the sensations. It’s all fleeting. The memories don’t move in a straight line. They are ghosts out of context. I take the pictures from the folder and rearrange them. Dada zen nonsense. Lusty time travel art project. I will take the “Naked Pictures Of My Ex” and rearrange them and tell a brand new story with them.
Tags: erick, erick saenz, saenz
Coffee in the
Beer in the
The sun is slowly
roasting my body.
I see a man fly overhead,
feet dangling like leaves.
I lay on face down.
I am invisible.
The ocean whispers my name.
Time to turn over.
Dinner is served.
Tags: Amanda Bynes, Google, Google Glass, greg santos, Instagram, Internet, Let People Poems, poem, Sloths
I really identify with Amanda Bynes.
A group of sloths is called a bed of sloths.
Life on the internet is what you make it.
Can you get Google Glass contact lenses?
Should I change my profile picture?
It matters if you want it to matter.
Having a conversation with a friend.
If you are looking for a sign:
THIS IS IT, RIGHT HERE.
Has your life been disrupted?
You can pause the video.
You can get started NOW.
I’m enjoying all the leaves and green.
It’s perfect weather for a BBQ.
Bank presidents are not immune.
I wanna take a yoga class today.
There’s always something better isn’t there?
I’d better take an Instagram.
“just be late for doctor’s appointments and take the bus and have a routine”
“I like routine”
When I grow up
I want to die
and when I die
I want to be your headstone
I want to be:
I want to:
sit in your lap
I want to:
be kicked by you in a fit of rage regarding something else where you apologize to me later
I want to:
be unconditionally loved by you
I want to die:
in your bedroom where I feel safe
be my private landlord
I want to pay rent on your body
I’ll even make
a security deposit
to a “new lease on life”
chicago found summer empty
all purple with disappearance
a local girl detective picks apples every wednesday
she speaks of the environment, reverent
“protect god’s reflex: the octopus, red magic, full moon”
rabble rabble, she voices in tongues all summer long
underground soft metals churn,
dogs’ cadavers chit chat
and they guide the great
fields of illinois
When I am woken up by the afternoon sunlight beaming through my window, sometimes I find myself lying in my bed in the same position that a corpse lies in its casket, and I think that this happens because sometimes I dream of dying and it just feels so right.
I have been listening to this album almost nonstop for the past two days:
I have always wanted to write a poem with a line consisting only of a hyperlinked URL and then self-publish that poem on the internet.
Even at my third birthday party, standing as a tiny humanlike shape among other humanlike shapes, I told all of my friends and family members that I wanted to write a poem with a line consisting only of a hyperlinked URL and then self-publish that poem on the internet.
And now I have achieved my dream at last and it just feels so right.
Hallelujah to all the dreamers of this world!
Write down your dreams so that they will still be materialized into concrete reality even if they never come true.
I write because there is nothing left to say, not because I want to say something.
If nothing else, I want this poem to serve as a personal reminder to you that nobody deserves anything from anybody and that it is okay—and likely—that you will die alone and shivering.
And yes, I have written many poems in many different styles, the only reason for my inconsistency as a poet being that I know nobody will ever care about my poetry.
Let me call you on a payphone somewhere in Indiana so that you can listen to my ghost leaving behind its machine from hundreds upon hundreds of miles away.
Let me take tomorrow’s sunset and run it through an online text scrambler and turn it into a traditional Elizabethan sonnet.
Life isn’t cruel.
In the moment we begin
a tiny hand into
our lone, brief cell. That tiny hand
sets a timer
into our not-yet-formed
body: it inscribes
an expiration date
into our not-yet-formed
it hustles an addiction into
it wires a bomb
At least we can laugh
God’s hands are
you know what they say about
Tags: hayley vinson, I hate when i lose limbs, poem, what do I do when i cannot do anymore
“That bitch, Jackie,
I hope her baby eats her from the inside.”
And we all agree.
And I have never really been comfortable
With anyone’s procreation.
“That guy, Gary,
What’s his deal?”
At that party when I knew no one.
And he had that “nice-guy-vibe.”
And his eyes were freedom like 9th grade driver’s ed.
“You know Cassidy,
Right? Movie theater guy.”
Because I gave him that poem about mattering as I tripped.
And it turns out he is an elf and I have met a magical elf.
And maybe I will live longer from meeting a magical elf.
When I realized I am something weightless to hold onto.
And I can feel his soul still tangling against me.
And I know it does not matter, but it does.
Tags: eric larsh
do any hot girls read this
im sneaking YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL onto every page of Wikipedia
in the hopes that youll stumble across it one day
while researching a paper
or trying to find out if that show
on nikelodeon with the 2 beavers you watched as a kid
im srry i broke your heart
what other outcome did you expect
when i saw you independent and proud
ive started to build things
chairs and fires and engines
in the hopes that i can train my hands
to know something other than deconstruction
i’m sitting in a waiting room with no clock
but its ok
i was never good at time management anway
there is no time anymore
just the present
and he tips his hat and goes off to buy gum
fuck these nights are killing me
meekly surrendering myself to paranoia
i hate the sun
i am an old shcool vampire complete
with crooked nose
fuck i am already dead
and then risen again
fuck it is lonely to be a vampire
WHY ARENT YOU DIFFERENT THAN YOU ARE
and then you think of it that way
as time not existing in any concrete form
just one event after another like a string of christmas
lights except less likely to bring back waves of nostalgia
and you have to pull over and throw up out the window
slam my back against a wall
hold your hand around my throat
while the other grips a knife you got from
i should have left when you proposed we brand eachother
put an apple and a plastic baggie full of finn crisp into my backpack and found my keys and went to chinatown in chinatown i went to the asian grocery store in the asian grocery store i took a red plastic basket and walked about a meter inside inside there were tanks filled with many different kinds of animals crabs lobsters abalones shrimp prawns oysters all of these animals were in water and hanging out aimlessly there was a big tank at the top that was filled with king crabs these crabs were much bigger than other crabs and i guess that is why they cost more money i put my hand against the cold glass of the tank and a king crab stood up and greeted me i felt honoured but also bad and also stupid last week i went to the mall there are a couple malls here but i went to the really big one in the big mall there is a pet store where there are a lot of animals there are kittens you can see from outside of the store i dont have any pets but i went into the pet store to look around i took a squeaky toy from a shelf that was shaped like a cats face and walked around squeaking it at intervals i looked at the arrangement of animals it was a series of glass cubicles inside each cubicle was a creature it was a lot like those vending machines where you put in a coin and get a plastic thing with a toy inside they had a lot of different kinds of puppies they were really cute except they looked tired or worried or bored also inside of the cubicles there was shredded paper since when is it ok for them to eat that i wondered admittedly i wanted to play with them all there was one white dog which seemed older that was excitedly hopping around in a pen barking very loudly i started to feel dizzy and scared i pressed my hand against the glass of a cubicle a small puppy jumped and put his paws against my hand through the glass i guess what i am getting at is that i am easily affected by animals in cages
I follow your trail,
How are you?
I haven’t read that new essay you posted on your blog the other day. The one about Knut Hamsun’s political beliefs. I’ll try to get to it later today.
How’s your mother doing? You really need to introduce us soon, I really want to have sex with her. I know you think it’s weird, but I do.
Today I went to a used book store I hadn’t been to before. The guy who owns it is an anarchist too. Not a national-anarchist like you, or an egoist like me. He’s a left-wing insurrectionist. He told me he’d been planning to blow up the Iowa Capital Building, but he had a falling out with the people who were supposed to help him. He showed me a notebook he said had the plans in it. I think he showed me the wrong one. There were no plans in it, only poems about eating the assholes of dead young men’s cadavers. The poems were violently beautiful, like that scene in the Django Unchained trailer when blood sprays over a cotton field. I know you said you hated that movie. I haven’t seen it yet. I want to, though.
He sold me a book by Rudolf Rocker called Nationalism and Culture. It’s a thick and heavy hardcover. While I was carrying it home, I accidentally dropped it on a stray dog. I felt really guilty about that. I cried over its burst head for 2 hours. I don’t think I want the book anymore. Do you want me to give it to you? It still has some of the dog’s blood and brain meat caked on it.
I’m going to go jack off now. I’ll probably think about your mother while I do it.