1 2 3 ALL

bleooooooooh

2011-12-28T15:10:00.000-05:00

I GOT A NEW DRAFTING TABLE FOR XMAS AND MY LIFE IS ALREADY 498579548394 TIMES BETTER!

Statement of Purpose

2011-11-01T01:20:00.005-04:00

So I'm working on some applications for grad school. Even though my application (ONLINE APPLICATION) got lost to the one and only school I applied to last year, I am hopeful that I will at least get a response from one or more of the schools I'm applying to this time. I'm applying to UC Berkeley, which is a great school because it is in the bay area, and it is famous for its hippies. I guess it's not that hippy-y anymore, but it still looks like a really great program where they make you take non-art classes and expand your mind and don't try to give you any marketable skills at all, which is the main thing I look for in a place of higher learning. Truly.

The thing I most hate, though, about applying to grad school is the statement of purpose. I never know what they want- do they want you to be a professional self-marketer and state outright that having an MFA is the only way you can teach and make money as a fine artist, or do they want the flowery view that your art is your life and going to grad school will let you hone your practice and unlock the innermost chambers of your secret spirit animal cave?

This is what I really want to say:

Art is hard. The truth of this statement obliterates its clicheness. The job of the artist necessitates him/her to confront nonexistence on a daily basis. Every new project is a leap into the unknown, and the daring of this act is matched only by its lack of monetary or societal value. Sometimes it's the opposite. Sometimes we begin in the world of the concrete and take pieces of it into the void of the abstract. This is also a daunting task. As artists, we take once useful things, urinals, vacuums and render them physically useless, making them into conceptually loaded cultural artifacts. Most of our peers, at least in America see no value in our work if they are even aware that it exists. The few that do usually treat it as no more than a source of commodities or a ridiculous hobby. Even though I am an artist, I too sometimes lose sight of the value of this endeavor. I once clasped tightly Sylvia Plath's sentiment, "People were made of nothing so much as dust, and I couldn't see that doctoring all that dust was a bit better than writing poems people would remember and repeat to themselves when they were unhappy or sick and couldn't sleep." I would be lying, though, if I said that I never had doubts about the value of art. If you're to be successful as an artist, you show in museums and galleries owned by rich people, used as a tool for collectors to boost the value of the works they own. You network and become a business person representing your work like so many pork bellies. I have seen the dark side of the art world, the insipid ramblings about Warholian superficialism, postmodernism, and esoterica one thousand times removed from anything resembling the visceral grit of the real world. It disgusts me sometimes. I have been in the world of academia where a pile of genuine human shit can be the focus of actual educated adults' attention and analysis for several hours. This, too, disgusts me.

Why, then would I apply to graduate school and pile drive myself even deeper into this abyssal world of what amounts to either a lonely tribulation or a convoluted, expensive form of navel-gazing? I have no fucking idea. This is what I do know: my parents said they would help me pay for it, and I could really use some studio space.

Augh, I know that makes me sound like King Cunt. It's just that going to graduate school, or making art at all, is something that when I sit down and think about it makes no sense to me. I keep doing it, though, because somewhere in my secret spirit animal cave, I feel like if I keep doing it something good will come of it. Something actually good for people other than myself. I want to do good for people, but I can't remember the names of muscles for shit, so I can't be a doctor, and I suck at math. So I have to figure out a way to make this shit art brain of mine worth something to somebody. Not money-wise, though that would be good, too, but worthwhile. To people. Normal people, not just people that look like this:

So that is what I hope to glean from graduate school.

Also, I miss being scrutinized on a daily basis.

The end.

Beginnings of nothings.

2011-10-19T23:25:00.002-04:00

Here are some writings that I meant to make into something substantial, but never did.

5/8/2011
"Letter to my Couch"

Dear Couch,

Yesterday I sewed up the hole in your arm that I accidentally caused when I was trying to burn cardboard with a soldering iron. You are orange and plaid, and the thread is white, but it’s appropriate because scars are white on humans and you’re pretty human. You have been drawn, bled, and slept on. Not to mention all the things my dog has done to you. Yet you persevere. Please forgive me for what you’ve become.

Love,

Kate

12/10/2010

"Smell Story"

Every place you lived smelled like the reptile house at the Toledo Zoo. I helped you move to and from three different places and eventually they all managed to produce their own noxious atmosphere. Maybe it was the Kombucha tea, probably poisonous, you were brewing on every horizontal surface in your kitchen. Maybe it was the wall of neglected plants you carted like children to each new place. Maybe it was how you’d let your geriatric Siamese cat’s vomit solidify until you could pick it up in one piece. Or the myriad boxes of organic food share vegetables you let rot in your tiny refrigerator. Those vegetables grown so lovingly by a band of dreadlocked, shirtless men and driven thirty miles directly to your door. Then left to wilt while night after night you ordered Jamaican take-out.

Perhaps the smell was the result of your sudden love affair with alternative medicine; the apple cider vinegar and cod liver oil you were choking down to fix your high cholesterol. I still don’t believe that you actually had high cholesterol, by the way. And I especially don’t believe you can determine such a thing from a Ouija board or a witching stick or whatever was going on in the opium den living room of the woman you called a “doctor”. Or the smell could have just been incense and the weed you claimed not to have or smoke. It could have been the smell of dirty clothes, or mold, or broken promises. I don’t know, but I can still smell it. And though I haven’t seen you in ages, I’m sure it shrouds you at this very moment.

6/22/2011
"Not"

Waiting for my internet to work is painful. This is the story all about how... I was about to type out the theme song from from fresh prince, but then I decided not to. I want to write a book. I've been trying to do so for about six years and I have basically nothing to show for it more than a few hopeful paragraphs, just like this will probably turn out to be. the problem is, I want to write a book, but I have no ideas for a plot, or characters, or a theme of any kind. All I know is that I want it to be very good and I want it to fully illustrate all the inner workings of my soul, and therefore the soul of all humans living now or in the future. The past humans I don't care about, because they won't have a chance to read it. If there were alive, though, they, too would find my book profound and deeply touching.
My job ended today. My boss is flying to Germany on Tuesday and today is Sunday, so my job is pretty much done. I was an assistant to one of my old art school professors. Well, she's not old, but I don't go to the school anymore, so it's my old school. If this was going to be a book, I would have something interesting happen by now. I'm gonna try to get serious and write for real here you go.
I parked my car in front of my boss's house. I had just smoked about two drags of a cigarette and then flicked the rest out the window, as it gave me an instant headache. I don't know if it's the cigarette or just boss-induced anxiety, but my stomach's in a knot and I feel queezy and like I might throw up on her as soon as she answers the door.

5/11/2010
"Audio Tour"

Hello. My name is Richard Weatherfield and I'd like to welcome you to Makeshift Museum. This exhibition explores the evolution of the apartment of contemporary artist, Kate Rhoades. And in it we regard the many significant objects which are held therein.

This piece is titled "A box of the rocks that my dog has brought in over the last two years." As we gaze upon this accumulation of stone, we can only imagine the strain that both dog and artist went through to create this collection. The dog, named Walras after Leon Walras, the french economist, is an 18 pound chinese pug. The rocks weighs about as much as he does. The box was generously donated to the museum by AT&T communications company. Its contours could only be rendered in the finest American cardboard and the viewer must certainly be reminded of the robust, but transitory nature of one's own existence when one absorbs the full impact of this piece.

1/27/2011

"Wally Script"

Roberta - Upright, friendly, modest, soft-spoken librarian

Francine - Business woman

Roberta: Oh my gosh- Francine? Heavens, I never thought I'd see you again!

Francine: Oh, Roberta! You look amazing! What have you been up to? Where have you been this whole time?

Roberta: I was transfered to a library in Nairn. In the highlands of Scotland, you know? The position required me to leave abruptly and I didn't have time for a proper going away and all that.

Francine: Nairn?! I was just there on vacation- it's so lovely. I was just stalking Tilda Swinton. And her various lovers.

Roberta: Oh, no, would you look at the time?! I would love to meet you later, though, where are you staying?

Francine: At that little yellow hotel down on State Street- room 432. I'll be there all evening. Please come by, we have so much catching up to do!

--------

KNOCK KNOCK

(Francine squeels with delight and answers the door. Roberta comes in.)

Francine: I was afraid you weren't going to come!

Roberta: I wouldn't miss an evening with you for the world! And what luck we were both here in Omaha on the same weekend- so unexpected! How long has it been? Fifteen years?

Francine: Almost to the day, come to think of it. But you don't look a minute older!

Roberta: Neither do you, Francie.

Francine: Tell me everything!

Movie suggestions that I sent to my boss.

2011-10-10T21:24:00.002-04:00

sad movies are blue

documentaries are red

foreign movies are green

Hedwig and the Angry Inch (2001)

Brazil (1985)

Raise the Red Lantern (1991) (also sad)

Never Let Me Go (2010)

Breathless (1960)

Requiem for a Dream (2000)

Jumpin Jack Flash (with Whoopi Goldberg - 1986)

Synecdoche, New York (2008)

Hard Eight (1996)

Magnolia (1999)

The Royal Tenenbaums (again)

The Darjeeling Limited (2007)

A Very Long Engagement (2004)

Love and Death (1975)

Logan's Run (1976)

Punch Drunk Love (2002)

Secretary (2002)

Network (1976)

Inside Job (2010)

eXistenZ (1999)

Sick (1997)

Brick (2005)

I Like Killing Flies (2004)

The Yes Men Fix the World (2009)

C.R.A.Z.Y. (2005)

Casino Jack and the United States of Money (2010)

An Education (2008)

The History Boys (2006)

Once (2006)

Dancer in the Dark (2000)

The Piano Teacher (2001)

Titus (1999)

Jesus' Son (1999)

Barton Fink (1991)

The Virgin Suicides (1999)

Thirst (2009)

Farewell My Concubine (1993) (also sad)

Delicatessen (1991)

Run Lola Run (1999)

Intacto (2001)

The Edukators (2005)

Dark City (1998)

Children of Men (2006)

Food, Inc (2008)

Capturing the Friedmans (2003)

The Thin Blue Line (1988)

Comic Books

2011-09-09T04:53:00.003-04:00

Portland is comic zone number one. I have been into comic books since I would sneak into my brother's room and check out his comics in secret. He gave me his complete collection of the MAXX which probably changed my life in a way. Anyway, I have always liked comics, but living in Portland even for this short time has really expanded my awareness of comic culture. I'm really excited about it, but one sad part is that I just found out that there is a small press expo (SPX) going on this weekend in Maryland and I wish I had known about it, not that I would have been able to go, but maybe I could have? Anyway, that's my new goal for next year. To go and have a table with some of my friends, if they'll come, and hawk our books ( will have 100 books published by then), and go meet all my heroes that I didn't even know did this kind of thing! Seriously, I was looking at some of the presenters and award nominees and attendees, and just about everyone I love is going to be there! What the fuck!

Anyway, here is a list of some of the books and things and people of comicworld that I like, and that you might want to check out if you haven't:

Guy Delisle
Renee French
Craig Thompson
Stuck Rubber Baby
Chris Ware
Lisa Hanawalt
Papercutter
Gabby Schulz / Ken Dahl
Mail Order Bride
Drawn and Quarterly
Reading Frenzy

QR cock

2011-09-05T01:47:00.001-04:00

4square Cleverness

2011-09-02T01:57:00.001-04:00

I make creative, silly tips on 4square. I just wanted to come out and say it. If you do, too then friend me. We need to stick together.

My nephew and I

2011-08-28T19:46:00.003-04:00

talking to my wife on google chat when we're 7 feet away from each other

2011-08-23T01:37:00.000-04:00

In which we discuss how we are going to spend the target gift card that we got as a wedding gift.

me: portland has a gay man sex club

Buttercup: hoooootttt. lets go!

me: http://steamportland.com/rules.htm

it's boys only

Buttercup: we can't just watch?

me: no

Buttercup: did you get my email? what do you want from target? I'll spend it all on earrings I swear

me: get a cookie sheet and a colander and a tea kettle

me: http://www.target.com/p/OXO-Softworks-Click-Enamel-Kettle-Red/-/A-10909406

http://www.target.com/p/Wilton-12-x-16-Large-Cookie-Pan-Gray/-/A-13189115

type!

Buttercup: sorry bitch

wouldn't you rather have a pizza pan? little bitch?

me: http://www.target.com/p/Michael-Graves-Purple-Majesty-Colored-Colander-11x5-25/-/A-13293841

ahahahaha

no, what if we want to make cookings...hahahha I meant cookies but i wrote cookings!

Buttercup: are you sure you want that teapot? I saw cuter ones

me: TONYA I WROTE COOKINGS

Buttercup: we will NEVER MAKE COOKIESINGS

me: it's so funny to me!

I'm giggling!

cookings!

hahahah

Buttercup: I hear you dingbat

me: wooo

Buttercup: i'm just ordering earrrings.

me: ok, what?

Buttercup: errrrrrrrrrings

earwigs

me: i dont give a shit, just order all the shit i just sent you, silly bitch

Buttercup: biiiiitch. i'm ordering cuter versions.

me: don't spend it all!

because it also has to pay for shipping!

Buttercup: I will spend it ALLLLLLLLL

DUH BITCH

DUH

me: cooking!

cookingds!

Buttercup: cookings

me: cookings!

Buttercup: cockings

cootchings

me: man, i did all the internet research i could to figure out where portlandia was happening, and i ain't got shit

Buttercup: duh, it was underground

me: i guess so

Buttercup: or directly underneath the bridge, in the scaffolding

me: they're going to be at laurelhurst park on the 27th

Buttercup: ayayayaya!

me: for the movies in the park thing

we have to go

Buttercup: omg SUPER EARLY TOO

me: http://www.oregonlive.com/portland/index.ssf/2011/08/portlandia_duo_will_be_at_laur.html

Buttercup: Every asshole will be there. we should camp there for a couple days

me: hell no

we need to be crafty

and find them in their hidey holes

Buttercup: ok whatever.

i'm going to get that shit now.

me: stop making that fucking noise

let's go ADVENTURING

Buttercup: FUCKNO

FUCKNO

me: let's get cookings

Buttercup: FUCKNO

adoifhwoietbhro[witnbkl;fsgnv

me: remember when i said cookings?

Buttercup: no, when?

me: that was the happiest moment of my life.

Buttercup: really? what was?

me: when i said cookings

Buttercup: oh yeah? what?

me: tonya

tonya

let's go have an adventure

Buttercup: NOREALLYWHENWHAT?

NO NONO NOONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO

me: YES

fun adventure!!!!!!!!!!

Buttercup: give me 30 minutes bitch.

me: yaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay cookings

Evceryero

2011-07-25T00:47:00.000-04:00

Hey, blog. I'm sorry I haven't been writing in you lately. I have been busy with getting married and moving across the country and selling my soul and artwork on the internet and everything else. We've been together a long time and you always know I will come back to you. Well, I hope you know that. I love you very much even though I sometimes forget you exist. I hope you feel the same way. no matter what other cyber bullshit comes along for me to type on, you are my one and only constant. God bless you, blog. Don't be a stranger.

DROLLHOUSE

2011-07-19T00:06:00.001-04:00

My friends are making a magazine, and you should help them.

Also, I got married to Tonya Jones last week. We are in love with each other, but we are super in love with justice of the peace who did the ceremony. His name is Matt Loter and if you get married in Connecticut, you should give him a call. He is excellent.

from the 4 year old i am babysitting

2011-06-14T23:29:00.000-04:00

plssqeerrrrrrrffpfvmyyyyyioooooom,fvnjuxxnmil?pnjhgv ppplv?
?ff,gmssssss?,iukf?g..ggp.mktt?.?r....f$v@olkmc?....vvv??z

Brain Jam

2011-05-08T13:50:00.001-04:00

These are the blogs I look at every single day.

www.streetsy.com
blog.vandalog.com
http://www.woostercollective.com/
http://signonpdx.com/archive/
http://arrestedmotion.com/
http://hyperallergic.com/
http://badatsports.com/category/theblog/
http://dailyserving.com/
http://www.nytimes.com/pages/arts/design/index.html
http://katebingamanburt.com/blog
http://ilikethisart.net/
http://www.wipnyc.org/
http://www.americansuburbx.com/
http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/culturemonster/
http://www.good.is/
http://unurth.com/
http://www.portlandart.net/

Everything everything

2011-05-02T22:22:00.000-04:00

I started writing the story of a comic book I'm working on, here's the first paragraph and a half.

Jevons climbed up the rickety metal stairway to his apartment. His hooves strained for friction on the steps still wet from the ever present Portland rain. The twenty pounds of his yellow fixed gear bicycle and the weight of his recycled-fabric bag on his knobby shoulder made the ascension more shirpa-like than graceful. He threw down all his cargo and his unseasonal sock hat as soon as he was inside. On his bee-line to the refrigerator he left photos and paintings barely clinging to the wall as he bashed them with his nubby, but still substantial antlers. Though he was sneaking whatever grazing he could all morning in the city's many urban farms he was still starving. The fridge was bare except for a Styrofoam box full of dandelions that his freegan roommate, Walter, had "recovered" from a dumpster and left there for an indiscernible amount of time. Jevons devoured all the contents and some of the box in a single chomp and cracked open a Pabst tall boy as he made his way to the living room.
Walter was apparently unaware that anyone else had entered the apartment. He was splayed on their only non-dumpster furniture, an orange plaid couch Jevon's sister had donated to them. It was now more stain than couch, but it worked just as well. His Macbook sat open on his stomach playing a video of poorly animated Muppet-knock-off porn. Jevons could just make out the erotic grunting of Miss Piggy coming through Walter's enormous headphones. He averted his eyes as he crossed the room still unnoticed and made his way down the narrow hall to his bedroom.

Posterity

2011-04-09T15:11:00.000-04:00

This is my favorite video I've ever made:

The Manager - 0002 from Kate Rhoades on Vimeo.

It's about my job, where I send PR packets to galleries and curators for my boss's art collective. The house at the end is my boss's house. I hope that's enough context to let you see how hilarious it is.

Also, I rejuvenated my website:

katerhoades.com

SCT

2011-02-21T10:31:00.002-05:00

I made a new blog where I do horrible art reviews. I meant to do good art reviews, then realized that writing about art for any long amount of time makes me want to throw up. Anyway, here:

Portlandia

2011-02-18T03:23:00.002-05:00

Let's make a sketch show about Columbus and call it Columbuzz

Things we could make fun of:

Utmost Importance

2011-02-16T00:22:00.003-05:00

Nicknames that people have called my dog:

Wallers
Walter Kronkite
Walton
Walderbeast
Waldermort
Wobbles
Wableton
Walstrom
Walls
Wallium
Wallman
Woggles
Waffles
Wubbles
Wubbins
Bubble
Walabe
Wibbles
Wubsy
Wallerton
Walzers
Walsome
Wonkles
Wallford Brimley
Beverly
Elizabeth Taylor
Scrungles
Mr. Man
Bobbles
Wallikers

Something I Love

2011-02-13T17:41:00.000-05:00

Found this on http://blog.vandalog.com/

Press the button project from Pauer on Vimeo.

Groundhog Day

2011-02-05T13:55:00.004-05:00

Me to Danny Rubin, screenwriter of the movie Groundhog Day:

> A movie theater here in Columbus, Ohio had a 24 hour marathon showing of
> Groundhog Day yesterday. If you stayed for all of the 12 showings, you got a
> year's worth of free movie tickets. I did it. I just wanted to tell you that I
> still love the movie even after that. In fact, I'm watching it again on
> Netflix right now. I don't know if it was sleep-deprived psychosis, but I
> decided that I wanted to start a series of paintings where Phil does the
> stations of the cross. Anyway, thanks for my favorite comedy.

----

I got a response!

If you ever do that Phil on the stations of the cross thing I'd LOVE to see
it! Thanks for the kind words and may all of your sleep-deprived psychoses
be as productive and interesting.
Happy day,
Danny

designerrrrrrrrrrr

2011-01-25T20:14:00.000-05:00

I got 46 responses to that designer ad. This one is the best if you ever need a designer.

Honorable Mention: this guy

My Fake Business

2011-01-21T11:44:00.003-05:00

Well, I've received a massive amount of responses now. This guy should get the job. Well, if there was a job to get.

http://www.brightbeetledesign.com/

I should have him design my website.

amp

2011-01-20T23:11:00.003-05:00

So I've been applying for jobs. About 5 or so a day for a few weeks. I put a design up on threadless, too, which I had never done before. And it doesn't look like it's doing too well. So, after about a week of fantasizing about what I could do with the threadless money, I'm feeling a bit let down with no job and the yawning abyss of darkness before me. So I put an ad up on craigslist just to see who's been cheating me out of all these jobs I've been applying for. Here's the ad:

Are you interested in joining an innovative art team and creating designs that will be an integral part of an established company?

This full time position will offer an attractive compensation package including a full benefit package and advancement opportunities.

Qualifications
• Creative with strong design sense
• Good eye for details
• Reliable
• Good work ethic
• Work experience and/or education in graphic design field
• Ability to create, design and deliver finished work in a fast-paced, detailed, results-oriented team environment.
• Experience working with CorelDraw and Illustrator

To apply submit your resume & portfolio

I haven't had any responses yet, but I just posted the thing 4 minutes ago. I stole it from a job listing in Eugene, Oregon.

Goals for next week:

- finish Michelle comic book project

- start writing for solo comic book

- do another threadless design- make it about video games or whatever people like

- continue applying for jobs

- do things for the April show

- schedule an appointment with someone who can advise me on all my life choices (for free)

- invent the next ipod thing

- be a lawyer in the OJ trial

Life in the 21st Century

2010-12-25T02:04:00.003-05:00

It's Christmas. My girlfriend and I got engaged. Also, I graduated from college. Here's a picture:

from the treasure trove

2010-12-12T11:06:00.001-05:00

Someone left a google search for Ecclesiastes 1:2 up on the computer in the photoprocess room of the print lab at my school. I think someone was have and adverse reaction to finals:

2 “Meaningless! Meaningless!”
says the Teacher.
“Utterly meaningless!
Everything is meaningless.”

³ What do people gain from all their labors
at which they toil under the sun?
⁴ Generations come and generations go,
but the earth remains forever.
⁵ The sun rises and the sun sets,
and hurries back to where it rises.
⁶ The wind blows to the south
and turns to the north;
round and round it goes,
ever returning on its course.
⁷ All streams flow into the sea,
yet the sea is never full.
To the place the streams come from,
there they return again.
⁸ All things are wearisome,
more than one can say.
The eye never has enough of seeing,
nor the ear its fill of hearing.
⁹ What has been will be again,
what has been done will be done again;
there is nothing new under the sun.
¹⁰ Is there anything of which one can say,
“Look! This is something new”?
It was here already, long ago;
it was here before our time.
¹¹ No one remembers the former generations,
and even those yet to come
will not be remembered
by those who follow them.

¹² I, the Teacher, was king over Israel in Jerusalem. ¹³ I applied my mind to study and to explore by wisdom all that is done under the heavens. What a heavy burden God has laid on mankind! ¹⁴ I have seen all the things that are done under the sun; all of them are meaningless, a chasing after the wind.

¹⁵ What is crooked cannot be straightened;
what is lacking cannot be counted.

¹⁶ I said to myself, “Look, I have increased in wisdom more than anyone who has ruled over Jerusalem before me; I have experienced much of wisdom and knowledge.”

¹⁷ Then I applied myself to the understanding of wisdom, and also of madness and folly, but I learned that this, too, is a chasing after the wind.

¹⁸ For with much wisdom comes much sorrow;
the more knowledge, the more grief.

ArtSpeak Disasters: 0002

2010-11-29T10:44:00.001-05:00

The description:

The photographs begin to build a loosely qualitative narrative that is resonant with individual urban journeys as well as the notion of home. When understood as a whole the work begins to address a social consciousness rendered around historical absence, memory and loss.

- Nicole Powell from DailyServing.com

The art being described:

ArtSpeak Disasters: 0001

2010-11-29T10:29:00.002-05:00

The description:

His fascination with our own manipulation of memory and time typifies our simultaneous repulsion and preoccupation with decay and mortality. By distorting context, Aitken achieves a kind of fluidity that seizes that which defines humanity in a modern era: a mercurial state of being that is both isolating and interdependent.

- Catlin Moore at dailyserving.com

The art being described:

Otinorview

2010-11-24T23:31:00.007-05:00

I got interviewed by a crazy Canadian artist! I'm excited about it. First interview. Check it out:

Here it is!

Favorite Things in Columbus (Part 2)

2010-11-15T22:51:00.002-05:00

Here's Part One

- Tripps, the best cat in the world (across the street from the Max & Erma's in German Village)
- Mikey's Late Night Slice, when no one else is there
- sunday brunch at Whole World in Clintonville
- The girl who played the cello in front of her window (behind where Lisa used to live on town street)
- High fives from guys at the broad and high bus stops when I'm riding by on my bike.
- cheese and grapes at awkward art receptions
- The yellow robot street art at the crosswalk on the intersection of grant and long.
- Free movies, because we know the manager at the Arena Grand
- Lemon squares also at whole world
- The mexican children who say hi to me every time they see me at Shanno's apartment (even though shanno hates them)
- The one thousand cats sitting outside of PizzaMart at night (in Worthington)
- All the homeless people that vote at my polling place.
- Everyone who ever helped my find my lost wallets.
- Everyone

The Fish

2010-10-26T19:51:00.000-04:00

by Elizabeth Bishop

I caught a tremendous fish
and held him beside the boat
half out of water, with my hook
fast in a corner of its mouth.
He didn’t fight.
He hadn’t fought at all.
He hung a grunting weight,
battered and venerable
and homely. Here and there
his brown skin hung in strips
like ancient wallpaper,
and its pattern of darker brown
was like wallpaper:
shapes like full-blown roses
stained and lost through age.
He was speckled with barnacles,
fine rosettes of lime,
and infested
with tiny white sea-lice,
and underneath two or three
rags of green weed hung down.
While his gills were breathing in
the terrible oxygen
— the frightening gills,
fresh and crisp with blood,
that can cut so badly —
I thought of the coarse white flesh
packed in like feathers,
the big bones and the little bones,
the dramatic reds and blacks
of his shiny entrails,
and the pink swim-bladder
like a big peony.
I looked into his eyes
which were far larger than mine
but shallower, and yellowed,
the irises backed and packed
with tarnished tinfoil
seen through the lenses
of old scratched isinglass.
They shifted a little, but not
to return my stare.
— It was more like the tipping
of an object toward the light.
I admired his sullen face,
the mechanism of his jaw,
and then I saw
that from his lower lip
— if you could call it a lip —
grim, wet, and weaponlike,
hung five old pieces of fish-line,
or four and a wire leader
with the swivel still attached,
with all their five big hooks
grown firmly in his mouth.
A green line, frayed at the end
where he broke it, two heavier lines,
and a fine black thread
still crimped from the strain and snap
when it broke and he got away.
Like medals with their ribbons
frayed and wavering,
a five-haired beard of wisdom
trailing from his aching jaw.
I stared and stared
and victory filled up
the little rented boat,
from the pool of bilge
where oil had spread a rainbow
around the rusted engine
to the bailer rusted orange,
the sun-cracked thwarts,
the oarlocks on their strings,
the gunnels — until everything
was rainbow, rainbow, rainbow!
And I let the fish go.

1000000000000 years later

2010-10-05T10:23:00.002-04:00

I had a dream last night that I gave birth to a mutant baby with eight toes on one foot, some of which looked like tiny penises, and four toes on the other. Its head was square and awful. Then it grew another two legs and walked like one of those spitting bad guys from Fallout. Also I defeated some kind of fascist medieval king. The end.

ManStrokeWoman

2010-08-18T21:35:00.001-04:00

update buttdate

2010-08-17T12:26:00.004-04:00

updated webthing with my latest arts: NOW

Listen up.

2010-07-09T01:04:00.002-04:00

This is my summer inspirational desktop background.

2010-06-15T02:09:00.004-04:00

also:

"I AM FOR AN ART..." BY CLAES OLDENBURG

"I am for an art that is political-erotical-mystical, that does something
other than sit on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given
the chance of having a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes
out on top.
I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary...
I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists
and extends and accumulates and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse
and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself.

I am for an artist who vanishes, turning up in a white cap painting
signs or hallways.

I am for art that comes out of a chimney like black hair and scatters in
the sky.
I am for art that spills out of an old man’s purse when he is bounced
off a passing fender.
I am for the art out of a doggy’s mouth, falling five stories from the
roof.
I am for the art that a kid licks, after peeling away the wrapper.
I am for an art that joggles like everyones knees, when the bus
traverses an excavation.
I am for art that is smoked, like a cigarette, smells, like a pair of shoes.
I am for art that flaps like a flag or helps blow noses, like a hand-
kerchief.
I am for art that is put on and taken off, like pants, which develops
holes, like socks, which is eaten, like a piece of pie, or abandoned with great
contempt, like a piece of shit.

I am for art covered with bandages. I am for art that limps and rolls
and runs and jumps. I am for art comes in a can or washes up on the shore.
I am for art that coils and grunts like a wrestler. I am for art that sheds
hair.
I am for art you can sit on. I am for art you can pick your nose with or
stub your toes on.
I am for art from a pocket, from deep channels of the ear, from the
edge of a knife, from the corners of the mouth, stuck in the eye or worn on
the wrist.
I am for art under the skirts, and the art of pinching cockroaches.

I am for the art of conversation between the sidewalk and a blind mans
metal stick.
I am for the art that grows in a pot...

... that comes down out of the skies at
night, like lightning, that hides in the clouds and growls. I am for art that is
flipped on and off with a switch.
I am for art that unfolds like a map, that you can squeeze, like your
sweetys arm, or kiss, like a pet dog. Which expands and squeaks, like an
accordion, which you can spill your dinner on, like an old tablecloth.
I am for an art that you can hammer with, stitch with, sew with, paste
with, file with.
I am for an art that tells you the time of day, or where such and such a
street is.
I am for an art that helps old ladies across the street.

I am for the art of the washing machine. I am for the art of a govern-
ment check. I am for the art of last wars raincoat.
I am for the art that comes up in fogs from sewer-holes in winter. I am
for the art that splits when you step on a frozen puddle. I am for the worms
art inside the apple. I am for the art of sweat that develops between crossed
legs.

I am for the art of neck-hair and caked tea-cups, for the art between the
tines of restaurant forks, for the odor of boiling dishwater.
I am for the art of sailing on Sunday, and the art of red and white
gasoline pumps.
I am for the art of bright blue factory columns and blinking biscuit
signs.
I am for the art of cheap plaster and enamel. I am for the art of worn
marble and smashed slate. I am for the art of rolling cobblestones and
sliding sand. I am for the art of slag and black coal. I am for the art of dead
birds.
I am for the art of scratchings in the asphalt, daubing at the walls. I am
for the art of bending and kicking metal and breaking glass, and pulling at
things to make them fall down.
I am for the art of punching and skinned knees and sat-on bananas. I
am for the art of kids’ smells. I am for the art of mama-babble.
I am for the art of bar-babble, tooth-picking, beerdrinking, egg-salting,
in-sulting. I am for the art of falling off a barstool.

I am for the art of underwear and the art of taxicabs. I am for the art of
ice-cream cones dropped on concrete. I am for the majestic art of dog-turds,
rising like cathedrals.

I am for the blinking arts, lighting up the night. I am for art falling,
splashing, wiggling, jumping, going on and off.
I am for the art of fat truck-tires and black eyes.
I am for Kool-art, 7-UP art, Pepsi-art, Sunshine art, 39 cents art, 15
cents art, Vatronol Art, Dro-bomb art, Vam art, Menthol art, L & M art, Ex-
lax art, Venida art, Heaven Hill art, Pamryl art, San-o-med art, Rx art, 9.99
art, Now art, New art, How art, Fire sale art, Last Chance art, Only art,
Diamond art, Tomorrow art, Franks art, Ducks art, Meat-o-rama art.

I am for the art of bread wet by rain. I am for the rats’ dance between
floors. I am for the art of flies walking on a slick pear in the electric light. I
am for the art of soggy onions and firm green shoots. I am for the art of
clicking among the nuts when the roaches come and go. I am for the brown
sad art of rotting apples.
I am for the art of meowls and clatter of cats and for the art of their
dumb electric eyes.
I am for the white art of refrigerators and their muscular openings and
closing.
I am for the art of rust and mold. I am for the art of hearts, funeral
hearts or sweetheart hearts, full of nougat. I am for the art of worn meat-
hooks and singing barrels of red, white, blue and yellow meat.
I am for the art of things lost or thrown away, coming home from
school. I am for the art of cock-and-ball trees and flying cows and the noise
of rectangles and squares. I am for the art of crayons and weak grey pencil-
lead, and grainy wash and sticky oil paint, and the art of windshield wipers
and the art of the finger on a cold window, on dusty steel or in the bubbles
on the sides of a bathtub.
I am for the art of teddy-bears and guns and decapitated rabbits, ex-
ploded umbrellas, raped beds, chairs with their brown bones broken, burn-
ing trees, firecracker ends, chicken bones, pigeon bones, and boxes with men
sleeping in them.

I am for the art of slightly rotten funeral flowers, hung bloody rabbits
and wrinkly yellow chickens, bass drums & tambourines, and plastic phono-
graphs.
I am for the art of abandoned boxes, tied like pharaohs. I am for an art
of watertanks and speeding clouds and flapping shades.
I am for U.S. Government Inspected Art, Grade A art, Regular Price
art, Yellow Ripe art, Extra Fancy art, Ready-to-eat art, Best-for-less art,
Ready-to-cook art, Fully cleaned art, Spend Less art, Eat Better art, Ham art,
pork art, chicken art, tomato art, banana art, apple art, turkey art, cake art,
cookie art.

add
Im for an art that is combed down, that is hung from each ear, that is
laid on the lips and under the eyes, that is shaved from the legs, that is
brushed on the teeth, that is fixed on the thighs, that is slipped on the foot.

square which becomes blobby

Object Poem

2010-05-27T21:54:00.001-04:00

Shot glass, I empty you, and you fill
An Upper Sandusky jail cell.
I slam you down hard on the bar,
but I'm the one breaking
the law, the sound barrier, my mother's heart.
Shot from a cannon made of glass
wearing no helmet and no pants.
Holding some enameled exotic location
as though my travels have ever been beyond
the barstool to the bathroom
Vodka tastes like headaches, and I can't remember tequila
but the shot glass remembers
I remember the shot glass: perfect, round, and tiny
a transparent monk, to take my confession
and make me pure again, or just forgetful of my sins
little glass trash can filled with poison,
curved window to a world of confusion,
I shot myself through every variety of hell
before I was even legally permitted to use you,
shot glass, small enough for a baby's hands
like the little glass poodles in the curio cabinet
at my grandmother's house before my grandfather
died of Cirrosis and they moved her to the home.

Taking You to Work at the Dryer Factory

2010-05-19T08:32:00.005-04:00

I’ll let you drive. Just promise not to die
getting run over by a tow motor.
Dryers don’t seem dangerous, but who knows?
They have hard edges and moving parts
the same as cars or nuclear submarines,
and they’ve done a real number on my socks,
starred and hearted, but not nearly so dear
as you in your electrically grounded shoes.
I see those fools filing in after you
through the electric turn style, metal doors
back into that black hole of industry.
I’d love to lock you in and drive away,
but you say it’s too late to call in sick
and someone has to feed those god damn cats
so you gave up your nights to pay for that.
Fingers wave goodbye through a chain link fence.
I drive home to mourn for your graveyard shift.

May

2010-05-02T23:33:00.000-04:00

God damn! gotta get back on the ball!

perfect

2010-03-28T22:23:00.000-04:00

A new reason to write poetry just in time for poetry month.

one manillion billion

2010-02-25T23:15:00.004-05:00

I haven't updated this since I was born. Let me give you a basic outline of everything in my life:

- searched for indie rock sensation, St. Vincent on the streets of Columbus
- making a wearable prison out of gelatin
- started a Baroque portrait of my dog
- attended a panel discussion about the coming apocalypse or lack thereof
- writing script for an audio tour of a museum that doesn't exist
- finished a script and new character designs for the next Overreaction Boy episode
- wrote love poems on demand to raise money for the new literary magazine at my school
- improved American relations with China
- became very downtrodden
- recovered immediately
- watched every episode of Lost in 3 days. It's a pretty silly show.
- Made very strange drawings while watching Lost.
- Became a hermit and devoted my life almost exclusively to school.

Next month I'm going back to Austin. I gave Wally a bath today. I love everything and everyone.

Business Cards.

2010-01-31T11:46:00.001-05:00

I made business cards.

Front:

Back:

Mobile web is a cock tease.

2010-01-16T09:02:00.001-05:00

So much has happened this year! I want to write about everything, but idon't have a computer. Crater cows and Mormon pancakes!!!!!

Round 'em up!

2010-01-09T12:34:00.005-05:00

I wish I could blog directly to the Internet from my brain. I would have the most beautiful blog in the world. I'm in Texas on a road trip to Los Angeles with my good friend, Darcie Odom. It's been great so far. Darcie's not sure where she's going to live when she gets There, but she relies on her mantra, "at least I have my cats."

and

2009-12-22T00:11:00.001-05:00

almost started crying tonight because i thought i lost a handkerchief.

Robert Rhoades

2009-12-21T20:58:00.001-05:00

My dad on marital success:

You just have to realize everyone is assholes, and this is my asshole.

Did you know

2009-12-19T14:50:00.001-05:00

There's a canyon in Mexico that dwarfs the grand canyon. It's called copper canyon and i want to go there.

go go go

2009-12-16T21:45:00.000-05:00

NEW PERRYTREE ALBUM:AARON OUT! +Very Explicit+

FREE FREE FREE

Boredom Party!

2009-12-09T11:53:00.007-05:00

I wrote this essay and probably no one will care, but I was pretty happy about it, so here it is.

Peace:

The Representation of the Buddhist Teachings in The Burmese Harp and The Harp of Burma

What does it mean to be Buddhist? Perhaps this question cannot be answered in a single film or book, much less an essay, but I would like to explore the idea and how it is tackled by Kon Ichikawa in The Burmese Harp, and in Harp of Burma by Michio Takeyama. Certainly both the book and film follow the same story line very closely, but because of the differing limitations of their mediums and differing visions of the creators, we get a very different picture from each. In both we follow the journey of Mizushima, the soldier turned monk, in his spiritual awakening, his personal discovery of the Burmese Buddhist faith. However, there is a big difference between following someone, as we do in the movie, and being led by someone as we are in the book.

The first truly Buddhist moment we see in the book or the film, which is handled equally well in both, is the moment when the British soldiers begin to sing along to Hanyu no Yado. Here we see the breakdown of differences between men- the underlying oneness between all life. I think this touching scene makes the later atrocities (the massacre of the soldiers who refused to stop fighting at triangle mountain, and the piles of dead corpses Mizushima encounters on his journey back to captain Inōe and his men) all the more heartrending. However, Mizushima's reaction to the corpses on the beach changes from book to film. In the book, Mizushima is not greatly concerned immediately with the proper burial of his countrymen,

"And so I gave up. I would not attempt to bury them. The dead are dead, I told myself... I can't stop to worry about every one of them. I'm going to rejoin my company, go back to Japan, and start a new life!"(120) In the film, though we get a clearer picture of the grizzly scene, there is no voice over narration, we simply see Mizushima's despair at seeing the corpses and later his trying to bury them. Not being able to know his first relative disregard for the dead soldiers deprives us of an important point in his spiritual journey, perhaps a point before the journey has really begun. There is such a contrast presented to us in the book between the Mizushima at the end of the story, ready to abandon every facet of his familiar life as a beloved Japanese soldier, and the Mizushima of the beginning, so eager to return to Japan that he'll disregard a pile of mangled Japanese bodies. This is lost, though, in the film.

Another moment in the same vein as Mizushima's abandonment of the corpses is his witnessing the funeral that the English have for the unknown Japanese soldiers. We begin to see spiritual development happening in Mizushima. Not only in his guilt for having left the bodies, but in his beginning to see men as equal, free of the divisions of nationality, as well as the beginnings of compassion,

"Foreigners have done this for us- treated our sick and wounded, buried our dead, prayed to console their spirits... Hanyu no Yado is not only a song of yearning for your own home, for your own friends. That harp expresses the longing of every man..."(123) Again this is a spark of change in Mizushima that we don't see so clearly in the film.

The journey to Buddhist enlightenment is hard to represent visually, it is such personal and internal thing. The Buddhism practiced in Burma is called Theravada, one of the oldest forms of the religion. It is said to be the form of Buddhism handed down directly from the original Buddha, Siddhartha Gautama. In this tradition, one meditates to develop metta, or loving-kindness, and extends love compassion to all people whether they be benefactor or enemy. Theravadan monks chant in Pali, a derivative of Sanskrit, and follow strictly the precepts of Buddhism. Some of these precepts are simple, like abstaining from sleeping on luxurious beds. However, the first precept is bit more complex. The first precept of Buddhism is to abstain from killing or causing something to be killed. This is very relevant to Mizushima's story. One cannot overlook the greatest difference between a soldier and a Theravadan monk: one destroys and disregards life while the other gives life the most profound respect.

The biggest departure that the movie took from the original text is in the one place where it mattered most. This is at the end, when we finally get to hear, through a letter, Mizushima's own interpretation of what we saw, but got very little insight into: his embracing of the monastic life and decision to stay in Burma. Something goes terribly wrong at this point in the movie. First, all Mizushima's attention is not to his new religious devotion, but to the proper burial of the dead Japanese still in Burma. This is a grave failure. When Mizushima says, in the book,

"The bones of the countless unknown dead are calling me. They are waiting for me. I cannot ignore them,"(126) we may interpret this merely as Mizushima's wish to give proper burial to all the dead Japanese, but there may be more to it. As he has taken on the teachings of the Buddha, he sees the dead are not only unburied bodies, but the casualties of a brutal and pointless war, which by his participation, he helped to create. His refusal to return to the army, and to Japan, is a refusal to go back to his life as a harbinger of death. This comment about the dead calling to him is followed by a graphic depiction of the confused Japanese unable to navigate the harsh rivers of Burma, being carried to their deaths at sea, dying of malaria and dysentery, or committing suicide through hand grenade. Mizushima says,

"How could anyone see what I have seen and do nothing about it? How could anyone ignore it with a clear conscience, or say that it was none of his business?"(127) Again Mizushima is not merely speaking of his duty to his dead countrymen, but his duty to all living beings. The greatest disrespect to the dead would be to go on living the way he had- to go on fighting wars, to go on in ignorance of the spiritual realities that he had come to recognize in his Buddhist practice. We get a taste of this in the movie, but we lose the most important moment in Mizushima's letter,

"Many innocent people were sacrificed to a senseless cause... We have forgotten to meditate deeply on the meaning of life...Our country has waged a war, lost it, and is now suffering. That is because we were greedy, because we were so arrogant that we forgot human values, because we had only a superficial idea of civilization."(129-30)

This is the greatest failure of Ichikawa's film. Perhaps he had reasons not to include this condemnation of Japanese war culture, since it was a Japanese movie after all, but it is a great disservice the original text, and to the audience.

The point of the Harp of Burma is not merely a requiem for the Japanese casualties of the second world war. It is for the casualties of every war- past and future. This is the story of redemption for not only Mizushima but perhaps for the reader who will take this denouncement of murder to heart. A man gives up all he holds dear when he realizes that the things he once loved are what has led him to becoming a cog in a killing machine. This is not a Japanese or Burmese story, as I think it was represented in the film. This is the story of an awakening of the spirit

new

2009-12-06T23:01:00.001-05:00

I feel like a million bucks.

poem

2009-12-05T19:48:00.002-05:00

From Beef Chellington

Never Give All The Heart
W.B. Yeats

Never give all the heart, for love
Will hardly seem worth thinking of
To passionate women if it seem
Certain, and they never dream
That it fades out from kiss to kiss;
For everything that's lovely is
But a brief, dreamy. Kind delight.
O never give the heart outright,
For they, for all smooth lips can say,
Have given their hearts up to the play.
And who could play it well enough
If deaf and dumb and blind with love?
He that made this knows all the cost,
For he gave all his heart and lost.

2009-11-28T01:21:00.002-05:00

I made this video essay. It's about my personal musical heritage.

also i would like someone to conduct this hair experiment.

apnikti

2009-11-27T22:35:00.004-05:00

wake up and think of you take a shower and think of you eat a tomato and think of you brush my hair and think of you and think of you put on clothes and think of you especially jeans and think of you that fucking music and thinking of you turn on the computer and think of you draw a picture and think of you especially foxes thinking of you wish i wasn't thinking of you and thinking of you trying to find someone else to think about and thinking of you hating you which is thinking of you not thinking of you then realizing i'm not thinking of you then thinking of you watching anita liberty or agentxpq and thinking of you see a hotel see a bike see a cat see a plant and think of you and cry and think of you and get mad and think of you do nothing and think of you write shit about thinking of you and think of you

bunbun

2009-11-22T03:36:00.000-05:00

blessed.

2009-11-18T00:35:00.004-05:00

from Oct 22

Me: i got blessed by a tibetan monk last time i was in canada

Bird Doctor::
That's really awesome

Me: oh lord
9:40 PM
well, actually

the tibetan monk thing

Bird Doctor:: You made it up, didn't you

Me: was part of this wandering exhibit of buddhist relics

ok, get this

Bird Doctor:: I see where this is gooing

A monk in a wax museum.

Me: when a big important spiritual leader in the buddhist faith- whatever the tibetan sect of that is

Bird Doctor:: Tracy in a monk-costume..

Me: no!!!

this is real!!!
9:41 PM
when one of the dudes dies

Bird Doctor:: sorry. attending

Me: he's cremated and they go through the ashes and find these "relics"

and they look like little stones

like gems kind of

and they have them

traveling around

i mean they travel with them

and display them

and they have them in little cases
9:42 PM
and you purify a statue (symbolic for yourself) with this yellow blessed safron water (looks like pee)

and you look at these like... ash stones (one of which was donated by the dalai lama and came from the original buddha, i guess)

and then you go to this monk guy

who has some of the relics in this like

golden dildo

and he puts it on your head

and mumbles words you don't understand
9:43 PM
and for me it seemed like he went way long with the mumbles

and after i was, to tracie, i was like "man, he spent a long time on me it seemed- i wonder if he detected my gayness"

and she laughed for like 15 minutes
9:44 PM
and the whole thing is all about like promoting metta (loving-kindness), but also the donations go to building this giant buddha statue in india or something

and that just makes me think of that quote about god waiting for his kingdom to be build of love, but man only brings stones

but it gave me a lot of inspiration for my thesis
9:45 PM
and tracie and i had a big fight that night, so so much for loving-kindness

Bird Doctor:: You crack me up.

orthostatic hypertension

2009-11-17T23:38:00.005-05:00

I've been getting these head rushes every time I stand up. It's been going on for about 6 or 7 months. I think most people have had this experience at one time or another, but I have it a few times a day, especially if I get out of a hot bath. My peripheral vision can go fuzzy, and sometimes nearly everything goes dark. It doesn't last very long, but it can be very strange. Just now I got out of the bathtub and I had to hold onto the door frame waiting for my blood pressure to normalize. All i could do was look at the floor. It looked like this...

As you know or can imagine, there's not a lot you can think about at these moments, but once you've got your blood right, maybe thoughts occur to you, sort of euphoric thoughts. This time i looked at my bathroom that I've had forever, my yellow towel that I've had even longer, and my feet that I've had for even longer than that. It occurred to me that this is all that there's ever been. My feet and my towel and my bathroom. And all that other shit that I've been compulsively thinking about- particularly a recent loss- what was that, really? Why is that more real, more pressing, more necessary to think about than my yellow towel, which i use every day, which has outlasted all the hardships and joys of my adult life, and which will see me through many more years.

And in a more immediate sense, in the zen sense, there was my towel, my floor, my feet. That's all. And I really felt it for that moment. And it was a great comfort to me. Or something that subverted the need for comfort. Obviously it passed, since I had to hold on to that moment by writing about it. Standing up has become a fucking adventure, though. One time I simultaneously stood and stretched my arms above my head, and i fainted.

this is the kind of shit i blog about

2009-11-14T21:51:00.007-05:00

I was in the ER a month ago waiting for four hours to get my head checked out because an old lady tried to kill me with her car. My friend Cassidy came to wait with me and interested me in buying some chips from the vending machine there. These were doritos, but not ordinary doritos, because they came in a black bag. A black bag of mystery and majesty for i soon found out that they were the greatest of all doritos. In fact, they were the greatest of all possible chips. They were doritos late night last call jalapeño popper chips, and ever since then I thought I wouldn't be able to find them again without suffering a ER-worthy disease or injury.

HOWEVER! I found a bag today at the dairy-mart in german village, and for that reason I am staving off suicide another day or two.

I'm not really suicidal. Relax.

how to

2009-11-14T01:21:00.001-05:00

My latest coping device:

car shoppers

2009-11-04T17:30:00.003-05:00

4:58 PM
Mrs. Beef: you you you

me: me me me
5:00 PM
Mrs. Beef: i i i !

me: whooooooooooooooooooooop

Mrs. Beef: so how long you gonna be in t?

me: i don't know, i haven't gotten a car yet

if i get one, thursday and friday
5:01 PM
Mrs. Beef: wow, what you looking at?
5:02 PM
me: cheap ones

Mrs. Beef: well that doesn't help!

me: cheap shitty shit ones
5:06 PM
Mrs. Beef: like a yugo?

me: like a corvere

corvair

Mrs. Beef: get a delorean

me: those are expensive!
5:07 PM
Mrs. Beef:
not really
5:08 PM
me: yeysyeysyes

Mrs. Beef:
really cheap!
5:10 PM

5:11 PM
me:
Mrs. Beef: *pukes

me:
5:12 PM

Mrs. Beef: i thnk i found the Shadoobie!

me: holy shit
5:13 PM
this is the one i really want

5:14 PM
i hope they let me test drive it first

Mrs. Beef:
might want to have a mechanic check this one first before buying

me: this one's my second choice

5:15 PM
Mrs. Beef:
this one has a couple dings, but i bet the engine is still great

me: this is the car i've always dreamed of

5:16 PM
Mrs. Beef: pretty

very existential

me: this one has such low mileage! like it's never been driven!

5:18 PM
Mrs. Beef:
me: oh i bet the inssurance for that one would be very low
5:19 PM
Mrs. Beef: so low.

me: i've also been looking into some european options

5:20 PM
i think if i act fast, i can have this one paid off by 2015
5:21 PM
Mrs. Beef: hm, that one looks like a death trap.

me: this one comes in new OR used

5:22 PM
Mrs. Beef: i forgot to tell you

me: also a japanese choice

Mrs. Beef: we're dating again

5:23 PM
me: oh, that's good

we should go on a double date

i just met my future wife

5:24 PM
here's us on sweetest day

Mrs. Beef: i totally had to dump my previous gf for her.
5:25 PM

5:26 PM
me: you know this may be surprising to you

but i finally made the transition to dating men last week

this is my boyfreind

his name is Rod

Mrs. Beef: i had to drop this one, because she was too much into PDA
asian! i like. you know i like.

i mean, i rike.
5:27 PM
me: i've been seeing this sweet young honey on the side

Mrs. Beef: mmmm i'm stealin' her
5:28 PM
me: this is my favourite fucking game ever

i laughed my fuck sack off

Mrs. Beef: hahahah
5:29 PM
mine too

me: i want to put it on my blog

moving right along

2009-11-03T18:34:00.003-05:00

A R Ammons is my favorite.

Rapids

Fall's leaves are redder than
spring's flowers, have no pollen,
and also sometimes fly, as the wind
schools them out or down in shoals
or droves: though I
have not been here long, I can
look up at the sky at night and tell
how things are likely to go for
the next hundred million years:
the universe will probably not find
a way to vanish nor I
in all that time reappear.

Rogue Elephant

The reason to be autonomous is to stand there,
a cleared instrument, ready to act, to search

the moral realm and actual conditions for what
needs to be done and to do it: fine, the

best, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it
comes in handy to the wrong choice, why then

you see the danger in the effective: better
then an autonomy that stands and looks about,

negotiating nothing, the supreme indifferences:
is anything to be gained where as much is lost:

and if for every action there is an equal and
opposite reaction has the loss been researched

equally with the gain: you can see how the
milling actions of millions could come to a

buzzard-like glide as from a coincidental,
warm bottom of water stuck between chilled

peaks: it is not so easy to say, OK, go on
out and act: who, doing what, to what or

whom: just a minute: should the bunker be
bombed (if it stores gas): should all the

rattlers die just because they rattle: if I
hear the young gentleman vomiter roaring down

the hall in the men's room, should I go and
inquire of him, reducing him to my care: no

wonder the great sayers (who say nothing) sit
about in inaccessible states of mind: no

wonder still wisdom and catatonia appear to
exchange places occasionally: but if anything

were easy, our easy choices soon would carry
away our ignorance with the world-better

let the mixed-up mix and let the surface shine
with all the possibilities, each in itself.

Mule Song

Silver will lie where she lies
sun-out, whatever turning the world does,
longeared in her ashen, earless,
floating world:
indifferent to sores and greengage colic,
where oats need not
come to,
bleached by crystals of her trembling time:
beyond all brunt of seasons, blind
forever to all blinds,
inhabited by
brooks still she may wraith over broken
fields after winter
or roll in the rye-green fields:
old mule, no defense but a mule’s against
disease, large-ribbed,
flat-toothed, sold to a stranger, shot by a
stranger’s hand,
not my hand she nuzzled the seasoning-salt from.

life support

2009-11-02T21:49:00.005-05:00

I am mourning for my dead selves. Also new live album by the Perrytree. We recorded it on a car ride home from seeing our friend Rob in Pennsylvania.

Aaron Carr - by the Perrytree
Free Free Free

Going on internet hiatus.

2009-10-26T21:36:00.001-04:00

because.

crotchet heroes

2009-10-21T17:38:00.000-04:00

'I come to my studio every day at 10.30, and I stay and do nothing. I go to Paris sometimes. I have a few ideas. To be very pretentious, sometimes I believe it is mystical. Sometimes you find nothing, and then you find some-thing you love to do. Sometimes you make mistakes, but some-times it's true. In two minutes, you understand what you must do for the next two years. Sometimes it's in the studio, but other times it's walking in the street or reading a magazine. It's a good life, being an artist, because you do what you want.

'Something like 60 per cent of my work is destroyed after every show. And if it's not destroyed, it's removed, or I'll mix one piece with another. When I make a show it's like when you arrive at home and you open your fridge at night and there's two potatoes and one sausage and two eggs, and with all that you make something to eat. I try to make something with what is in my "fridge".'

- Christian Boltanski

The night I saw St. Vincent.

2009-10-20T00:04:00.001-04:00

a lyric reminded me of this tonight.

For My Lover, Returning To His Wife
by Anne Sexton

She is all there.
She was melted carefully down for you
and cast up from your childhood,
cast up from your one hundred favorite aggies.
She has always been there, my darling.
She is, in fact, exquisite.
Fireworks in the dull middle of February
and as real as a cast-iron pot.
Let's face it, I have been momentary.
A luxury. A bright red sloop in the harbor.
My hair rising like smoke from the car window.
Littleneck clams out of season.
She is more than that. She is your have to have,
has grown you your practical your tropical growth.
This is not an experiment. She is all harmony.
She sees to oars and oarlocks for the dinghy,
has placed wild flowers at the window at breakfast,
sat by the potter's wheel at midday,
set forth three children under the moon,
three cherubs drawn by Michelangelo,
done this with her legs spread out
in the terrible months in the chapel.
If you glance up, the children are there
like delicate balloons resting on the ceiling.
She has also carried each one down the hall
after supper, their heads privately bent,
two legs protesting, person to person,
her face flushed with a song and their little sleep.
I give you back your heart.
I give you permission --
for the fuse inside her, throbbing
angrily in the dirt, for the bitch in her
and the burying of her wound --
for the burying of her small red wound alive --
for the pale flickering flare under her ribs,
for the drunken sailor who waits in her left pulse,
for the mother's knee, for the stocking,
for the garter belt, for the call --
the curious call
when you will burrow in arms and breasts
and tug at the orange ribbon in her hair
and answer the call, the curious call.
She is so naked and singular
She is the sum of yourself and your dream.
Climb her like a monument, step after step.
She is solid.
As for me, I am a watercolor.
I wash off.

glob

2009-10-08T23:57:00.001-04:00

When my eyes are weeds,
And my lips are petals, spinning
Down the wind that has beginning
Where the crumpled beeches start
In a fringe of salty reeds;
When my arms are elder-bushes,
And the rangy lilac pushes
Upward, upward through my heart;

Summer, do your worst!
Light your tinsel moon, and call on
Your performing stars to fall on
Headlong through your paper sky;
Nevermore shall I be cursed
By a flushed and amorous slattern,
With her dusty laces' pattern
Trailing, as she straggles by.

Dorothy Parker

jibber jabber

2009-10-05T02:11:00.005-04:00

I have this port on my car stereo that lets me plug in my iPod, but it broke. I tried to fix it, but I couldn't find my soldering iron, so I hot glued it. Bad idea. I've been listening to the radio, but only talk radio. I'm not sure why. Since everyone moved away maybe I just like voices talking at me. There isn't much talk happening on the radio at night, though. So, when I drove home from Toledo tonight I had no radio- just the sound of the road. I used to do that all the time before I got sober, but I stopped for some reason. I had a conversation with my brain. I told it that it was my favorite organ, but it objected, because we need all the other organs just as much. I mentioned the appendix's uselessness, and then my brain hung up on me. I am so fucking tired- I've become delirious.

word

2009-09-22T11:06:00.001-04:00

Vipassana Rebellion

2009-09-18T20:58:00.012-04:00

Remember when you could just love and it wasn't such a crime; when seeing someone as special wasn't creating an accursed division between them and every other person in the world- before it was all akin to genocide? Those were the days. Oh beloved blind naïveté, why have you left me? I never agreed to let you go. I just can't get into counting breaths as well as i can get into smelling your hair. I know that's wrong... or i guess that's wrong, but there's just not a lot of satisfaction on this road to stoicism... enlightenment- whatever. Remember when ... oh so many things. My most mindful breathing is breathing through your mouth. You were my religion, yours were my all-seeing eyes, and they still are. Spread eagle or full lotus you are my Mount Kailash and I would climb you before any ladder to heaven.

(I'm just lonesome with a stomach ache.)

Ant Farm

2009-09-15T00:00:00.003-04:00

Well, let's see. I started an ant farm. Last week was my 2 year anniversary of sobriety. Today is Lisa's birthday. And this poem was on NPR this morning after AAA helped me break into my own car.

Things are not as they seem: the innuendo of everything makes
itself felt and trembles towards meanings we never intuited
or dreamed. Take, for example, how the warbler, perched on a

mere branch, can kidnap the day from its tediums and send us
heavenwards, or how, held up by nothing we really see, our
spirits soar and then, in a mysterious series of twists and turns,

come to a safe landing in a field, encircled by greenery. Nothing
I can say to you here can possibly convince you that a man
as unreliable as I have been can smuggle in truths between tercets

and quatrains on scraps of paper, but the world as we know
is full of surprises, and the likelihood that here, in the shape
of this very bird, redemption awaits us should not be dismissed

so easily. Each year, days swivel and diminish along their inscrutable
axis, then lengthen again until we are bathed in light we were not
prepared for. Last night, lying in bed with nothing to hold onto

but myself, I gazed at the emptiness beside me and saw there, in the
shape of absence, something so sweet and deliberate I called it darling.
No one who encrusticates (I made that up!) his silliness in a bowl,

waiting for sanctity, can ever know how lovely playfulness can be,
and, that said, let me wish you a Merry One (or Chanukah if you
prefer), and may whatever holds you up stay forever beneath you,

and may the robin find many a worm, and our cruelties abate,
and may you be well and happy and full of mischief as I am,
and may all your nothings, too, hold something up and sing.

"And the Cantilevered Inference Shall Hold the Day" by Michael Blumenthal

kateDay 24th anniversary

2009-08-31T22:30:00.004-04:00

It's the end of my birthday. I'm in my underwear alone in my living room about to enjoy the present I got myself on an end of the day impulse, a pink hookah and some apple flavored tobacco. Since I quit booze, drugs, and now cigarettes I thought this could be one little indulgence that I could grant myself on this special day. I am very grateful for another year with my beloved family and friends and my striped underpants and my gray borrowed socks and rock and roll and the office and nachos and beans and school and life and amazing. Happy kateDay.

dropping out of society

2009-08-26T23:52:00.003-04:00

I must graduate. If I do not graduate in 2 more semesters after this one, I am dropping out of society. I have already started getting rid of my worldly possessions so I can more easily slink into the forest under the dark of night. I would have quit, moved into my car, and driven to Austin by now, but the disappointment would kill my mother. It is degrading. I degrade myself. Every year the freshmen are younger. Oh my God, when I think of the bullshit classes that I've still been putting off, it makes me nauseous.

List of ways I can get out of going to school without killing my mother:

- become rich and famous by writing my award-winning illustrated memoir
- marry a doctor/lawyer/captain of industry
- get polio
- get pregnant
- blackmail and administrator
- fake my own death
- actually die

all of these look better than ever having to finish 2D design. Yes, I still have to fucking finish the second semester of 2D. What have I been doing all these years? For most of them I was drinking, then I had one good year, then I spent a year in the mental gulag. This year will be better, but still... Help me!

blahg

2009-07-30T01:43:00.002-04:00

I just wanted to write something. I don't ever want to go to outer space. I don't even like flying in planes- getting out of bed. There's a paper bag tacked to my wall with the word "BAD" written on it. It doesn't generate as much interest as I would like. I don't have very many people over, though. The ones I do have over probably already know that there's nothing in it.

I read this story 20 times a year.

"But it is inevitable that they will keep changing the doors on you, he said, because that is what they are for; and the thing is to get used to it and not let it unsettle the mind. But that would mean not jumping, and you can't. Nobody can not jump. There will be no not-jumping. Among rats, perhaps, but among people never. Everybody has to keep jumping at a door (the one with the circle on it) because that is the way everybody is, especially some people. You wouldn't want me, standing here, to tell you, would you, about my friend the poet (deceased) who said, "My heart has followed all my days something I cannot name"? (It had the circle on it.) And like many poets, although few so beloved, he is gone. It killed him, the jumping. First, of course, there were the preliminary bouts, the convulsions, and the calm and the willingness.

I remember the door with the picture of the girl on it (only it was spring), her arms outstretched in loveliness, her dress (it was the one with the circle on it) uncaught, beginning the slow, clear, blinding cascade-and I guess we would all like to try that door again, for it seemed like the way and for a while it was the way, the door would open and you would go through winged and exalted (like any rat) and the food would be there, the way the Professor had it arranged, everything O.K., and you had chosen the right door for the world was young. The time they changed that door on me, my nose bled for a hundred hours--how do you like that, Madam? Or would you prefer to show me further through this so strange house, or you could take my name and send it to me, for although my heart has followed all my days something I cannot name, I am tired of the jumping and I do not know which way to go, Madam, and I am not even sure that I am not tired beyond the endurance of man (rat, if you will) and have taken leave of sanity. What are you following these days, old friend, after your recovery from the last bump? What is the name, or is it something you cannot name? The rats have a name for it by this time, perhaps, but I don't know what they call it. I call it and it comes in sheets, something like insulating board, unattainable and ugli-proof."

step one

2009-07-24T01:34:00.000-04:00

I am powerless over the Office and my life has become unmanagable.

My license suspension ended today.

2009-07-20T12:50:00.001-04:00

Fog

The fog comes
on little cat feet.

It sits looking
over harbor and city
on silent haunches
and then moves on.

Carl Sandburg

NEW NEW NEW

2009-07-05T21:10:00.002-04:00

Adam and I, aka the Perrytree, made a new album today. It's called Aaron Three. Download it for free today!

ThePerrytree.com

Em Dick

2009-06-21T19:32:00.002-04:00

I just like to read them.

---

I had a guinea golden—
I lost it in the sand—
And tho' the sum was simple
And pounds were in the land—
Still, had it such a value
Unto my frugal eye—
That when I could not find it—
I sat me down to sigh.

I had a crimson Robin—
Who sang full many a day
But when the woods were painted,
He, too, did fly away—

Time brought me other Robins—
Their ballads were the same—
Still, for my missing Troubador
I kept the "house at hame."

I had a star in heaven—
One "Pleiad" was its name—
And when I was not heeding,
It wandered from the same.
And tho' the skies are crowded—
And all the night ashine—
I do not care about it—
Since none of them are mine.

My story has a moral—
I have a missing friend—
"Pleiad" its name, and Robin,
And guinea in the sand.
And when this mournful ditty
Accompanied with tear—
Shall meet the eye of traitor
In country far from here—
Grant that repentance solemn
May seize upon his mind—
And he no consolation
Beneath the sun may find.

---

Safe in their alabaster chambers,
Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,
Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,
Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.

Light laughs the breeze in her castle of sunshine;
Babbles the bee in a stolid ear;
Pipe the sweet birds in ignorant cadence -
Ah, what sagacity perished here!

Grand go the years in the crescent above them;
Worlds scoop their arcs, and firmaments row,
Diadems drop and Doges surrender,
Soundless as dots on a disk of snow.

---

THE SOUL selects her own society,
Then shuts the door;
On her divine majority
Obtrude no more.

Unmoved, she notes the chariot’s pausing
At her low gate;
Unmoved, an emperor is kneeling
Upon her mat.

I ’ve known her from an ample nation
Choose one;
Then close the valves of her attention
Like stone.

i was thinking about this all day yesterday

2009-06-18T16:15:00.002-04:00

A boon for dreamlessness,
this petty thief of time.

also, i laugh in my sleep.

100,000,000,000,000,000,000,000

2009-06-05T03:54:00.004-04:00

Ready, I am going to write forty million words. I am going to write a fucking novel and you're watching it happen right now. Well, not really. You are, though, in a way. It's deeply interactive. See how much you're participating in this creative process? Such symbiosis is happening. It is unbelievable. Oh I've suddenly lost all my energy. What do I write about now? What was I even writing about to begin with? I want to talk about something very significant. I want to tell a story about something and I want it to resonate with you and stay with you forever. I want you to cry when it's over. Not only because of my masterful command of language and theme, but because you wanted it never to end. I don't think this is it, though. This doesn't feel like it. There aren't even any characters or settings, and nothing has happened so far. Nothing's going to happen, either. Stop.

been listening to podcasts on my bike

2009-05-25T17:06:00.000-04:00

Quarantine
Eavan Boland

In the worst hour of the worst season
of the worst year of a whole people
a man set out from the workhouse with his wife.
He was walking-they were both walking-north.

She was sick with famine fever and could not keep up.
He lifted her and put her on his back.
He walked like that west and north.
Until at nightfall under freezing stars they arrived.

In the morning they were both found dead.
Of cold. Of hunger. Of the toxins of a whole history.
But her feet were held against his breastbone.
The last heat of his flesh was his last gift to her.

Let no love poem ever come to this threshold.
There is no place here for the inexact
praise of the easy graces and sensuality of the body.
There is only time for this merciless inventory:

Their death together in the winter of 1847.
Also what they suffered. How they lived.
And what there is between a man and a woman.
And in which darkness it can best be proved.

bike

2009-05-24T00:48:00.005-04:00

I cycle through 20 moods per mile
and average ten miles per hour
swearing to surrender
at the next number 2 bus stop
cursing shoulder aches and mosquito bites
in this early summer heat,
but each turn of the pedal
draws you to me
like the cranking of a winch
tightening the sail of your boat
in the dream where you cross the lake
to the southern shore of my apartment
where the water rusts my bicycle.

shut!

2009-05-22T00:52:00.000-04:00

This is my favorite poem ever.

Gray Room
Wallace Stevens

Although you sit in a room that is gray,
Except for the silver
Of the straw-paper,
And pick
At your pale white gown;
Or lift one of the green beads
Of your necklace,
To let it fall;
Or gaze at your green fan
Printed with the red branches of a red willow;
Or, with one finger,
Move the leaf in the bowl--
The leaf that has fallen from the branches of the forsythia
Beside you...
What is all this?
I know how furiously your heart is beating.

Wally.

2009-05-21T16:25:00.001-04:00

Wally has his own twitter now. Such a narcissist.

http://twitter.com/WallyRhoades

willy nilly

2009-05-20T11:23:00.002-04:00

I love making lists.

summer goals
- one painting a week
- finish this assemblage
- one video a week
- get my license back
- finish my novel
- begin my novel
- volunteeeer!
- weed the backyard
- train wally to be an upstanding citizen
- road trips
- clean my apartment
- get rid of a bunch of stuff
- get a new mattress
- survive a volcanic eruption
- get a tattoo
- skydive
- don't really skydive
- read one thousand books
- master all mediums and musical instruments
- speak to the dead
- become enlightened
- travel backwards in time
- build birdhouses
- build a metal bridge to your heart
- respeck
- ride my bike to canada.

Brass Knuckles and Belt Buckle rhyme so you should write a poem of them.

2009-05-15T14:41:00.005-04:00

You are holding more clothes than you're wearing
you must be hot
you'd have to be
with your belt slung over your shoulder at the bus stop
your belt buckle
is spiked brass knuckles
and hangs from the strap of black leather across your chest
down to your crotch
but it's not even summer yet
and the bus is leaving without you
your knuckles banging between your legs.

---
also i saw a business lady do a total nose dive in a cross walk the other day. coffee and pride were all over the street. it was awful.

ok, your turn! a-smk!

the intimate yell

2009-05-15T12:01:00.011-04:00

Frank O'hara.

Song

I am stuck in traffic in a taxicab
which is typical
and not just of modern life

mud clambers up the trellis of my nerves
must lovers of Eros end up with Venus
muss es sein? es muss nicht sein, I tell you

how I hate disease, it's like worrying
that comes true
and it simply must not be able to happen

in a world where you are possible
my love
nothing can go wrong for us, tell me

Lines For The Fortune Cookies

I think you're wonderful and so does everyone else.

Just as Jackie Kennedy has a baby boy, so will you--even bigger.

You will meet a tall beautiful blonde stranger, and you will not say hello.

You will take a long trip and you will be very happy, though alone.

You will marry the first person who tells you your eyes are like scrambled eggs.

In the beginning there was YOU--there will always be YOU, I guess.

You will write a great play and it will run for three performances.

Please phone The Village Voice immediately: they want to interview you.

Roger L. Stevens and Kermit Bloomgarden have their eyes on you.

Relax a little; one of your most celebrated nervous tics will be your undoing.

Your first volume of poetry will be published as soon as you finish it.

You may be a hit uptown, but downtown you're legendary!

Your walk has a musical quality which will bring you fame and fortune.

You will eat cake.

Who do you think you are, anyway? Jo Van Fleet?

You think your life is like Pirandello, but it's really like O'Neill.

A few dance lessons with James Waring and who knows? Maybe something will happen.

That's not a run in your stocking, it's a hand on your leg.

I realize you've lived in France, but that doesn't mean you know EVERYTHING!

You should wear white more often--it becomes you.

The next person to speak to you will have a very intriguing proposal to make.

A lot of people in this room wish they were you.

Have you been to Mike Goldberg's show? Al Leslie's? Lee Krasner's?

At times, your disinterestedness may seem insincere, to strangers.

Now that the election's over, what are you going to do with yourself?

You are a prisoner in a croissant factory and you love it.

You eat meat. Why do you eat meat?

Beyond the horizon there is a vale of gloom.

You too could be Premier of France, if only ... if only...

free like sneeze water

2009-05-08T00:27:00.002-04:00

i can just write like normal again. look at me go!
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o p q r s t u v w x y z

i did that in less than a nanosecond. what else is going on. My dog was chewing on all these rubber letters that fell out of my cabinet today. I had to chase him. He likes to eat string. I have to do another presentation tomorrow about African refugees if you can believe that. I have decided to have faith in everything. Not everything, maybe, but more things! I hope I never get Alzheimers and i am very grateful that I don't have it right now. Other things I am grateful for

- working legs
- no poison oak
- no OBGYNs for a year
- almost nobody reading this (just joshing, people who read this)
- second, 3rd, etc. chances
- that I know now that it's etc and not ect
- wally connecticut ellis rhoades my smash face dog
- not eating string
- being sober
- lions
- it's friday
- awesome poems
- literacy
- my mom
- your mom

I saw this on a bathroom wall.

2009-05-05T00:30:00.002-04:00

"Though boys throw stones at frogs in sport, the frogs do not die in sport, but in earnest."

(turns out it's a quote from Bion)

30: last one

2009-05-02T02:30:00.003-04:00

I live in my bathtub.

All the best poems are about the sea
but I am land locked and the last time
I saw the shore, I plunged
into so much poison oak;
I looked like the toxic avenger
swam the ocean of calamine lotion.
Actually I can't even name a poem
that's only about the sea.
But I can think of many that mention
waves and the yawning blue deletion
of everything solid.
We have that in Ohio, and it's wet
but it's not saltwater.

29

2009-04-29T23:20:00.002-04:00

Summer '07

cocaine computer
the furious mp3s
hot beer and no sleep

bottom of the stairs
gazelles over a square pond
never see me leave

25 - 28

2009-04-29T00:45:00.001-04:00

I got so lost.

(25)

(26)

(27)

(28)

24

2009-04-24T11:01:00.003-04:00

You make it look easy.

to hang metaphors
like christmas tree ornaments
from each verbal branch

and become your theme
so just breathing births structure
immaculately

24

Wally wally wall
stop licking my fucking face
or i will throw you

2009-04-22T17:16:00.003-04:00

For Miss Duni

You are comedy and tragedy
the stolen bikes your totaled car
the mad barrage of nickels
the bum stomach, broken guitars
the nights of traumas and vomit
the alcoholics that broke your heart

(22)

Feeling like a woman with a Y
When you're bleeding from your V
The glory of glasses!
A pair for each day of the week
when baked cheetos taste
exactly like the real thing

Oh oh oh oh don't forget this.

2009-04-20T21:17:00.002-04:00

I heard some amazing poetry today. So many good ones! TRANSCRIPTION! GO!

Wedding Vows
Eliot Khalil Wilson

...and I'd like to add that I will mind like a dog. I will wear whatever you like. I will go wingtip. No more white socks. A necktie stitched to my throat, turtlenecks in August. New York gray or black, only colors that dogs can see. I will know of squash, vermouth, and wedges. I will do all the grilling because I love it so. I will drive the wagon, man the bar, weed-whack compulsively. I will make money, the bed, never a to do.

I will build like an Egyptian, a two-mile pier complex, a five-story deck. I will listen like a bat, attend to the birth of sounds in the back of your throat. I will remember like and Indian elephant, recall requests made of me in a previous life. Your date of birth will be carved in the palm of my hand. I will make good. I will do right. I will sleep on the pegboard on the wall in the garage.

I'll have a tongue like a sperm whale, eyes like a harp seal, biceps like a fiddler crab. I will have gold coins, gold rings, stiff gold hair like shredded wheat. I will be golden at receptions, gold in your pocket, Paganini in your pants. Money will climb over the house like ivy. Excellent credit will be my white whale. I will always. I will everyday. I will nail the seat down. I will let you pretend I am your father.

I will be a priapic automatic teller machine, never down, never a usage fee, a stock prophet, a para-mutual seer, tractable, worshipful no matter what. I will always want to. I won't notice what you don't point out. I will entertain your friends, say how your love saved me. I will convince them. I will talk, really talk, to them. Deep meanings will be toothpicked and passed around.

I will need zero maintenance. I will be a utility or a railroad. There will be no breakdowns or disconnections. I will allow you lovers, Moroccan teenagers and Turkish men. I will adopt them. I will not cry. I will respond to grief by earning more. My sweat will smell like drug money, like white bread baking. I will be as clean as a Mormon, wholesome like Iowa. I will lead. I will be a star, a rock, like Rock Hudson.

----

Oh, i read aloud to my Adam, and it was like singing the most hardcore rock song.

(20)

2009-04-20T20:07:00.003-04:00

You are terrified
the back of your coat mohawked
barking at sprinklers.

7,8 teen

2009-04-19T23:57:00.004-04:00

(17)

ringing splits silence
how long must i wait for you
i think your phone died

(18)

beauty distracts me
cherry blossoms exploding
on the branch- my head

fif and six teen

2009-04-16T17:49:00.003-04:00

(15)

oh my sunburned skin
oh my dry eyelids
oh my crying dog
oh five syllables
oh oh oh oh oh

(16)

too soon to turn off
the lights, the walk is very far
land mines land mines fuck

Frozen to death by morning!

2009-04-15T13:12:00.001-04:00

This is the song I want played at my wedding, funeral, the birth of my child, my graduation, my first communion, my bris, all, ALL ALLLLLLLLL!

Badger King - Sermon of the Twelve Acknowledgments

quatorze

2009-04-14T23:20:00.000-04:00

Birthday

please don't be depressed
i wrapped up all of my love
fedexed it to you

Also

2009-04-14T10:02:00.003-04:00

The Sermon of the Twelve Acknowledgments

by Anne Sexton

January?
The month is dumb.
It is fraudulent.
It does not cleanse itself.
The hens lay blood-stained eggs.
Do not lend your bread to anyone
lest it never rise.
Do not eat lentils or your hair will fall out.

Do not rely on February
except when your cat has kittens,
throbbing into the snow.
Do not use knives and forks
unless there is a thaw,
like the yawn of a baby.
The sun in this month
begets a headache
like and angel slapping you in the face.

Earthquakes mean March.
The dragon will move,
and the earth will open like a wound.
There will be great rain or snow
so have some coal for your uncle.
The sun of this month cures all.
Therefore, old women say:
Let the sun of March shine on my daughter,
but let the sun of February shine on my daughter-in-law.
However, if you go to a party
dressed as the anti-Christ
you will be frozen to death by morning.

During the rainstorms of April
the oyster rises from the sea
and opens its shell-
rain enters it-
when it sinks the raindrops
become the pearl.
So take a picnic,
open your body,
and give birth to pearls.

June and July?
These are the months
we call Boiling Water.
There is sweat on the cat but the grape
marries herself to the sun.

Hesitate in August.
Be shy.
Let your toes tremble in their sandals.
However, pick the grape
and eat with confidence.
The grape is the blood of God.
Watch out when holding a knife
or you will behead St. John the Baptist.

Touch the Cross in September,
knock on it three times
and say aloud the name of the Lord.
Put seven bowls of salt on the roof overnight
and the next morning the damp one
will foretell the month of rain.
Do not faint in September
or you will wake up in a dead city.

If someone dies in October
do not sweep the house for three days
or the rest of you will go.
Also do not step on a boy's head
for the devil will enter your ears
like music.

November?
Shave,
whether you have hair or not.
Hair is not good,
nothing is allowed to grow,
all is allowed to die.
Because nothing grows
you may be tempted to count the stars
but beware,
in November counting the stars
gives you boils.
Beware the tall people,
they will go mad.
Don't harm the turtle dove
because he is a great shoe
that has swallowed Christ's blood.

December?
On December fourth
water spurts out of the mouse.
Put herbs in its eyes and boil corn
and put the corn away for the night
so that the Lord may trample on it
and bring you luck.
For many days the Lord has been
shut up in the oven.
After that He is boiled,
but He never dies, never dies.

I transcribed this, so if anything is wrong with it, tell me.

12 and 13

2009-04-13T09:35:00.002-04:00

(12)

you are the poem
i cannot write, but feel on
the tip of my tongue

(13)

don't forget mittens
to think of you shivering
i cannot bear it

ten eleven fuck

2009-04-12T03:31:00.008-04:00

(10)

why, computer, why?
whenever i start you up
you just let me down

---

white noise in jail

the hummmmmmmmmmmmmm
mmmofmmmmmmthemmmmm
mmicroavemmmmmmmmmm
mmandmmmmthemmmmm
mmvoicesmmmmmmmmm
clamorrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
rrringrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
rrrrrrrroverrrrrrrrrrrrrr
rrtherrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
rrrrrshufflingrrrrrrrrrrr
rrrrrrrofrrcardssssssss
ssssssssssssssssssssss
ssssssduringssssssss
ssssthessssdayssss
sssssshelpedsmes
ssssssssssssleep

much better than the

splash

drip

splash

of the night shift cleaning trustees.