Because Sunn O))) and Boris make epic records together...

Being too closely acquainted with Jim Beam causes me to yell at poor (and by poor, I of course mean pathetic) suburbanites and hiccup laughter directed at their deer in the headlights look and gurgling throats with the protruding adam's apple (a sign of power in the social hierarchy). This was the beginning of the MEXICAN FOOD DISASTER NIGHT, which occurred during the late hours of NOVEMBER 28th, 2007. Happy Birthday, and don't peer too closely at my bloodshot irises, for they might A.) Implode, or B.) Explode. Answering the question in form of another question really never makes any sense, answer questions with questions, you'll always seem to know the answer that way.
Generally, we sit like barbarians at any dinner table, knobby scabbed knees tucked under delicately designed wood, belching, farting, cursing as our eyes glaze over. shoving greasy food into our greasy mouths, elbows in the dinner plates, uttering things unmentionable even to you, as families with burpably small children sit in our vicinity, taking as much heathenistic terror as any god-fearing peoples could, UNTIL; they had reached their breaking point and would then have us thrown out on our sorry scabby asses.
As members of a community full of others equally as rude, we have forgotten what it is like to conform, and we have no intention of remembering.
This particular night was different, albeit better, not because we were any less rowdy or unrefined (in truth, we were more so), but because we had the place almost entirely to ourselves. Thank the God we all forgot to believe in, because the acoustics in this "Mexican Kitchen", let me tell you... all echo, echo, echo.
Oh hey, did I just see you slip that fork into your pocket?
Oh hey, did I just tell the waitress that the birthday girl is a dick.
Oh hey, did we just drive here intoxicated with 6 people crammed into a smelly Volkswagen bug?
"As people, we are largely defined by other people." Quick write that down and everything else I say on the napkin with the salsa stain. You can inscribe for me. Take note that you don't order hamburgers at a "Mexican Bistro", just like Amish people don't eat pizza... or do they? Find that out for me, it's your job.
It looks like the water is moving and thats because it is. You can't take a field trip to a funeral, but that's what we were all hoping would happen, and that's what did happen. I love throwing my cigarette butts into the virgin beauty of nature. Rape, pillage, burn, and then take a nap, right? No really, look at the river, it looks like the frosting on cakes that sit out in a non popular display case, collecting mold.
Philanderer, J'accuse..
No really guys, let me tell you about how much I love the Meso-American culture. Bloodletting! Wristcutting! Beheading! What's not to love. Hell is fun and Heaven is boring. Christianity can suck my dick and pagans can sleep on my couch.
Get back and get slapped and cry over un-sad books.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY DEAD ASSHOLE,
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU.
AND GET FUCKED AND I HOPE YOU ARE EQUALLY UNHAPPY FOR THE REST OF YOUR UN-LIFE.
And I had fun, and I have the postmortem bullet wounds to prove it.

Shrapnel is Shrapnel

1 - And with nothing even resembling a shout, I collected coat-hangers
2- and sex for effervescence and milk to lift (the) blood, (our) blood.
3- Once there was a girl from St. Paul,
4- with her ass in the donation bin, who thought we were entirely alone.
5- Insert her head here: "The only war that matters is the imagination."
6- O moon! Is it bitter to have a 6-pack in both palms
7- and the rages that small animals have (miscreants)
8- while in bed congugating the verb F-U-C-K (fuck to the more daring).
9- But the starving model is near at hand
10- and still the rats howl at the moon.




1- Stolen and changed
2- Ripped off and changed
3- Appropriated and changed
4- Seized and changed
5- Snatched and changed
6- Kidnapped and changed
7- Heisted and changed
8- Abducted and changed
9- Shanghai-ed and chaged
10- One I can call completely my own

Liars burn in hell

And birthday parties were no longer fun. Hand grenades looked alot closer to my heart. Leather, lacquer, and libraries as toys. Did the lockers just stick or is that over thinking it. Guinea pigs, a great deal looking like large potatoes, died that year and every year after that, but aspirations were born from their graves like buttercups no longer rubbed on chins. Caked on fuck ups and little puppy dogs tails'. I found my inspirations in the pimples, blackheads, and puss filled volcanoes. Liquor is fun but drugs are quicker. Wolves in the throne room, pigs in the menagerie. And I thought Tennessee Williams was going to be my one true calling, love. Sleepovers that lasted 8 straight years, planning trips to the fjords. High street high school is a state of mind, absolutely not the state of your being. Im writing this with charcoal pencil, already smudging birthmarks onto my chin, soaking into my skin, here forever to stay. Drumbeat drumbeat baseline flatline. Eternity is only 7 days or until we fall asleep in others beds. I wet my sheets. My friends and I denounced religion, found punk rock, and thought cigarettes were cool, still do. My shadow.

___________________________________________________________________
Writing this was a lot like writing anything; quick, painless, and some sort of fun. However, I find that having any constraints (i.e. number of sentences, copping Hejinian's style, etc. and onward) to be (not suprisingly) insanely constricting and hard to work around. I found myself wanting to stop at 10 sentences, and pushing myself to write 8 more felt like a chore. Also, trying to remember my 14 year old state of mind was awkward and confusing. It's hard to believe all of the things you forget in a short 4 years, although it's interesting to see that I am the exact same person now that I was when I was 14, just completely different.

My (not really an ode) Ode to Cleveland: What I hate, miss, love, and spew

• Rediscovering the Philippines via Art/Arty/Arthur
• The family of deer shitting always in front of my gate
• Inhalers, doctors appointments., steroids, zoloft.
• Seeing one of my best friends after two months of non-sight and saying, "Look at your nose ring and your trendy clothes." Then she looked at me and we laughed.
  
• Dog hairs in eyeballs, eyesball.
• Arguing heatedly with mom and friend over whether we should get Edmund Fitzgerald (coffee beer/them) or Dortmunder Gold (strong beer/me). The former wins of course and I like the Fitzgerald more than the Dortmunder.
• Book stores and Jay Reatard!
• Piss colored tissue paper leaves and soggy day dog walks.
• Finally laying with her in her new bed in her new room and watching Japanese horror movies. Someone was hanging upside down so she had to cover my eyes because when someone hangs upside down in a movie I faint.
• Slimy dog noses and baking organic dog treats and that overwhelming smell of cinnamon and not shit.
• Standing outside at 2am and hearing absolutely nothing except the faint sound of tires and trains and my ears start ringing and I realize that I am constantly bombarded with sound and the silence is more beautiful than I remember and I saw a dead cat on the highway.
• People asking Jam if I am really going to marry Fenimore and her saying, Yes.
• Fen (claim to fame; alcoholism and his "treason" and "punk forever" tattoos he got when he was 18) enlisting in the navy "for the money man," and his dog having to move to Las Vegas/Norway with Zach and Osla.
• My Life/ A pause, a rose, something on paper.
• My freckled face Asian half brother with the asshole dad.
• Skinned elbows! Road-rashed knees!
  
• My asshole dad being in Cologne or Paris or Helsinki or some other beautiful European country and me being in O-H-I-O I don't want to fuckin' go.
• "Tim Gunn's Guide to Style" and television" CABLE, a monster.
• My mom's hideous brown trench coat and scrubs.
• My coffee stained bed and my shitty old skateboard.
• Buying my Papaw a card with a fuzzy green bird in red high heels on the front and on the inside, "I am glad you were born." They will laugh when they get it and tell all of their senile old friend that their granddaughter is "an artist" to risk confusion and then they will vote Republican.
• Dry skin peel off tattoos, sweet tats. I am MOLTING.
• How deep has your voice gotten, how long have your legs grown, oh hairy giraffe?
• How my other brother always says, "and how."
• Warm sleep bed
• That 4 hour drive here through cornfields and armories, that 4 hour drive back through cornfields and armories.
• Rewind, repeat previous statement Tuesday night.
• Buying the to-fuckin-furkey.
  
• How will I have time to do everything I need to in Cincinnati, so maybe I shouldn't go back, I don't want to go back, knowing that I can't live or survive here though.
• Being a "smart ass asshole".
• Being told that Cincinnati has made me meaner, but they kind of like it.
• Ugly haircuts, mohair camel.
• That cliched poem about home being where the heart is.
  

"A naked lunch is natural to us, we eat reality sandwiches. But allegories are so much lettuce. Don't hide the madness."

Core PO-em, Poem for CO-re, Core for Poem: Drawer

A forest inside of me, dying roots constricting dying valves,
cherry wormwood seeps from open pore, regurgitated and cracked in half (crackcocaine).
Sleeping on hot sticky asphalt when home means arid grasses now corroded, rotten, muddied.
Mossy coated like too many unbrushed teeth after too many cups of black coffee sludge.
Sticks and stones may break my bones and words will fucking kill me.
Trash-barrel trash-cans like the hairy penny candy of unnamed three year olds.
My jaw now with tusks, my teeth now with jaws, wait harmlessly under dim streetlights,
reflecting orange loud traffic cones.
I had a world inside of me, held a world inside of me, but then it rolled off its axis,
splatted on the pavement like moldy watermelons out of second story windows.

This is more than just seasonal depression:

Dear Avril,

Here are the titles of the books on the first shelf of my bookcase (which is bright red and has nothing to do with beer).

Kelly.

________________________________________________________

Andy Warhol
The Zinn Reader
Lexicon Devil
Glue
The Pearl
Cannery Row
The Metamorphosis and Other Stories
Fruits
Shampoo Planet
Diary
Immortal Class
Lord of the Flies
The Photobook
Pride and Prejudice
Killing Yourself to Live
All Families Are Pyschotic
Invisible Monsters
Night
The Pop-Up Book of Phobias
Postsecret (One of my secrets is in there.... look and see if you can find it.)
Ghostworld
Do I Come Here Often?
Black Coffee Blues
Huis Clos
Webster's New World Thesaurus
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
The Catcher in the Rye

Because I can't configure an "anti-Kelly Tadge" post, here is the sub-average post. Nuhnahnahnuh.

Staying up for 24 hours straight makes you ravenously hungry.

I have two black eyes, raccoon, smudged black greasy semi-circles with no chance of FADING!

I hate poetry. Va’-t’en a tous les diables.

My friend asked me the other day what I would do if he committed suicide. I said I would come to his funeral drunk. I don’t think that was the answer he was expecting. He asked me what I would drink and so I told him. 9 whiskey cokes, 8 bags of lettuce, 7 hairy legs, 6 Mimosas 5 Tom Collins 4 Harvey Wall bangers 3 Eucharist 2 dead-ends 1 Bottle of Mad Dog. Most of those aren’t real drinks.

I think I would have a closed casket funeral. Or maybe an open casket funeral, look at my rigor mortis balloon blue (face). Or maybe no funeral at all. Maybe Cremation. All these ashes sitting on top of the mantel place mean me and my dust and my guts.

Every time I walk down 12th Street, I read the No Parking sign right by Walnut. “I saw a dog collar smashed into the pavement.” I constantly wonder who the un-named author could be, would be, could we be friends, get along, share falafel, flatulence, fighting words, biting words, play the tromBONE together, move to Chile, drink ICE TEA MOSH, spread the common cold together. Probably they wouldn’t like me. I’m pretty boring.

Absentmindedly, I carved a Thoreau quote into a desk in high school, something along the lines of “Simplify your life.” The next day when I went to class, someone else had written next to it, “You are GAY!” This is why high school was the best experience, greatest moment, chart topper, cherry on the shit sundae of my life. From here on out, bull only gets more intense and more down-hill. Gravity’s happy home; the heart. Not mine but yours.

I decided today that I don’t like it down here. Up north lacks improvement too. Fucked from birth/Art School Dropout.

Kelly Tadge Nancy Glier Correspondance

Since I have nothing left in me from writing this persuasive bullshit, I feel a litle humor is needed. Here is the letter Nancy Glier sent me regarding the fire breathing in all of it's awkwardly worded glory:



Dear Kelly Tadge,

Thank you for meeting with me last week, regarding the incident that occurred in the early hours of October 14th in the alley next to the Art Academy Housing, at which time a group of students spewed a combustible fluid into an open flame. Obviously, this is a very dangerous act, one that alarmed the security personnel at Tender Mercies to such a degree that they summoned the Cincinnati Police. There is no doubt the act of spitting combustible fuel into an open flame endangered the life and property of the people living next door and those who live within the dorm. It was just luck that no one was injured and the fire was contained. This reckless regard for the safety of others is clearly a violation of the open flame prohibition, stated in the Housing License Agreement. The function of these Rules and Regulations is not to limit fun or social events, but rather to provide a safe and healthy enviorment in which to live. Making "swooshes" of fire with a combustible liquid could have easily and quickly gotten out of control, destrtoying property, permanently disfiguring a person, or ending a life.

Because of the serious nature, the danger of the act, your involvement in this incident has been reported to the Academic Dean, Keith Kutch. This letter will be included in your Art Academy student record.

Going forward please be respectful or yourself and others in all your actions. Think of the potential harm your actions may have upon yourself, your classmates and neighbors. Please strive to make your time at the Art Academy a safe, healthy, happy period of personal growth and great creativity.

With kind regard for you,
Nancy Glier
Director of Administrative Services

AHHHHHHHHhhhhh! Re-fucking-view! (REWIND! REPEAT! RE-SMASH (the state)!)

Jellied nurse needs a shave.

or possibly

Dali can kiss my ass