Make me a sandwich my neighborhood.

Cleveland invades Cincinnati.
My friends are coming down tomorrow and all I can think is,
"Oh shit."
I spent 18 dollars on a mercury Virgin statuette.
This is getting stupid.

Kitten Pepper Kryptonite

By Avril Thurman and Kelly Tadge
{I may have taken some liberties here, I can't transcribe my own handwriting}

You lack your lip off a riger mortis, unnaturally nothing.
Your body isn't the land, this defecates you.
A sedentary cacophony to one horse staying.
The bed stains out your giving redness.
A sun isn't the albumen, this deshells them,
After you aren't cowering from good, an ill-designed, offbeat choice.
Or a sufficient sound expels thatself around a ribbon,
A sound, this dots thatself for a cloud, dislikes the mathematician.
Or non-affliction can gesticulate from affliction.
Spelling your kiss off a dictionary from space,
You forget where that isn't, of rejoice,
Or suffocate doom outside a monolithic pour, a recluse.
Or this you mustn't ravel yourself from, a lamb's loss from heaven.
Or banging unusual, old pavements off a sunny front, bastard writer.

so obviously what I mean to say is that

Gliff is my new favorite word, followed of course by gloam. I also keep slopping back and forth between like and dis of Chris Martin's poems.

FunctionalDespondency = I didn’t sign up to be the party pooper, it just kind of turned out that way.

The goose accidently crossed the freeway. His body froze of rushing’s foreign feelings. His friend watched as the semi truck clipped the lower half of the other goose’s body, spraying feathers like dandelion seeds across the highway, catapulting the body to a heap of bird beside an unforgiving road.
“Oh look, how sad.”
“Poor bird.”
“Road kill.”
“Gross.”
Words feign sadness to be polite.
The other goose was left stunned and confused, squawking a requiem of un-flown flights for his fallen soldier. He too will not return home, byway-highway’s have avian hungry jaws, sticky like tar and permanent like tire tracks.
Why couldn’t they just remember how to fly back to some glassy lake and make bird-love and have bird babies?
I am the goose, the goose’s forlorn friend, the highway, and lakes of the deepest azure. I am going to be heartsick forever.

I try not to make sense: I make too much, I try to make sense: I make too little

When the Sun Tries to Go on Again (or "Come Hither Palindromes and Hear the Sleeping Rats Groan):

And entirely without the couch, I sit my ass on a floor of pins,
facing empty, white, European, oceans,
of love, life, liberty, and O! Destitution!
Your cream-white, milk-fat face,
is a scab on the sacrament. Tampons!
Catch the old men's befuddlement, "Oh dear Billy." When
the boy's stomach crawls out of its belly hole, giggling.
It's believable, this unbelievable fraternity of shit.
Out house out past! The earth belches, madam,
and imposes a salty watermelon on your otherwise perfect lawn-
Furniture! Why is she asking these questions
of nothing-going-here-today? Hootenanny, can the paperboy
really be your mother's lover? If "Farewell to Arms"
meant the absence of said limbs. How now
the brown cow m-Ow-s, beside its dirty pilgrims. Of Lust!
O, I feed the patriotic song of an injustice sandwiches
of the finest ham! The "rushings past" of a million's
"passed (past) gas" sits down to bed one warm winter's
morn. Uroxicide! and beaches of the finest
pronunciation. And how, to be crunched in those
sneering jaws of- Gesticulation!
The hills are alive with the sound of urination,
and I ask your mother how she dared birth you.
Oops.

My rats go apeshit whenever I play Slayer's Reign in Blood or Lou Reed's Transformer; whether with love or hate I can't tell

Hey Mr. Dennigan, I think we (humanity, you, me, chicken, kitten, and rooster)should stop waxing poetic on our fellow unknowns including our own year eleven thousand and one as in A.D., after death, Anno Domini which means the same thing even if you've neglected Christ as your lamb-chop and saving grace. To quote the old adage, "We always think other people's parents are nicer than our own, but we always think our grandparents are nicer than other peoples." But what really isn't an adage at all, but something I overheard in a movie once.
Lo and Behold! I quote a lesser known about our woes dear Dennigan, sir and friend: "We live our lives based on images of things instead of real things." Oh and look fast because here comes another one, your way: "And who knows why we believe in things or why we believe in people." Which is right on outta sight and that's why I don't believe in myself, but let on that I think you could do anything, become an astronaut.
Simic, man, watch out for the sink hole quality of thinking. Advice for the ages. And Revell, my real moss grows over wild work, so you've written it down all wrong and ack basswards, maybe you should just stick to your translations. And oh, oh, Mrs. R-r-ruffles have R-r-ridges Mary Ruefle, is your refrigerator running because you'll never catch up with it.
My love in bigger than your love and sign off and out.

I pronounce myself poet laureate for the anti-states

I keep thinking about Fletcher Street in Philadelphia, and those one hundred horses sandwhiched between ghetto and those kids with the melting faces and not their "I want" mentality, but their "I need" mentality, their childhood sticky fingers completely justified. And that unnerving thought process brings me way back when to my baby years, walking through North Philly with my friends in search of some house show (8pm! 3 bucks! Asshole Parade and TBA! Free Brews - which were long gone and empty bottlenecks by the time we got there) telling everyone that I was 100 percent sure I smelled horse, the odor of which is tattooed onto my senses, and they all said this is ghetto and not cowboy territory but now I know, and I toy with the notion of calling those boys to show them just how wrong they were. But the two whose numbers and friendships I still have would not in anyway remember that and why should they.

A secret lulling to the black cowboys of my dreams and the ones I saw on Vine a month ago, giving pony rides to white kids on the sidewalk and in weedy parking lots. And a ballad for those hungry carriage pulling horses of downtowns across the nation, having to shit in a bag and listen to the drone of traffic and feel hard and not soft underfoot. Oh Oh Oh, goosebumps and a tear for all you grass munching beasts.

A lesson for years to come: anything in an unusual pocket is beautiful.

Eliot Ness was a fucking mess and...

A leader of the prohibition movement in Chicago, an alcoholic, a Cleveland legend, and a rather tasty beer. I could tell you about 8 billion more inconsequential facts about 8 billion inconsequential things. Instead of doing work I should do I look up Norwegian black metal bands (Gorgoroth, Dimmu Borgir, Immortal, Mayhem, etc.). I know I am not the only one who takes them seriously. I am also trying to find an article on my youngest half-brother's Grandfather, who stabbed his wife to death (who would have been my brother's Grandmother) in the late 70's. Nothing.

What's important here is that I've decided to write an epic poem that would shock the likes of both Pound and Koch, make them feel the sheer ridiculousness of this even in their deaths. I will use words I don't even know the definition of and they will be big and weird and important. Come find me in 30 years or so to see how its coming along. Thus far, it hasn't even metamorphosed itself onto paper; It's just a sad little egg in my sad little head.

I'm also going to drop out of art school and open a brewery. My brewing years will be the best years for my ongoing poem. I promise to let all of you have running tabs at the bar, tabs you will never have to pay. Free beer is an endorphin.

I need to stop pretending to be rebellious now and read. Wait, let me use the word fuck here at least once and I will feel better. Okay, better now. Farewell and be kind.

David Bowie understands me.

And it suddenly hit me; it's okay to be leaving everything, I will always be back, ya dig?

If you have the opportunity to listen to the writer read their shit, do it. All those stupid bricks fall into their stupid places 8000 times faster.

Tinamou: little foxes, are you shitting me?

In place of books, I would like a pair of hot Nike Dunks. I'd rather look fly than read.

Oooooooooh, we love Aladdin Sane.

Mission appropriation done. If anyone feels like reading the Story of the Eye for the 21st century, hit me up.

I haven't even been trying to touch that Koch poem. I hate Koch's contemporaries.

See above, a.k.a a bold faced lie.

I used to think Anon. was a person, an extremely prolific writer.

Would it be a problem to name a girl Bronson?

Today is Friday, and I've totally got it on my mind.

Sincerely,
Anon.

Teenage dreams so hard to eat:

What if we rewrote every novel into a flash fiction piece? Imagine the Fountainhead in two to three pages. Ayn Rand would be a god if she could get the same amount of information down in a novella, let alone a short story, let alone a lightning-short short story. Ulysses made into a short blurb. How about non-fiction. Biographies slashed and diced until you have several pages that illustrate so and so's life even better than the previous 600 paged monster it was before. Tolstoy, eat your heart out. Your books would suffer the same fate. Or would it really be an improvement?

Dear Matt Hart,

I believe, as I'm sure we are all working very hard on our ridiculous fucking projects, that we do not have very much time to post on these blogs twice a week. Maybe you could think about letting us take a small blogging hiatus... or maybe we only have to post once a week. Help lessen the load or be labled a dick. Thanks for your time.

Insincerely,
Kelly Tadge

I never knew that sitting could be so hard.

How can I think about Miranda July when I'm constantly reading and rereading and writing and rewriting fucking Bataille and the words "cock, cunt, asshole, piss, and mother" over and over, again and again. Nothing is a relief. I thought Hemingway's character from the Old Man and the Sea would start falling in love with the fish, and the only appropriate ending would be some inappropriate contact between the two. Miranda July is simply just not jaded enough, nor strange enough for the now that is me in my moment. Eggs will never again be just eggs, kind of like after reading Crash, car crashes were no longer car crashes, and I had the serious (mis?)fortune of being in one shortly after my completed reading. I love living in books, it just becomes a problem when no one else is there.

Black Metal Sunday/PROPOSAL (semi)

I've given this alot of thought lately but I really can't settle on one thing or even completely formulate an idea. One of the ideas I've had floating around in my head is to take a Charles Simic book of poems (i.e. Walking the Black Cat, whatever), read it, pick several poems to re-write/appropriate line for line, and then write a poem appropriating my appropriation, hence an original work. This could really be done to any book of poems, suggestions would be great, I'd love to reads something new. This is wildness in the sense of tearing apart a tried and true, and stealing someone elses thoughts. For me this would be an opputunity to try a new method of generating materials as my inspiration to write anything has been rather wan lately.
There is also this book that my friend has been hounding me to read, Story of the Eye by George Bataille. I really have no idea how I could base a project around such a sexually explicit story, but if anyone has any ideas, I'd love to hear them. The wildness of George Bataille and his egg is pretty obvious, or so I think.
That's it, that's my brain shriveling/help me.

Please send you Great Lakes samplers this way.

It was always Sunday when the TV People came… in the year of our lord 1990. If I think back on it, I believe they picked Sundays because they knew that I couldn’t sleep but in fits and starts. Codeine for my happy hour, upping the anti and trying not to become a 4:30 am drunk. My work days would start at 8:30, but only in casual attire. TV people…. think hard on that. Television people. Men and women with bodies just like yours and mine (maybe more in shape, more fit than your average everyday non TV person, with necks like bulls on steroids), but instead of a face, a head, a small portable TV is affixed right into the neck, antennas jutting out the top, carving the air where they walked. Small dials served as eyes, or maybe a mouth. Old news programs looped over their faces, displaying suburbia’s hidden agendas and downplaying genocides. I knew that sometimes they’d turn the dial to another station, sit down in front of me and play children’s movies like Snow White and her poisoned apple until I eventually fell asleep. After that, they’d slip under my covers and feel me up. I only knew this because in the morning I would have scratches from their antennas and buttons and knobs in strange places on my body. At first it didn’t really matter to me, as long as I’d get some good old fashioned shut-eye.

This Sunday was different however because I’d just decided that I’d had enough of these electric people taking advantage of me and my body and my bed and this was it. I was only going to pretend to be asleep, and then I was going to smash their screenface in with my fist. The evening’s insomnia started out as per usual, hunky dory, and A-OK. Soon enough one of the male TV persons came in, sat down across from me and began my early morning/late night entertainment. Only this time wasn’t quite so usual because the movie his face was highlighting was “Gone with the Wind,” what I considered the ultimate romance movie. As the movie progressed, I found myself falling in love with the robotic man. What is a TV but a widely used telecommunication system for broadcasting and receiving moving pictures and sound over a distance? A love machine. When Rhett kissed Scarlett, I leaned over, turned the knob to off and put my hand on one of his antennas. The TV screen made a small popping noise as it turned black and I knew that this was going to be a strange night, mostly because I had no idea where to put my tongue.

But, but but I'm afraid of water. Hey, hey look man, I get seasick even watching it on tv!

Think of this as a visual testament to the maturity of our relationship. Shoe/Footmic night.

As hard as I try (which probably isn't very hard), I can't bring myself to do any school work today, especially not blogging about things I have no attachment to. Today my dear friend Fen has to grow up, stop drinking, stop being a punk, and start Navy basic trainging. He's 22 years old, a baby who doesn't even have a drivers liscense, but is hard up for cash/aren't we all. I feel like stealing and spitting and not getting out of bed. What's that David Bowie song about 5 years or what not? This is only 4 and this is not suicide, its the Navy.

I'm most afraid that he's going to start buying into this whole governmental bullshit and start saluting without a mental smirk and start talking about protecting the citizens of America without the slightest hint of sarcasm. He won't be Fenimore anymore, but Erich Hoffman, and I can't hang out with a man (?? a boy ??) named after a figure skater. How do people learn not to be fuck-ups? I can't help but hoping in the some dark part of my mind that once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up. Why can't we just fuck-down?

4 years is a long time, full of red lights/green lights/ starting and stopping and unimportant happenings/ growing pains/pangs. Why do I feel like today is the end of something I've always really enjoyed, some drunk-dialed goodbye. That fucking Village People song is on rewind repeat backtrack and double looped in my mind and I have bruises on my shins the size of small watermelons. Fuck today, fuck tomorrow, and 2012 isn't even worth thinking about yet.

I just got up but I want to go back to bed.

Macaroni-and chicken-chicken- strawberry

So like weeds are our monuments we’ve built to thieves. A monument to a thief i.e. every goddamned statue we’ve erected to honor our working class hey-ho-Joe American, or war-ified dignitary or obelisk or primate pillar. These weeds popping up even more so now that we are in a constant state of frenzied patriotic lust. So this is our new thesis now, that everything, everyone, every it, is a weed.
I can drink to that.
I used to think nothing grew in the city, but now I’ve seen the hardiest little shit taking root in the cracks of our sad city’s sidewalks, making themselves into an ardent mockery of the poplars who once populated the area, but now have absolutely no interest of residing in such a tired warzone. Sick shit chicken-shit tar hawk, tweedle-dum-tweedle-dee, I too am your average weed. My grandmother used to make me weed her garden in return for a trip to the zoo and every once in a while I happened to latch onto the kind of weed with super sharp barbs and sticky stalks that’s roots must have been as monstrous as the actual plant, and I’d run in crying with cuts all over my soft kid/baby hands.
Me, I am that kind of weed, sucking money from poor working class mom and money from good-for-nothing (except when the bills come around) dad. I know more than a handful of other weeds, sucking and leeching, lecherous plants, shooting up so tall that we kill off our more beautiful relatives, blocking out the sun. Dying hydrangeas weep when we come around to suck off her roots. Daffodils wish only to find a happier, sunnier place. We feel no remorse, just hope that a strong wind will come to carry our seeds further. We have offshoots coming from every direction. Watch out, watch fast, and if you ever notice a viney undergrowth taking over one of your more sophisticated brethren, walk in the opposite direction.

Aspirin does not cure fish ailments

Children tend to alienate what they feel alienated by. Kids are obviously dedicated to the theory that everything moves in circles, they are obviously constantly dictated by this cyclical notion. People were always confused by me and my friends back in the days of high school because we listened to strange music and talked funny. Me and my friends (I can’t bring myself to say “My friends and I”, somehow that little piece of grammar will never make its way into my vernacular) would then talk shit about people that listened to strange music and talked funny. What was dirt now is shit, what was shit now is dirt.
Catch it too fast. Don’t.
Even though we had established our own particular pace even as children, sometimes that pace would take to a most irregular speed. I am reminded of this every time I manage to convince my pansy ass to stand on the edge of anything trying to defy gravity in its verticality, and then force myself to look down over its tight-lipped ends. These sick pangs of vertigo make me feel like the only safe way down is to slip over the railing and off the edge. I am so heavily urged to make that ill-fated jump that my stomach starts making its own leaps until I take a step back. I’m not sure why I associate this with wildness or childhood, but I’m pretty sure I’m thinking about instincts. Are we more instinctual as children, or less so? Are we complete idiots as kids, or have we become complete idiots? Think about the fact that Swamp Boy (Me you and everyone we know) likes to be the wolf as well as the rabbit (I also know that if I am to think about this statement any longer, I will immediately realize that it is wrong… but in the face of so much wrongness…). Maybe the creature from the Black Lagoon was really just a misunderstood sweet heart. Who knows, I certainly don’t.

Letter to a Pony

I, the wrath of God, will fuck my own daughter to populate the golden city most immorally, most abnormally. And all the spider monkeys get underfoot, but who knew monkeys could swim so well. Klaus Kinski looks fiiiiine with his limp and mongrel dog face and pants that look like Hulk Hogan’s over-tanned skin.

Dear abandoned horse,
I felt so sad watching you hang your head as the boat people floated away. You were the best actor in that movie, it’s a shame you didn’t come to a better end. I’m sorry that something larger than you will probably eat you. Did Kinski actually hurt you when he repeatedly pushed you over? I have some other questions I’d like answered. Did the mamma mouse and her babies drown? Why were so many of the actors missing their teeth? Is it a German thing? I’m German, yet I have a nice set of chompers, or so the D.D.S. tells me. Why did the Indians they captured have no eyebrows? Were they really natives, her tits looked so saggy for someone so young. How the fuck did they get that giant boat up in that tall fucking tree? I’m sure these questions are hardly relevant to the movie, but these are the only real questions I have. Thank you for your time and I hope Lyme disease wasn’t a major problem in the Amazon, although I’d imagine you probably had a lot bigger problems than a tiny little bug to worry about (i.e. overly demanding director Hertzog). Thanks again for your time…
-Curiosity sat on the cat

In all honesty, I found this film to be sickeningly beautiful. I could probably watch the end scene at least 10 more times.

This nook smells like burnt bread and cat piss but provides an excellent view of the city

Looking through my books makes me overly sentimental. Reading all the idiot things I've written in their margins, finding strange notes tucked inside, with the ink and paper pukering, some strange tid-bits of 3 years ago. Each book has a story attached to it aside from it's actual contents, what I was doing when I read it, how it affected me, who I lent it to. I miss this. At one point in my life I couldn't stop reading things about Darby Crash: Lexicon Devil, What We Do is Secret, etc. I've read these books unneccessarily, so much so they've begun looking rather miserly, forlornly falling apart, spines cracked and pages dog-eared. One of my favorite movies used to be (still is) Decline of Western Civilization Part 1, I used to watch the part where Darby plays with a tarantula on rewind repeat and then I read about how it was supposedly Tony the Hustler's appartment, he only had the girl fill in and pretend to be his roomate so no one would catch on to the fact that he was gay. Later, they froze the tarantuala. Decline of Western Civiliztion Part 2 was all about hair metal, and I don't really give a shit about Poison or Aqua Net.
What I want to know is everyones' obsessive obsessions. What's the shit you couldn't forget about even if you wanted to.

I touched it's dorsal fin!

Let me preface this by saying that I don’t dance. The thesaurus lists synonyms of dancing such as “hop”, “boogie”, and “bop”, surely words too embarrassing to actually be associated with dancing. The only time I find myself attempting to is when I’m rudely intoxicated or alone. Let me preface this by saying I was absolutely the former when I found myself sweating it out on Friday. With a 40 in hand and some nasty fucking moves, I knew I could conquer the DJ and spew my own greatest hits. I found myself living out some artificial strain of wildness I’m sure we’ve all experienced: drunkenness.
I can’t remember the songs I danced to, I can’t remember the people there, I can barely even remember my “dancing” which seemed to involve flailing back and forth whilst falling on top of others who had the sad misfortune of standing near me, what I do know, however, is that I felt the pain in my calves the next morning that made me positive I spent 3 hours dancing the night before, all mostly on my feet. The debaucheries even extended into my dreams that night, I can quote myself exactly. “I remember when it used to be cool to be cool.” How often is it that you can remember an exact line from some foggy dream sleep that involved cabinets and “day parties?” Not too often. In the vein of being explicit, knock back your favorite brew (hopefully not involving skittles), shake what the good lord gave you, get wild, and tell Thoreau to fuck himself. I guarantee you’ll feel like you did something important in the morning, even if you can’t remember what it was.


PS: Have any of you seen the movie 'Total Eclipse' where Leonardo Dicaprio plays Arthur Rimbaud? If so... is it worth watching? Fin.

This is because I am bitter at my incapability of taking a nap

You’re right, I do feel like I’m in High School lit. doing my motherfucking journal again. Déjà vu, like déjà vu when turning the page of a book only to realize you’ve already read it at least 5 times over. I’m not really sure if I give a shit about Aguirre or not. Yes, he is a hardass, yes is a rebel, yes there is beheading (if only the way I imagine Aguirre to kill. Or maybe a more delicate slit of the throat), but all in the name of our lord and savior, Jesus H. Christ (Did you ever hear anyone in high school say that the h stood for hardcore? Don’t believe that shit, that shits wack).

No wildness permitted in religion, only premeditated bloodshed. I’m also sick of this word: W-I-L-D, and this one :W-I-L-D-E-R-N-E-S-S, and more importantly this one: N-A-T-U-R-E, seeing as I already wish it would give up and give in, this long and drawn out struggle makes it impossible to keep my attention. The one word I would really like to discuss, BEWILDERMENT!!!, is the one I can’t seem to form any thoughts on, any opinions about, any connections to …anything except for this dull ache in my cranium that tells me I’m rather bewildered as to what I’m doing here: sitting on my computer, loafing around Cincinnati, when I should be in some city “crowded like an egg”.

Coquettish-the city sucks today.

I’d much rather me reminiscing with Tabatha about our sloppy childhoods and how our dads (mine at least) were not set up to be just that: Dads. (A quick note on the _ _ _ _ N E S S of kids)Children truly don’t give a fuck, they haven’t yet been taught how to correctly give a fuck, but I still make no connection with them because I lack an imagination. I am a bewildebeest feeling fucking hunted.

I hate the word "party"

I really do want to live inside the descriptions of the albatross, the polar bear, the white shark, the uncombed territory of Melville’s foot notes, huge epic foot notes, like the geoduck’s “foot” probing through sand and sludge. My friend and I used to listen to Moby Dick on tape every time we got drunk and we started thinking we were Ishmael, so we went out to find our own white whales. I feel like we are all giving Melville a slight of the hand here, seeing as it’s easier to talk about Thoreau’s wildness in that he is explicit, but Melville IS wild. I haven’t seen very many polite sailors. Come to think of it, I’ve never really seen a sailor, at least not a straight up sailor sailor.
The sea, the ocean, is what may be one of the last truly wild areas, wild in the way that means wilderness, yet also wild in the way that risks death and curses in front of its mother, cursing AT its mother. The only reason for “preservation” is that we’ve found it quite hard to tame the unknown liquid quality of the blue, although I have no doubt that if we found a way, we’d go for it. The only real human influence is the pollution and garbage we pump in, the occasional oil spill, the fishing nets, the tasty surfers and cutting quality of boats. However, no matter how much human influence we force upon it, we’re never actually able to tame its creatures, which is why that shark will eat any motherfucker no matter what you tell him, and he ain’t gonna give no two shits about it either. The fact that Melville called this pool of unfathomable depth and fish that glow and eat each other and eat, sleep, and fuck in their own shit H-O-M-E is absolutely a reassurance of his own wild state, and his own wild writing. As you said, the sentences are whales, the foot notes are behemoths, and the imagery is a mastodon. I love that he introduces the whale and then you find no mention of Mr. Dick until the very last sentence of the chapter. Dear Herman Melville, I applaud you and your savagery. Sincerely, The Un-Wildest Wild.

Temples, tombs, and boom sticks.

Wildness in the wilderness of whiteness and wildness in the spasm of Melville. Of course Thoreau talks about walking, walking us through the walking, yet I remember in high school when I thought he was just a bitter old man who forsook the sage of old age and decay and now I think he sounds just about right, especially talking about walking. Most of the time I go about walking and talking, and I wish I could step into this strange thoughtless chasm on a walk. Or better yet, so that I could get some shut eye, no more fisticuffs with my enemy sleep.
However, sauntering through this city enables us to catch sight of the wildness Thoreau doesn't understand, the wildness of society, the wildness of humans rebelling against, or just thrown outside of society's door. Bums are the wilderness of the city, possibly reverting back to the animal ism Dear Henry David would all like us to achieve.I'm willing to bet they are full of some strange primordial instinct, they've just lost sight of the trees, and possibly in some cases that of the mind. Let's all walk out and be gutter-babies and feel the animal magnetism in the streets. I'm asking for a resurrection so Thoreau could come walk with me in this cliched thing called "the concrete jungle". Motherfucker, Ergo.