Reading Poetry to Ebola Corpses

Hey. Aw…shit. This font is so much better. I think it is the same god damned font but it is three times smaller.

Man, shit, what a world.

Sometimes we got to write for ourselves and sometimes we got to write for others and sometimes we just got to write and fuck the cost. Man, shit, what a motherĀ fucking world.

Hey I don’t know. Maybe this shit is good for you, like a can of green beans in the kitchen of a doublewide trailer.

Twenty-six minutes from now, my wife will get off of work and I’ll sit around waiting for her to come through the door. Twenty-six minutes from now I’ll be sitting in a chair with my feet up inside of black socks that make my toenails look ragged in the morning. Twenty-six minutes from now I’ll be a little less drunk, a little less happy, and all together half as amused.

Yeah but fuck it that’s a lifetime away for an aborted child and anyway I’ll probably look back on this moment with pity in my heart for the poor bastard who thought these thoughts.

I am planning on writing stories, on becoming a millionaire, on starting a new blog and washing the dishes and getting up from this chair and being someone other than Gordon Mother Fucking Flanders once in a while. I’m going to stop dancing at the masquerade and I’m going to laugh freely in the dark when bitches are maneuvering furtively around the plate of cubed Colby Jack cheese on their way to the exits. I’ll go outside and have a cigarette with the riffraff catering staff. I’ll swap stories with syphilis infected sailors and pull the plank out of my third eye while measuring out a cup of sugar for the neighbors.

I’m out of whiskey and I’m tired of breathing.

More blog views this week than any other month except my best month – February 2013. Daily post. Links. Gaming the system. Bringing in the readers. And all for what? For sucking my own dick. Don’t let anyone do it for you. Sometimes got to grab yourself by the genitalia and moonwalk past the gatekeepers.

Hey. Fuck it. In the land of the blind the one-eyed man is king. And even the king needs a place at the table.

Do you ever feel like that sometimes once or two times? I do. I feel like that all the god damn time. What am I going to do about it? I’m going to do something about it by God. I’m going to help this shit, god damn it. I ain’t going to wallow around in my own cock sweat. Fuck it.

Yes I am. I’m done with this bullshit.

Nah fuck it. Fuck it man, I’m going to write a story about Christians and shit. Ya’ll won’t recognize me. Next time you see me, i’ll be the number one best-selling Christian thriller author. They’ll compare me to Frank Peretti and you won’t understand, you’ll have no idea. I’ll write about spiritual warfare and Eastern Mysticism. I’ll start a school in Dubai for people who want to wear less clothes. I’ll traipse across Pat Robertson’s new wraparound porch and call myself an anarchist. I’ll find arrowheads in Billy Graham’s back yard and buckle Sam Walton’s bootstraps. John Steinbeck’s grand daughter will pen an award winning memoir about our travels together in the Austrailan outback. I’ll come in second place to Timothy Leery’s third cousin Andrew in a sack race at Rick Perry’s inauguration party in Honolulu.

Beryl Markham’s bastard son will write me a letter comparing me to William F Buckley and I’ll respond with a quote from Norman Mailer’sĀ The Naked and the Dead. I’ll read Shakespeare aloud to corpses behind ebola treatment centers and I’ll suck dicks in Venezuela until they give me Che’s body. I’ll melt the polar ice caps in a rap battle with Eldridge Cleaver on a vacation in Iceland and have Alexander Pope reincarnated to put that shit into heroic couplets.

But mostly I’ll stay home drinking whiskey and listening to music in terrible headphones. The cat batted the shit out of the good ones.

I Could Sleep for Ages

Readability Index: Weak

Sometimes I have trouble falling asleep, but I never have trouble staying asleep. If my girlfriend didn’t wake me up, I’d sleep till two or three and I’d only get up then because I felt guilty.

But here I am, up early than a motherfucker, well, it was early when I originally got up at 7:30, and already jumping on the blog. Jumping on this shit like it’s an emergency.

My girl’s out the door on the way to her first culinary school field trip.

Looks like today, the sixth day of this blogs existence, I’ve already broken my personal best record for number of unique visitors. And we’re starting to get some traffic from places outside the US, which is super fucking cool.

I originally thought, all those six days ago, that I was going to use the blog mostly for recording my thoughts. I guess I have, but I just had no idea that most all of my thoughts would be about blogging.

I had a couple dreams. One was I was on a bus with some prisoners and they were planning an escape and I didn’t know what the fuck to do. I couldn’t figure out if I was a prisoner, a ghost, a cop… And the other one there was some big jewelry craft fair right at the top of the subway station and they wouldn’t let me get to work.

I had some coffee. I put brown sugar in it. Now I’m shaking.

That could be a poem right there

Cup of canned coffee

And some brown sugar

Shaking like a bean

Atop a Washing Machine

There you go.

But nah washing machine doesn’t have shit to do with anything. What else shakes. Atop a shaking machine. Atop a bacon machine.

There’s a bus in 33 minutes and another one in 53 minutes. I should take the 33 but…I want to just sit here.

Usually I jump into things pretty forcefully and then leave just as quickly. On that kind of timeline I guess I’ll be done with blogging pretty soon. My interest just wanes with everything eventually. Except of course my girlfriend and sleeping. And eating.

But before I go I do want to write something meaningful. Like how to make vodka taste like an orange julius. Or some kind of news article or something. I think I should probably write a non-fiction book.

I feel like I’m really having trouble getting the flow going this morning. I think it has something to do with the knowledge that I have to leave soon anyway, so I can’t keep it rolling. If I want to really get into a rollicking good time I have to know that I can stay with it for an inordinate amount of time.

Easy Skanking

Easy Skanking

Little Bit Easier

Excuse me while I light my spliff

Oh God I got to take a lift

From reality ya just can’t drift

That’s why I’m stickin with this riff

That reminded me of something while I was typing it. Oh yeah tags. It looks like when I tagged “WordPress” on my post “The End of the Day,” that created some kind of portal for some new people to arrive here. Or was it when I linked it…no it was a tag. None of my other tags have had that effect. Kind of cool.

This link suggestion tool is constantly trying to get me to connect to Rotten Tomatoes. I want to help them out with their promotional links and all, but I’m not going to link Oh God to whatever movie that corresponds to.

My whole life is the Party of Special Things To Do.