You look up at the sky and there’s all this primary fruit color and flavor, like a goddamned Fruit Roll Up on a Saturday morning of yore and you’re there at the streetcorner with your littlekid attempt at a yardsale selling a bunch of crap you shouldn’t have been selling to a bunch of jerks who shouldn’t have been buying, a bunch of cheap crap—plastic toys and knickknacks and...
Better Going Down
when I pissed the cure it landed in spittoons meant for beer and ‘backy there it steamed— it smelled like lottery failure stubs— I ordered Round Two.
Underpass, Auburn Avenue
they floated as wraiths and itched like saints they scanned for tourists and horked cheap smokes they hacked at honor and licked old bones they puked the pavement and smiled at stairs they wanted money and all I had were words
I may not have pushed myself toward being alone I may not have plumbed the waste of heck had I not seen the stars gleam atop mountains cold and so blue
There’s a big rambling group of blackkids out of school for the day, shambling down the hill, hoodied and longpanted in cover of September coldfront faux-fall. Laugh it up and grabass, guys—there’s a crisp in the air and you could even convince yourself the leaves are changing but that’s only wishful thinking—it’s only latesummer drought and the green leaves crackle with dehydration, like early...
North Highland Rainscape
In foursquare rooms they’ve cordoned off the walls and heat oozing from the windows drips the skin like watertorture and coaxed from the rooms by threat of watertorture, we enter streets rendered warlike- -flooded sewers potholes the uncaring filth- -travesties- streets no better than foursquare rooms only more open more per-square-foot helpless shrugs ancient glittering STOP...
Ford Factory Waitingroom
the parking lot smelled of puke and pork rinds and the pizzashop was open and pepperoni and the rooftops were ablaze with neon the Marta was belching the bums were bumming the kids were kidding— I waited in the car
We were failing to understand the significance behind that mathematical preamble, that playpen for bigkids, pent up and bored—the stylish ennui of teenagers—and we thought we were so cool but what were we really? Dorks. Whale penises. You didn’t figure that out till years later, after it was far too late to go back and change all the things your hindsight said you’d done...
An infinity of competitors down in the streets. The vagabond digging through the dumpster—competition: he lives free while I live chained to my chores. The Mexican kid rolling the mop bucket to the sewer— competition: his is a heartening tale of American ambition; his entire life sweeps ahead of him. The guy pedaling his bike down North Highland— competition: he probably...
Reflections on an Old Notebook
a last page-en-ing a soft lax-en-ing of thoughts un-think-en-ing but now— we’re here and not there and not bolted on pages like idiots abroad no wordy preamble no Tower of Babel no flaw left unnoticed no clog left un-hairy— scary word—last— whether page or song or friend or glass or life it’s gone and no chest-thumpy gutcheck will bring it back.
Four Great Motives For Writing, by George Orwell
Putting aside the need to earn a living, I think there are four great motives for writing, at any rate for writing prose. They exist in different degrees in every writer, and in any one writer the proportions will vary from time to time, according to the atmosphere in which he is living. They are: 1. Sheer egoism. Desire to seem clever, to be talked about, to be remembered after death, to get...
And as the days go so goes the sky and as skies go so go minds, hearts, assorted cellular viscera muddled down to dreams ________________________ and dreams steaming up from sewer grates like New York fogs, saxophones blazing over burnt sienna 70s butt-rock parodies—but where were we?
The air smells of salt and tastes of dust a chalk as fine as powdered wig workshops and black cats waiting in the wings in the dark for tunacan handouts and rainwater in beercans and broken mirror beardtrims of SatNite pre-revel drunk on nighttime and sauce— powdered nose nightcaps powdered nose nosebleed powdered nose bloodsneeze— filling up only to empty and fillup...
This Is The Real Shit
They told you this was the real shit. The good shit. “The best shit around, ATM.” You think it is shit. But in the crowded smoky bar, mashups mashing in the background, the hipsters speak of it almost mystically. This is the real shit. PBR cans crush underfoot. Pretty girls blow smoke into the faces of hapless boys in jean shorts, and the hapless boys drink the smoke like a sip...
Chaff for the dogs on coffeeshop porches. Chaff for the dogs in police dog cruisers. Chaff for the fire of nights. Chaff for the waffles of morn. Pink flesh of showertime mornings. Pink flesh of rawdog mornings. Pink eyes of hangover mornings. Pink lips of lustful night. Toys for the children of soldiers. Toys for the dogs of the side. Toys for the porcelain horses. Toys for the hares in the...
Rusty Tracks (excerpt)
Dirt for dust, ashes for bloody horrible dirty dust, gone for good or coated across the wasted trackside buildings like jelly on some shitty toast from some shitty shifty breakfast eaten in furtive corners inside shitty trackside diners, and the indigestion here on these tracks- eggpuke coffeepuke across the tracks. Bumshit pile off to the side. Disgusting.
Rusty Tracks (excerpts, pt. 2)
Hazy responsibility just a dissipating shadow here in this gulch, responsibilities dissipating to the realer concerns of railroad time, watching- for broken ties jutting from the tracks, odd little brown snakes snaking around in the unruly brown grass, ready to strike or so you think, bums bumming never mean but sometimes surly, nasty-looking Atnalta skaters, golfballs flying from golfball...
Anonymous asked: why are you do gay?
Rusty Tracks (exerpts)
The fascination in a chainlink fence, the way it cuts the scene, the hard aluminum wires twisting looping converging to a little twisty tiptop, seven feet of implied menace but not fooling anyone on a gray blusterday, trying to taverse this fence en route to conquering the Beltline of the mind literally and figuratively. Climb over and see, see you on the other side, climb over and try not to...
It’s a flame and we draw to it like moths, like flies, like the make money money this street has become. What does the visiting Englishman say when he sees this street and its Resurgens stagnation? Does he see Manchester in it? Or maybe East London? Certainly the names have changed to protect the uncaring, and the curbs are red with the blood of Brandon who fell from his bike onto the curb,...
Neicy and Mizz June
Each was each designed to die- alone, gobs of fat great vats of fatty fat vasc- ular- dead words dead birds nasty hoarder house gross- Gummo yard mullet man- look, like daycare teacher hell, daycare teacher smell rotten- dead alone don’t die alone Goddamn.
Fauborg Rousseauian Paris late afternoon cloudroll, Atlanta-style- dense light falling in rays down upon the tops of the plateglass banks and equity firms and Elton John condos and silly moustrap buildings- gracefully soulless- made profound by the tumbling light of God, parting the dense milk gray clouds as when Moses parted His sea (God’s sea). But we get ahead of ourselves. We forget to...
She’s past caring- -that hit, blunt impact, that lights-out tumult, bones breaking and bending under in ways unnatural, the ringing of concussion blood in bloody ears, the nauseated screams of onlookers, the “ohfuckohfuckohfuckohgodohshitohgodohfuck” of the lifeshattered driver, sirens, ambulance gurneys hard as steel, red lights, reporters, the fever heat of lost blood, swimming thoughts, the...
God-enforced exile indoors, going wonky gazing at icy sludge streets and slate skies and snow-covered roofs, same view unchanging three days and counting, no letup possible, slate eyes in leather chair procrastination purgatory, mental muscles lax and flabby now flexed for first time since last week and firing! firing! coffee the fuel and hack prose the ammunition. Who knows how fast the...