stein stein stein!

http://minnesota.publicradio.org/display/web/2008/12/12/steinopera/

My friend Anthony moved away.

I'm not going home for Christmas.

I think that tonight, Christmas Eve, will be a relieving experience. Sometimes just giving in to things is so much easier. Why be principled? Why even care about things? I thought indifference would lead to a more "open to experience" attitude, and in some ways it has. I guess involvement is sort of overwhelming. I am reserved to a certain place.

I watched Home Alone last night. I watched Home Alone 2 last week. Try getting through the second Home Alone, I dare you. The first Home Alone is timeless, well made, dare I say original. Rehashing is always annoying, writing things that hit with an audience the first time around for a second time just to solicit a similar response is dishonest. I suppose one could argue that within the first script, the repeated, outrageous scream scenes were sort of put in for the same reason, and they probably were. Held within itself, within the same entity, however, just plays differently. I'll call it endearing.

Things I'm currently/would like to be working on:

- poems (writing, reading, editing)
- screen play
- critical essays on the movie "Me and You and Everyone We Know" and Do Make Say Think's song, "Bound to Be That Way"
- organizing my things

Alcohol does not make me a more interesting person/writer. I get loud and sad when I drink, sometimes both at the same time. The context in which one alters him/herself greatly influences the results produced. My context is uncertainty. I roll the dice every time.

I guess I'm more interested in the process of things themselves rather than the actual thing, that includes a poem. I've been reading so many poor poems lately. Their focus is on experience and telling a tale. Fuck stories. Your biography is uninteresting, I don't care how interesting it is. Your writing is the experience I want. That's what I'd like to produce for you as well.

I probably wont even sing tonight, but I'll wish the entire time I could. We'll drive and look at lights like everyone else and be everyone else. I need to call my mom tonight and tomorrow. She'll like that.

life update

I met with the editors of The Benefactor Magazine (www.thebenefactormagazine.com) this last Saturday (at Tico's in Lincoln) to discuss poetry/art/the carting of individuals in cattle cars to be killed, as China is the new black these days--Americans are apparently the unnecessary portion of this planet. We also discussed the possibility of me becoming their poetry editor. They gave me a CD-R with the latest submitted poetry on it to edit and assess. I think that I officially accepted the position, however I'm not sure it came across that way. What I'm saying is that I am the poetry editor of The Benefactor. Submit, friends!

sharing others' poems

Kenneth Koch's "Paradiso"

There is no way not to be excited
When what you have been disillusioned by raises its head
From its arms and seems to want to talk to you again.
You forget home and family
And set off on foot or in your automobile
And go to where you believe this form of reality
May dwell. Not finding it there, you refuse
Any further contact
Until you are back again trying to forget
The only thing that moved you (it seems) and gave what you forever will have
But in the form of a disillusion.
Yet often, looking toward the horizon
There—inimical to you?—is that something you have never found
And that, without those who came before you, you could never have imagined.
How could you have thought there was one person who could make you
Happy and that happiness was not the uneven
Phenomenon you have known it to be? Why do you keep believing in this
Reality so dependent on the time allowed it
That it has less to do with your exile from the age you are
Than from everything else life promised that you could do?


Frank O'Hara's "As Planned"

After the first glass of vodka
you can accept just about anything
of life even your own mysteriousness
you think it is nice that a box
of matches is purple and brown and is called
La Petite and comes from Sweden
for they are words that you know and that
is all you know words not their feelings
or what they mean and you write because
you know them not because you understand them
because you don't you are stupid and lazy
and will never be great but you do
what you know because what else is there?


Frank O'Hara's "My Heart"

I'm not going to cry all the time
nor shall I laugh all the time,
I don't prefer one "strain" to another.
I'd have the immediacy of a bad movie,
not just a sleeper, but also the big,
overproduced first-run kind. I want to be
at least as alive as the vulgar. And if
some aficionado of my mess says "That's
not like Frank!", all to the good! I
don't wear brown and grey suits all the time,
do I? No. I wear workshirts to the opera,
often. I want my feet to be bare,
I want my face to be shaven, and my heart--
you can't plan on the heart, but
the better part of it, my poetry, is open.

James Schuyler's "Closed Gentian Distances"

A nothing day full of
wild beauty and the
timer pings. Roll up
the silver off the bay
take down the clouds
sort the spruce and
send to laundry marked,
more starch. Goodbye
golden- and silver-
rod, asters, bayberry
crisp in elegance.
Little fish stream
by, a river in water.

probably not what you're thinking

This is how I feel



and have felt for awhile now

*Lines I will eventually steal and put in something:

I want your picture, but not yours.

My epilepsy
loved it.

new york, anyone?

So one of my favorite poets is giving a reading in New York on Wednesday, where she will be reading my favorite of her books. Damn.

"Midwinter Day: A 30th Anniversary Reading Wednesday, 8:00 pm
Bernadette Mayer wrote Midwinter Day three decades ago on December 22, 1978; please join her and some special guests as they read selections from this epic work. Readers include: Bernadette Mayer, Philip Good, Marie Warsh, Lewis Warsh, Barbara Epler, Jamey Jones, Peggy DeCoursey, Lee Ann Brown, Scott Satterwaite, Bill de Noyelles and Brenda Coultas."

- http://www.poetryproject.com/calendar.php

I'm thinking about writing Bernadette a letter. I just need some paper, something to say, and her address. Jeff told me she gave away (or sold) a bunch of her books (from her library, not necessarily books she wrote) to some book store in Amherst, MA. He said there were some gems among them, her name written on the inside covers.

What's going on Bernadette?
That's what I'd ask her.

w

"...there will be an additional paid holiday for State employees on Friday, December 26, 2008. On December 12th, President Bush signed an executive order to excuse federal employees from duty for the day after Christmas, Friday, December 26, 2008.

According to Nebraska State Statute 84-1001 (3), 'For purposes of this section, paid holidays shall include all of the days enumerated in section 25-2221 and all days declared by law or proclamation of the President or Governor to be holidays.'"

Who ever said George W. Bush was a bad President?

WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

blogspot friendly poems (no absurd line breaks) to share

1, 2, 3, 4, Fyfe
for Justin

behooved to know
a hoof has its hoofs
and hooves, for one
leg is no damn good
without the other
leg and leg and leg,
four, and four stands
in there, four stands
in mud but these
fences, sir, have
plenty of posts dug
in mud, poor boots
are aching, those
battle wounds, those
wires, those barbs
will catch you
standing too close
to blue, buried
in the ripe dust
and wine in the shit
just bend it and smile
it's ok to smell it here
they say it's money
they say it's the smell
of money

Passive Brass

I'm supposed
to read a poem
with my mouth
to you, friend,
I'm not
the bell of a
ring but bright
past the lip--
a horn
xxxxxI am
an eye reader,
reader, and eat
yellow sound
with ears
and my brain,
my reference
reads to thumb
pages inside
my head, a fan,
a face and diction--
air between the image
and the mouth
hangs
holding eyes
on my page,
my body.

titles are for sucka's

I came across the flyer's I made for Czar Omega's last show:





They're a little too sentimental for my taste.

Yeah. Fuck sentiment.

I wrote some notes on a poem of Justin's that I still haven't given to him (or he still hasn't picked up). But I wrote something that I'd like to share with everyone. Regardless of context, I wrote, "As a reader I don't want to be told things, especially about things that aren't concrete, physical things, and as a poet we should never assume we know anything our readers don't, should we? We are revealers of truth, not fabricators--we act as subtle directors."

It's strange that I don't necessarily like imposing anything on a reader, but for some reason think I can impose something on myself, let alone another writer. It's only meant to be an open dialogue for the acquiring of poetic knowledge. I don't have any, so I'm taking suggestions.

perspective.

"Did You Write Any Poems?"

IN APRIL 1968 students occupied six buildings of Columbia [University, New York] to protest the university administration’s complicity in the Vietnam War and their insistence on building a new gym in Morningside Park despite the objections of Harlem, the city government, faculty, students. With other writers from the Columbia Review I spent nearly a week in President Kirk’s office in Low Library before getting beaten up by the cops in the final bust. The days in Low Commune were deliciously utopian — with approximately 125 students making decisions through participatory democracy, changing the world by example — and dangerous, despite our stance of non-violence. The right-wing students charged the building several times, setting up a blockade to prevent the anti-war students from sending in supplies. Fists began to fly, and the scene around the building roiled with constant near riots. The faculty decided to set up their own line in an attempt to prevent the situation from getting even more out of hand. Professors took turns standing on the lawn outside the building beneath the second-story windows to keep the right-wing students from charging Low Library and, attempting some parity, to keep the left-wing students from bringing supplies to the communards. It was not an easy time to be a professor at Columbia. To be arbiters, intermediaries between the students and the administration, was an impossible task during such polarization. After the “bust” bloodied over a thousand students, the faculty realized that the administration held them in almost as much contempt as they regarded the students, and most of them ended up joining the strike that followed the beatings and mass arrests. In the midst of Low’s occupation and siege, I was assigned to a shift to stand guard at one of the windows. Behind me and out of sight was one of those tall poles with a hook used for opening the tall windows — a possible weapon if indeed the “jocks” and other right-wingers made their charge. On the grass below stood the line of professors, and among them was Kenneth Koch, doing his stint on the faculty cordon. He looked up at me, smiled in his affable way, didn’t preach or wail or gnash his teeth, and he offered a friendly wave at me and the other editors of the literary magazine, Les Gottesman and Alan Senauke. He couldn’t keep from enjoying himself, couldn’t take things too seriously, which was in its own way very unnerving. But it was good to see him, in all his goofiness, and we waved back. He had thrown his lot in with the rest of the feeble faculty, which saddened us, although we couldn’t be mad at him. His humor lent him some transcendent grace. “Did you write any poems?” he chuckled up at us. No, we hadn’t. We set right off to punch out a bunch of spontaneous three-way collaboration poems, each of us taking a turn on the typewriter we had liberated from President’ Kirk’s secretary. So terrible, so embarrassingly idiotic were these poems that we threw them away almost immediately. The muse of Andre Breton and Tristan Tzara and Frank O’Hara had failed us, and moment-to-moment rhapsodic bop would sound only like Allen Ginsberg, and there was only one Allen Ginsberg. We couldn’t bear to write tedious Fight-Team-Fight anthems or lugubrious, boring manifestos. All we could knock out was intense, manic gibberish when what was needed was something entirely new written in a language no one had yet invented. Still, I marveled at Koch’s sweetness, his unwillingness to change his peaceable demeanor in the face of chaos and violence, his chuckle, and his question, “Did you write any poems?” I’ve always remembered that moment, and at other tough times I recall the question. Throughout my life, it has formed a kind of mantra. Driving headfirst off a cliff, hard knocks on the Indian reservation, wrestling with COINTELPRO, whirr of printing press, bombs in Beirut, broke, evictions, whiffing tear gas while taking a shit in Gaza — whenever there was conflict and danger, I would remember Kenneth Koch’s chuckle, see his sweet grin, and I would recall the pleasures of peace: “Did you write any poems?”

- Hilton Obenzinge

Christmas List

1. Missy Elliott's discography (yes, i would like someone to buy me every one of her albums)

2. My Vocabulary Did This to Me: The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer

3. The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1945-1975

4. The Collected Poems of Robert Creeley, 1975-2005

5. The Holy Forest: Collected Poems of Robin Blaser

6. The Fire: Collected Essays of Robin Blaser

7. Collected Poems by James Schuyler

shoes

I'm thinking about getting some new shoes. Between these two:

They are the same shoe, I just can't pick between the two colors. I'm also thinking about buying some new dress shoes.

What do you think? I think they're pretty classy.

what do you think? should i?

Please indicate in your submission whether or not you'd like criticism in the case that we decline publication your work.

For some reason, this statement makes me leery of start-up, online journals. While I appreciate an informed, objective eye and new perspectives regarding the successes or failures of my writing, I feel like as a writer, I deserve exactly that--an informed, objective perspective of poetic merit. Shouldn't the editors of these "start-up," online journals provide some sort of legitimizing statement as to their credentials, or does a flashy website assume some sort of legitimacy?

Regarding the specific journal where this particular statement was taken, maybe it's the absence (obviously unintentional) of the preposition of between publication and your that makes me hesitant to submit. Or maybe it's my persistent insecurity? Or is it my love affair with poetry that makes me feel like I have more poetic exposure than the editors of these start ups? Should that matter--obviously not. I might read a lot of poetry, but I still don't know anything about it. Maybe I know a little bit. Shit (see persistent insecurity). When am I allowed to feel comfortable to show the world what I think I know? And when will I feel comfortable enough to accept everything that I do not (which is everything)?

My poetry is an argument for uncertainty. I am not yet knowledgeable. I cannot interject a point or idea into a line. "No ideas but in things." The lines are my providers. I need my poetry to teach me about light and about the weight of this earth.

a father for no fathers again and another one

No interval of manner
Your body in the sun.
You? A solid, this that the dress
hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhinsisted,
Your face unaccented, your mouth a mouth?
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjPractical knees:
It is you who truly
Excel the vegetable,
The fitting of grasses—more bare than
jjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjjthat.
Pointedly bent, your elbow on a car-edge
Incognito as summer
Among mechanics.

- George Oppen, from Discrete Series: "Town, a town ..."





I will lift the light out of it too, George.

My goodness.

In thought, a fine human brow is like the East when troubled with the morning

Our age is retrospective. It builds the sepulchres of the fathers. It writes biographies, histories, and criticism. The foregoing generations beheld God and nature face to face; we, through their eyes. Why should not we also enjoy an original relation to the universe? Why should not we have a poetry and philosophy of insight and not of tradition, and a religion by revelation to us, and not the history of theirs? - Ralph Waldo Emerson, Nature

I met Peter Gizzi today. He recommended I read George Oppen which I will definitely be doing. He also recommended I read Abraham Lincoln. Yes, Abraham Lincoln. Mr. Gizzi recited verse from memory and dazzled us with his knowledge of 19th Century Americanism in relation to the Moderns and subsequently its relationship to people like John Ashbery and Frank O'Hara.

I see the poets of the New York School as pioneers (duh) in their ability to eclipse experience with their imaginations; a sort of funneling of realistic experience through the guise of a twisted imagination. No longer was experience the focus. Imagination was emphasized for some of the early moderns (see Dickinson and Williams), but for some reason it was not until the likes of John Ashbery, Frank O'Hara and Kenneth Koch that we (at least for me) were able to see a transformation of imagination rooted in experience but turned in a way that wasn't everyday but was still somehow familiar. I know a lot of people cite O'Hara as the "do this do that" poet where everyday experience was emphasized, but there is something so much more to it than that.

A reproduction of nature is not and should not be the focus of art. Abstract expressionism acts as a god in the fact that it is creation in the most fundamental sense of the word. Using materials around you to produce something that is not currently present. Nothing Pollock or de Kooning created existed before the paint was applied to it. The wheelbarrow was there for Williams just as a taxi was there for O'Hara. Williams got people to recognize and appreciate what they were not recognizing and appreciating, whereas O'Hara got people to be excited about the things they were recognizing all the time. This is O'Hara's imagination at work. Yes, Frank O'Hara is a god in the same sense that Pollock and de Kooning were.

Peter Gizzi talked about poetry constantly looking back at the vacuum of history. One's experience is what a writer draws from for their subjects, whether physically experienced, overheard, read, etc. Where will my imagination take the experiences I've had and/or possess? That is my ultimate curiosity for my life and my writing. What will I do that no one has done? Will I? Can I?

It is appealing to me that writing is a continual present and future action while the physical act of reading is one of the past--words are going past you as you are reading this for instance, but as I am typing this words are appearing and currently are and will be after this word and this word and this one too. Gertrude Stein stated that "For a long time everybody refuses and then almost without a pause almost everyone accepts. In the history of the refused in the arts and literature the rapidity of the change is always startling." What is avant garde? What can I make that will reject anything without immediately being accepted for that rejection? What can I do that is new? David Lehman states, "If we are all postmodernists, we are none of us avant-garde, for postmodernism is the institutionalization of the avant-garde." Can one create something new without being "avant garde?" I guess so?

But for the same reason political poetry is suspect, wouldn't anything rooted in tradition be so as well? Art based on and pursued because of the ideas and beliefs and agendas of others is half art to me. Most political poetry is attempting to further the agenda of someone else, and is, therefore, not inherently original to that author. Does that apply to anything outside of the avant garde? What is the avant garde. Fuck. !

I should have asked Peter Gizzi.

rockets, houston rockets that is (reasons for not growing out my beard)

I just finished a king size Snickers. I ate the entire thing in one sitting. Wes told me yesterday that after he got back from his vacation a couple weeks ago his sweaty arm pit problem (he has had for years and years) mysteriously disappeared. What I'm saying is maybe my recent trip to Colorado reacquired my taste for sweets, particularly chocolate. I had a chocolate craving less than ten minutes ago and got up from my desk and bought a Snickers. Me. My stomach gets upset if I eat a "fun size" Snickers. I feel fine. I feel GREAT. This is a biological change. This is interesting.

I set up a saving plan on my Wells Fargo online account. In 21 months I hope to have $4000 dollars saved for a trip to Europe. I have quite a few friends who live there and have family there so I think including the plane ticket, $4000 would be enough to spend a month or two or three across the sea. More? Less? I have no idea. I guess since I know people who I could stay with, my only expense would be getting from one place to another and food and booze. Trains can't cost all that much can they? I hope my life falls the way I'm passively attempting to direct it to. I want to save up some money and travel and that means I need to put off my life another year. Yeah. I want to write and find out about my writing recklessly before any sort of formal direction reels me in. But maybe formal direction would scatter me about? Work work work for 21 more months then run run run around in Europe then I can start my academic life back up. I could see myself becoming a perpetual student. MFA then maybe a Ph.D. in physics. I'll write moon poetry when I'm older, you'll see.

It's very patchy.

San Francisco, Nebraska

Where was I supposed to pay my five dollars to get over the Bay Bridge? I don't remember the last time it was THIS foggy outside. I desire nothing more than a sterile environment. I am sick. I am in a continual state of sickness and every place I sleep feels infested with dander as the cats run the roost these days. I want to check myself into a hospital and sleep at an incline.

I bought a tea at Scooter's and while the barista was making it, I was suspicious of his process. He put the tea flakes directly into the cup and filled it up with hot water. I'm not a fan of Nestea, the freeze-dried shit or whatever but knew that the tea he was using wasn't that. What was he doing? I looked at the lid and noticed that it was a "Filter Lid." The opening has this filter thing covering that doesn't allow the tea flakes to get into your mouth but allows the tea steeped water to. Is this new? I don't go to coffee shops or anything like that, and in the event that I do, I usually buy juice. It doesn't matter.

I'm also very suspicious of any social or political statement made through the use of one's own body. You people take yourselves very seriously. Write something to persuade me because your interesting body hair is uninteresting to me. It's all just very tired. I am very tired. I am sympathetic to feminism and have read Mina Loy, but regardless of how much you try, you are always going to be an object of desire for some freaky dude who's into whatever it is you're into and will rebel against it as well. This is more because of you than anything else though. But you already knew that. And everyone else just doesn't care what you do. I don't care, I'm just very suspicious. Live and let live. I'll shut up.

I wrote my friend Jeff a letter but didn't have ink for my printer so I don't know how relevant it is anymore. I'll send it anyhow. I need to buy some ink. I've been thinking about you a lot Jeff and I hope everything is going alright. Sometimes I write because I think that you're writing too. "I'm not gay or nothin'."

16th century poetry and the world is definitely a vampire

Maybe this makes me an asshole, but this is the most peculiar pairing ever.

On the who you might know link thinger on facebook I clicked on some random guy who I actually didn't know and under his favorite books section it said,

"Poets: John Donne and Billy Corgan (of smashing pumpkins) and, of course Emily Dickinson"

...

That is just ridiculous. Almost to the point of awesomeness. It is awesome, actually. Yes. It definitely is. I'm going to facebook befriend him because of it.

No.

I probably wont.
But would if I were that guy.

my speed metal office mate

I was sitting at my desk just now, or I guess I still am, but a second ago while I was sitting at my desk my office mate Ron walked by and said I could change the radio station if I wanted. We were, and currently still are, listening to the Eagle waiting to hear a Neil Young song so we can call in and win tickets to his concert in Omaha. Considering our intentions I, of course, said "Nah, I like oldies." Ron is an older guy, probably in his late 40's possibly early 50's, so when I said "oldies," it made me feel kind of awkward so I repeated it. "Oldies." He turned to me and said, "Yeah, most of those songs I was listening to when I was playing in bands in high school and college." I blinked a few times and turned to him and asked, "You were in bands, Ron?" He nodded. I asked him what he "did" in his bands and he said, "partied." We both laughed and he said that he played guitar. I then asked what kind of band it was and he turned to me and replied, "speed metal," and slowly turned his attention back to his computer and continued typing. His full back tattoo that I keep hearing about is making more and more sense everyday. I love Ron.

mtv, jail time, and black holes!

Bennie and I were cited for maintaining a disorderly house on Saturday night/Sunday morning. There were no more than fifteen people there and along with the outrageous number of officers (6) responding to (actually we found out there was no noise complaint), there was a camera crew from MTV filming a show called "Busted." Bennie and I declined to participate in the show. We're going to talk to the City Attorney on Wednesday as we have a variety of issues regarding the incident. Will keep you posted.

This all could be, of course, moot after Wednesday. The Large Hadron Collider (black hole machine) is being turned on for the first time this Wednesday in Switzerland. Although there is basically a consensus regarding the safety risk being non existent among scientists, just the mere fact that there is even a question is exciting. An American filed a lawsuit attempting to stop the machine.

"The more matter a black hole pulls in, the stronger it becomes. And that's what worries Walter Wagner, the American who is suing to temporarily stop the project. He says the creation of these black holes here on Earth, no matter how small, may unleash a chain reaction that could destroy the planet.

Wagner says there's a possibility that black holes could just get bigger and bigger as they pull more and more matter into themselves.

'Eventually, all of Earth would fall into such growing micro-black-holes, converting Earth into a medium-sized black hole, around which would continue to orbit the moon, satellites, and the (International Space Station),' according to court papers Wagner, along with a citizen of Spain, filed in Honolulu.

In other words, Wagner asserts the LHC is a machine that will end up causing the Earth to eat itself -- perhaps in less than a century."

I don't know who this Wagner character is, but let's all wait and see. This news really makes me wonder what I'm doing at work right now.

"The night is a clock chiming

The days go by not I."

My throat is noticeably better. This is the first time I can ever remember taking antibiotics. I wonder how bad my throat would have gotten had I decided not to go to the doctor. I guess there are perks to having health insurance that you're not afraid to actually use.

I'm thinking about having a get together this weekend. All of my friends are invited and if you're not sure if you fit into that category but are reading this somehow, you're invited too. If I don't know you the password will be "Guillaume Apollinaire," the French poet, not a member of the Lincoln East dance team. Ring the doorbell and present the password and you're in. It will be a theme party and the theme will be to dress like your cell phone so when someone calls you, your cell phone will answer your cell phone.

shit.

I'm just typing to type
now.

fuck.
I've never slept better in my life and I think you know why.

onces of coca-cola and a bladder full of noise

I purchased my Sigur Ros ticket. The 27th of September. Red Rocks. This will be my third time seeing them and I am hoping it will be more satisfying than the last time. I hope it will be chilly and am looking forward to a frosty evening on the rocks.

I was having a conversation earlier with someone who is interested in publishing a book of mine and/or a collaborative effort by Rachael and myself. He asked me which one I was more interested in and I couldn't really answer.

I'm interested in the collaborative effort more so out of some sort of aesthetic principle than anything else--i.e. destruction of self through the mashing together of others. This made me think about when I read Justin and Jeff a poem and Justin told me that my ego was out of my writing which made me write "The Ship" (which still isn't finished and still has blow jobs). I started thinking about approaches to writing a book and why I have so many reservations about a solo book. I am not interested in politics nor am I interested in a society's problems in relation to myself in general when writing a poem.

But there is something inherently political with my ideas about writing and my reservations regarding conventional approaches to putting something together like a book. It's not a conscious struggle against anything because I'm against anything, per se, rather it is a struggle against something because I am uninterested in it. The politics of language is something that interests me, not the politics of society. Can the two be separated? Where does a politics of language come from if not society itself--its conventions and such? I don't want to be Charles Bernstein and definitely have severe reservations regarding L-A-N-G-U-A-G-E poetry, but it certainly has a level of appeal that is wonderful and troubling at the same time. I guess these are the kinds of things that validate my continuing decision to put of grad school. I'd like to understand myself and my writing more. I feel like I would if I wrote more. I'd like to write more and have my friends help me with what the hell I'm trying to say or trying not to say.

What night would work for people regarding the resurgence of writer's group? I feel like we all could use some sort of accountability, especially those of us who are no longer in school.

It's raining, I think (I have no windows in my office), and I have to ride my bike home to feed my cats. I wish someone would come and pick me up, but she's not answering her phone and I've got grease stains on my khakis from my bike chain and I know that the back of my shirt has spots on it from the water coming up from my bike's back wheel this morning. It's alright. I'm alright. I'm alright.

Yeah.

I am.

i love america

"In Gallup polls over the last 25 years, nearly half of American adults have consistently said they believe God created all living things in their present form, sometime in the last 10,000 years."

You have got to be fucking kidding me.

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/08/24/education/24evolution.html?pagewanted=2&_r=1&em

"In 2000, when the independent Thomas B. Fordham Foundation evaluated the evolution education standards of all 50 states, Florida was among 12 to receive a grade of F. (Kansas, which drew international attention in 1999 for deleting all mention of evolution and later embracing supernatural theories, received an F-minus.)"

You have to love F minuses.

listening to tom petty wait for a phone call

I miss my life and I'm sorry for those of you who are standing between that and my nostalgia for it. I'm writing this poem called "The Ship" right now and re-reading it, it inadvertently sounds like a critique of a blow job...I'm trying to decide whether or not I should write the unintended innuendo out of it or not--psychology says no, right? Yeah, I probably wont. It's definitely not a John Ashbery "I let a guy blow me once" sort of a thing, but it definitely has some blow job imagery. I'll give it to the readers and let them decide. Maybe all of my poems are about blow jobs to my readers (although you probably have to have readers to have readers). "Hi I'm Kyle. I'm a blow job poet." Enough.

I don't think I have anything strong enough to submit to Octopus this year. Shit, I'd like to have someone look at some of my stuff and tell me I wouldn't be embarrassed if I submitted some of it. Jeff, where are you? I have these ideas for things but they never materialize. Williams must have been right when he said, "No ideas but in things." I need to stop being so neurotic about my writing and just get comfortable with what comes out. No ideas but in things. My imagination is my savior.

I'm going to start writing a series of short poems. They will be in couplets, possibly tercets. That sounds tasty.

My sister is dating a cowboy who says he's not a cowboy because instead of riding horses to round up cows, he rides a four-wheeler. I've got news for everyone, cows are cows and boys are boys. Think about it dude.

Andalusia ca. 711

"Now I'm old and I don't understand where I'm going."

Neva Dinova is playing at The Waiting Room in October. It's on a Friday so I'll likely be going. I would like to attend Neko Case and believe I will since the show starts at eight. Going to Okkervil River is looking to be questionable at best. Yeah, I doubt I'll be going to that show. It is on a Saturday, however. I don't know. Mr. 1986 is playing two final shows of which I will be attending both. Rumor has it Neil Young is coming to Omaha in November. That would be interesting. Shows. Oh shit, I was seriously thinking about going to see Sigur Ros at Red Rocks in September. I wonder if it's sold out. I'll have to check that out. The problem I'm having with every one of these shows is both excitement and motivation. I am RARELY excited about any concert anymore and I can RARELY get motivated to a) buy tickets and b) even if I have tickets, get motivated to actually drive to wherever the show is. I think that the only band that would get me SUPER excited to see would be Do Make Say Think. They are the best band in the world. Yeah, I said that. I'm thinking about going to see Broken Social Scene just so I can see the bass player of Do Make Say Think (as he is also in Broken Social Scene). That guy is awesome.

I'm only 23. I used to be a wild man. What happened to my hair? Fuck. I only get sad when I drink now. I'm only 23. I'm still looking ahead into what my life will become as opposed to looking back at what my life was. THAT is when you're supposed to get sad while drinking, and I think to a certain extent actually should. At this point I am more scared than anything. I am afraid of alcohol. I'm only 23. I don't remember how to interact on weekends without it though nor do I necessarily want to. I guess we'll see. I'm still scared. Tonight isn't going to be at my house so maybe that will help. I will have no easy out to escape to my room if something "bad" happens in my drunk eyes, although that hasn't stopped me before as some of my friends can attest to. It shouldn't be this much work, haha, but I'm too self aware to not concern myself over insignificant things that happen to me. I am very sensitive. I wouldn't say I'm the most sensitive of my friends (I think we all know who that is), but I have my moments. What am I talking about?

I found this drawing I did a few months ago in one of my training binders that I really like. It's a head of this person who looks like he should be a character is A Charlie Brown Christmas or something, the hair and such, but looks very dignified. There is a dialogue bubble coming from his lips that says, "GREECE!" Maybe I'll recreate it some day.

Frank O'Hara's poem, "Meditations in an Emergency" sums up the way I've been feeling lately in an exaggerated way:

"Each time my heart is broken it makes me feel more adventurous (and how the same names keep recurring on that interminable list!), but one of these days there will be nothing left with which to venture forth.

Why should I share you? Why don't you get rid of someone else for a change?

I am the least difficult of men. All I want is boundless love.

Even trees understand me! Good heavens, I lie under them, too, don't I? I'm just like a pile of leaves."

LOVE! There is nothing wrong with it.
"Love is simple."

i tried

Cat Update:

Alisa and Jake dropped off Marco and Gertrude (cats) yesterday. For the first seven hours they were both pretty shell shocked and hid themselves away in my bedroom. I turned off the lights to see if they would come to life and come to life they did! Throughout the day, Marco was hissing at the air. I would lean down to pet him and he would roll over like he wanted to be pet, but he continued to hiss while I pet him. I didn't and don't take it personally because it appears to be a natural, instinctive defense mechanism of some sort. Alisa and Jake told me that Marco would be a little more willing to explore and would adapt to the environment quicker than his sister. However, it appears as though Gertie has adapted and possibly accepted things a bit better than Marco has. She jumped up on my bed while I was sleeping and scared me, but she didn't mean anything. I would be curious of me too. I opened the door a bit last night to allow them to explore if they wanted to while I slept. I woke up this morning and found neither of them in my room. I didn't look very long, but Gertie was under Bennie's bed and Marco was being cavalier somewhere. Day one went about as well as expected. It will be exciting to see what day two brings.

K Update:

I can't write anything. I asked Jeff to send me a poem so I knew they still existed. He is struggling but said he would try. August is a bad month, but Labor Day is coming soon. I'm just struggling with her too. A poem? Yes, she is a poem. Struggling can be good. It is. But it really is easy to love something when you actually do. And I love poetry! "People don't listen to poetry anymore." I am listening, I hope you are too, poem.

Where are you Sherwood Anderson? My god you write a beautiful prose.

say good bye to the top of my head

I will be getting a hair cut tomorrow at 5:15 pm. Anxiety. I don't know the woman. And then the talking.

Jesus the talking.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

I did get my hair cut.

Yesterday I was walking back to my car after work and I noticed a "new" used book store on ninth street. It's called Bluestem books. Apparently it's been in Lincoln for over 20 years, but just now (a month ago) resurfaced from the underground. I bought a few things. Ezra Pound's Cantos, Emily Dickinson's Collected Poems, Louis Zukofsky's Selected Poems, and Ferdinand de Saussure's Course in General Linguistics. I'm thinking about printing off Susan Howe's My Emily Dickinson at work, but think I might get in trouble if I get caught. Yeah, I wont. Damn.

Zukofsky is an interesting poetic specimen from the looks of his poems. Of course I've HEARD a lot about the man, but I can't say I've ever actually read anything by him so at least after I read his selected poems along with the introduction by Charles Bernstein regarding his linguistic PROCESS I might be able to speak on him. I saw a poem discussed in the introduction briefly called "Belly Locks Shnooks Oakie" while flipping through the pages yesterday. The poem is as follows:

Belly Locks Shnooks Oakie

Belly Locks Shnooks Oakie

When he awoke, he

Scared all the spooks. he

Was some oak, he

Was.

This, to me, is an extension of Stein to a point. Reading the first line (as well as the title itself) is syntactically frustrating; there is basically no syntax (at least our conception of it). Anyway, it should be interesting and surprising!

I nearly keeled over because of you Louis.

I nearly did.

DRAGONS!

I finished reading John Ashbery's biographical chapter in The Last Avant Garde last night, and got well into Frank O'Hara's. I really enjoy the sections that discuss their respective processes, but am unsure whether I appreciate learning about them personally. I don't really care whether John Ashbery was apprehensive about discussing his homosexuality freely and openly. I'm sure that if this were true it would have some lasting impact on his work, but I don't necessarily want to know what a certain Ashbery poem means to him or why he wrote it. I guess that's New Criticism, something I am also suspicious of to a point, but I want to know more about what a poem means to me and what specifically about the poem makes it that way. Again, New Criticism.

The idea of cutting an artist completely out of their work has its obvious appeal. However, I think that one of the important points about Ashbery's intent, and as an extension his art, would be completely lost were we not to consider it. The idea that a poem doesn't have to be an extension of something, but rather can itself be an extension of itself, a completely imaginative product, is, I believe, important in "understanding" or even appreciating an art where artifice is more apparent, even celebrated, and conventional conceptions of "meaning" are at times abandoned. So if we were to consider Ashbery's intent syntactically or grammatically, or his ideas regarding language and poetry, this would fall outside the scope of New Criticism, yes? What I'm saying is I am interested and feel as though it is an important point in reading poetry to have a certain understanding of a poet's process for language, but see little to no interest or importance in personal circumstances that a poem may have resulted directly from. Does that make sense? I don't even know what I just typed. Jesus look at all those commas. Fuck. ,,, There's always something a little off putting when you read something about language or writing and the author makes a variety of grammatical errors and such. Oh well I'm just BLOGGING. I also

have an obsession.

Last night I couldn't sleep and kept thinking about poems and about how I should be writing what I was thinking down. I was thinking in line breaks and knowing just how certain things would sound and sound together. I talked to Carrie around three-ish and fell asleep, finally, seeing where things should break but not remembering the words themselves. I will arrange the words beautifully. So many surprises are coming around the next lines! Build up to nothing and then surprise them after a turn of a line. Yes! Let's all write poems and surprise our parents with our wit and line breaks! They'll never see it coming! My mom doesn't get any of my poems anyway.

Let's have a party where everyone has to wear this kind of shirt:



All we would need to do is go to a truck stop along the interstate and buy them. Nothing smaller than XXXL allowed, however. Dragons or tigers or, you know, whatever that kid from your high school wore.

hours of interest here

I can't believe how wonderful of a resource this will be. I also can't imagine how much time I will be spending here.

http://writing.upenn.edu/pennsound/x/authors.php

Listen to your favorite poets read their work for hours on end!



Including this guy, mother fucking Jack Spicer.

Marvelous.

"Surround yourself with people who are so good they scare you."

II by Ted Berrigan

Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m

dear Berrigan. He died
Back to books. I read
It's 8:30 p.m. in New York and I've been running around all day
old come-all-ye's streel into the streets. Yes, it is now,
How Much Longer Shall I Be Able To Inhabit the Divine
and the day a bright gray turning green
feminine marvelous and tough
watching the sun come up over the Navy Yard
to write scotch-tape body in a notebook
had 17 and 1/2 milligrams
Dear Margie, hello. It is 5:15 a.m.
fucked til 7 now she's late to work and I'm
18 so why are my hands shaking I should know better


I'd like to be more communicative with my writing friends or I'd like to establish a better working relationship with them. My process is that of a maverick as opposed to a shooting guard. I love my friends' writing. I think a lot of it is really great. There is something wonderful about being pushed by the successes of others. It's competition to a certain degree and I think we'd all be better off for it should we call it what it is. I want to be better than all of my writing friends at writing, but know that would be impossible because of their talents along with my envy and self doubt. But what would better be? We are all good and could be great if we push things the way they need to be pushed. Tact and compassion are necessary but I want to be kicked into the street sometimes. I want to pick up the pieces of my poems with a pen and recast them in a way that make my friends smile and want to be better themselves because of it. I'd like to re-establish writer's group but focus it more. Maybe focus is the wrong word. I'd like to get together with the writers I love and hash out freely and laugh and laugh and laugh.

affix these words to your paper, pen

Collaborative poetry writing is quite the mind explosion.

More to follow soon.

I'm feeling great.

And Dan, I am Kyle.

we're wearing those hats for a reason, son

I am socially exhausted and am tired of the production that goes in to all the madness of "chillin'." When I was growing up, if someone called you and you didn't answer or weren't there, it was because you weren't there or were unavailable. I would like to be unavailable for awhile is what I'm saying. Maybe not to you (whoever) but to everyone else. I'm not sad. I'm not upset. I'm actually quite happy. If I want to see you, you'll see me if the feelings are mutual at your end. I'll be burying my phone soon.

You can correspond with me through the U.S. Postal Service. My address is:

1445 E St.
Lincoln, NE 68508

k

there's a river in there

Hello.

The man who currently sits to the right of my desk, I was told, has a mild case of Tourette's. The other day he yelled out, "Fuck-a-fart!" This has obvious entertainment value (especially on days where I have nothing to do). Lately, I have been standing up on my chair to spy on him over my cubicle wall. He is usually talking on his telephone saying a variety of humorous, often insightful things. In mid conversation with someone on the phone, he exclaimed (while jumping to his feet) "I'm gonna pack his shit like it's never been packed before!" Immediately after he said this, he looked up and made eye contact with me and instantly saluted me, as if to tell me he knows he's a wild man and knows I am too. We have a connection, he and I, for the same reason people rarely keep their offices next to his, for the same reason I am described to people who don't know me as, "The tall one who shouts."

Heraclitus said, "You cannot step twice into the same stream. For as you are stepping in, other waters are ever flowing on to you." This reminds me of watching movies and having conversations and writing blogs. No big revelation here, it's just something I think about every now and then. I want to be as supportive of the people I care about as I can and believe I do a good job of it for the most part. Sometimes re-reading old things you've written or old things written you've received brings you back to where you always wanted to be but didn't realize you were there while it was happening. I feel so tired and sorry about all of the things I've never done and will likely never do.

I'm excited for what might happen to me and my life, but understand and accept the things that will not, even if it was something I expected or hoped for. I bought a drawing by Jake Gillespie this weekend. I need to go to Hobby Lobby for a frame soon.

something IS and some things ARE

Water Music
by Robert Creeley

The words are a beautiful music.
The words bounce like in water.

Water music,
loud in the clearing

off the boats,
birds, leaves.

They look for a place
to sit and eat--

no meaning,
no point.

step into my office...because you're fucking fired

At work I have to wear a name badge thinger around my neck which gains me access to certain areas of the building which would otherwise be unavailable to me. Yesterday I forgot said badge and had to borrow a co-worker's in order to get back into my office after going to the bathroom. When I returned he was nowhere to be found. It turns out he was fired while I taking care of my business. I just figured he went home early. Another person was also fired yesterday. I saw this firing, the aftermath at least. I saw her clear out her personal belongings and be escorted out of the building. gggggllllllll.

I was sitting on a couch last night looking at a copy of Joyce's Dubliners that was sitting on a coffee table when a girl cried out, "Whose book is that?" One thing led to another and she closed the conversation with "I read it for a class, it's alright." ... Can James Joyce be considered "alright?" And even if he can, who then would be considered higher than "alright" on that continuum? Woolf? Twain? Who knows, it doesn't really matter, however. How anyone can read "The Dead" within Dubliners and still describe the book as "alright" needs to reevaluate their critical analysis in my mind. RE READ THAT STORY.

He implores you.

I've got no personal items here that I can't live without, by the way. Bring on the pain, mother fuckers.

i'm a prince somewhere to someone

I have absolutely nothing to do at work today. I will be sitting in front of this computer doing nothing at work today. I have nothing to do.

So I moved into a new house two days ago. The house is a mansion and I have a fireplace in my room. Reportedly, we're having a 4th of July party on the 4th of July. Come see my house. My brain feels like it's been hacked up into fragments. I'm thinking in fragments. I feel as though every sentence I write is a small fragment of my brain (which of course is always true). These really are horrible sentences.

I read two poems last week. I think they went over pretty well, but who knows. Z told me that he thought I got a good response from the crowd, "you got some laughs," he said. I can never tell if when people laugh they are actually laughing at what I'm reading or if they are laughing at my manner of speaking. I don't really think of my poetry as funny, necessarily, but it rarely broods. I get too excited when I write to write a sad poem. This is likely influenced, like many other aspects of my writing, by Koch and others. Koch is kind of seen as a comedic writer, but in response to this he claims,

"I don’t think the nature of my poetry is satirical or even ironic, I think its essentially lyrical...The comic element is just something that it seems to me enables me to be lyrical in the same way."

I think that's a good way to understand a writing style that focuses on an everydayness instead of a formal poetic approach (which means what exactly?). When we speak to each other, when we have conversations, consider when these instances are beautiful and exciting. Spontaneity results in happiness in language. I laugh at something that rises up from nowhere into a conversation not necessarily because it is funny per se, but rather because it is surprising and refreshing and comfortably uncomfortable. I keep saying that I'll post a poem, but I'm at work right now so I can't (I'm no slam, man). I will eventually.

I really think that I'm beginning to get over pessimism. I have a lot of cynical friends and sometimes it's just tiring to be around. Live and let live and love, mother fuckers. Stop blaming everyone else for your unhappiness and raise up people. Sorry, I'm not better than anyone else. There will be no more of that.

I wish I would have brought my ipod to work. I want to listen to Bonnie "Prince" Billy more. I love him too.

where's the pain

i just woke up from a four hour nap.

shit.

long ones are the lovely ones

How the hell can I expect to get into graduate school if every poem I write will eventually be longer than the maximum page length for portfolios? I should probably just start reading nothing but Robert Creeley and then write some poems? Fuck. Long poems are the result of the New York School's influence over my writing. Fuck you Frank. Fuck you Kenneth. Fuck you John. Fuck, I love you so much. I've got things stewing up and they're bubbling out, baby. Maybe I'll post something or other.

I'm reading some stuff at Suite 1 in the Haymarket tomorrow (6/26) around 9ish. I'm pretty sure Rachael, Justin, and Carlin are as well. Be well everyone.

k

Steam Top Mountain Top

I dismantled my p.a. last night. I tried using it for the first time since the last poetry reading and it didn't work. I took it apart and looked at its gears. I pressed things and pulled a wire and shook its loose part out. I looked for it, but it went missing. I guess it was missing. I stared at the innards for a while longer and plugged it in. It's strange how sometimes just opening something up can change its entire reality. There was no more static, there was no more sound. It was clear and I did sing. I turned the reverb up and sounded like Jim James. I wrote a song about growing up and learning about life from my mother. Learning about love and about songs and about Elton John. I want to finish all of my songs or some of my songs and play a show for my best friends. I'm thinking a show for about 5-10 people. J, S, M, A, F, B, Z, C, A, R, you are all invited. This is a closed event, guests are not allowed to bring friends. I'm not sure when this will take place, but I'm itching to play songs for my friends because they're for my friends. Is this self promotion if you don't allow anyone other than your close friends to attend? I don't really think so. There was a guy at a house I was at last night who was a big time self promoter. He showed me his art after he asked if I wanted to see it, then he read me a slam poem after he asked if I wanted to hear it. That's cool, man. I could never do something like that. Maybe I'll be a poor artist who writes things and doesn't help anyone. A song can't change you, lady. Can it? Can a poem? I had a discussion with A about altruism last night. We disagreed. I don't believe it exists, but what do I know. We're all theoretical anyhow. I don't have to decide anything. I can fix it just by letting some of the pressure go out of the screw holes. Sometimes that's all it takes.

Bill Says YES

My khaki's have ink on them.
Near the crotch, I'm tired.
Bye.

I Wear No Tie

I am at work and am under the influence of a realization I've always had. Whenever I wear my work khaki's, which is everyday Monday through Thursday, I am extremely self conscious about the size of my pockets. I feel as though these pants make my hips look a lot wider than they actually are. This makes me look strange. It doesn't make me look fat, but it makes me look deformed. These pockets are so long and they're positioned in a way that doesn't fit my body. I am a sleek man. I am a slender man. No pockets should jive with my body. No pockets should jive with my mind. Fucking khaki's. I don't necessarily approve of this damn shirt either. Banana Republic, you have failed me. Why has it taken me so long to come to these conclusions? I need to buy black dress shoes. Italian boots and walk around in the nude (I believe the new Melvins album is called something like that--Nude in Boots, or something). I bought both this shirt and these pants a few months ago when I was starting at Ameritrade. I had no business casual. I had no business. God this is what I want to do. I want to wear short shorts and tank tops like a flower and write for a magazine or some dumb thing. I actually want to do that but write a poem. I love it. I love you, word. Where have my shorts gone? I can't believe the fucking wire. "You were late." haha. Is Omar going to kill that brother man? brother something or other. Brother man, not brother, man. I told Z that the only way I would play his roommate's white guitar in real life is if I were wearing white cowboy boots. But then that made me think about that naked cowboy in Times Square who actually is nude in boots, or was it Berkeley? Or that M&Ms commercial that was a play off of the naked cowboy--the peanut was wearing white boots, right? But I was actually playing that guitar. I was picking its strings in real life, and I wasn't wearing white boots. I was playing for Z, but not for real people. I am going to go shopping for some new pants soon, maybe Wednesday, maybe not. I would like to get some sleek pants and wear them to work with a nice shirt that would make me look slender like I am. I had a conversation about God and dying last night with C at 3:00 a.m. I told her about my numbness that stems from my lightning strike. She told me about her grandpa and her crazy uncle and his girlfriend who kissed a man she had never met right before his casket closed. I love that woman for some reason. The pair were playing a necessary part in my head, like a missing pilot returned from her missing voyage wearing large, dark sunglasses. Wearing a long, white scarf wrapped a few times around her neck. Her hair fell around the scarf and she kissed his head. She was from Russia but wasn't really a doctor. C knows that things will be alright. Her grandpa and otherwise. They're runners. I like 'em a lot, even if they're mean to grandma. I'll forgive you. I'll forgive everyone. Happy Father's Day.

k

Selection From O'Hara's "Ode to Michael Goldberg ('s Birth and Other Births)

A couple of specifically anguished days
make me now distrust sorrow, simple sorrow
especially, like sorrow over death

it makes you wonder who you are to be sorrowful
over death, death belonging to another
and suddenly inhabited by you without permission

you move in impulsively and took it up
declaring your Squatters' Rights in howls
or screaming with rage, like a parvenu in a Chinese laundry

disbelieving your own feelings is the worst
and you suspect that you are jealous of this death

YIPPEE! I'm glad I'm alive
"I'm glad you're alive
too, baby, because I want to fuck you"
you are pink
and despicable in the warm breeze drifting in the window
and the rent
is due, in honor of which you have borrowed $34.96 from Joe
and it's all over but the smoldering hatred of pleasure
a gorgeous purple like somebody's favorite tie
"Shit, that means you're getting kind of ascetic, doesn't it?"

Ummm,

fuck political commentary.

Actually.

Listen to Tom Waits and shut up.

there ain't nobody here

"When she left I snuck across and stuck a note inside her box. It read 'My dear, you are so lovely and I'd really love to talk.' When she got home then she read and said 'My god, what do you mean?' 'I don't know, I just go where my heart leads me.'"

Some things you just need to try out for yourself, I guess.

Let's talk about Hillary Clinton for a second. If Barack Obama chooses her as his running mate, something I seriously doubt he will do, I'll just be sick over it. That decision would have obvious benefits domestically in terms of bringing the Democratic party together, but I hope to god he's considering the international implications of such a decision. A campaign founded on change and personal accountability would seem tainted if Hillary was involved in his administration. Don't get me wrong, I'm not one of those people who think Hillary is incompetent, in fact I think she would have done a fine job had she won the nomination. However, I do feel as though she is motivated by whatever is politically advantageous to her at a specific moment rather than a certain set of ideals she holds. This claim could likely be backed up by data which I've considered doing, but it's sort of a moot point at this point. Anyhow, internationally, Hillary Clinton is seen as an enabler of an illegal war, which most countries in the world see the Iraq war as, and to believe that having her in an administration would be politically advantageous for Barack Obama would be naive. I'm basically imploring Barack Obama to hold Hillary Clinton accountable for her lack of judgment and not appoint her to any position within the administration. I would probably see him differently would he do otherwise. He's still the man, however.

I am taking the plunge

into a variety of things.

Wish me well.

k

a blind man is still a wise man

I am sure of only about 2 or 3 things. One of them being I will never become a member of Mensa. I met two members of this society today, one of which was six years old, the other was seventeen. They were siblings. I like to think of myself as a pretty smart guy, but I'd say I'm more creative than intelligent, which kind of bums me out. Growing up, I always tried to read as many books as I could so I could grow up to be my grandfather. My grandfather has cataracts and glaucoma now and can't read. I don't want to be my grandfather anymore. I want to write bookS of poems. I want to write a creative non-fiction book about space; a sci-non-fiction novel? I will consult Anthony Vandenberg exclusively for the project. A collaboration with TONE? I don't even know if that's possible. The book itself not the collaboration. I want to do a lot of things. I would not like to become dank, however. errrrrrrrr...I don't think that means anything really, but it feels like something. Something non-physical that is.

Look at these things I would like:

Omar

I hope that good things happen to this character. I've already heard that he dies at some point, but he's genuine and does what he does.

Last night, Ali's dad Tod(d?) (crazy man) had wild turkey (actual meat not the whiskey) available to chow down on. He shot this turkey from his car window on the way to work and ran it down in a corn field in his business clothes (I'm assuming a suit). I really like meeting people who have a certain self awareness, but at the same time, people who are rather oblivious are appealing to me as well. I guess it's a spectrum eh? I'm not sure where to draw the distinction between the two. It's almost one of those things where when you're born you poop yourself and then when you are old you poop yourself. There are obvious differences but it's still poop in your pants. I would say most of my friends are more self aware than oblivious, but I think one of my friends might be more oblivious. I guess that word has negative connotations but it's really not meant to in this context. What? It doesn't matter.

Happy Memorial Day. I'm not sure what this holiday is exactly (veterans? but then what's Veteran's Day?) I'm getting paid for not working today. Thank you Nebraska tax payers.

Hey Yo...

I've been having consistent conversations with people about professional wrestlers and their finishing moves, or special moves if you'd prefer. Finishing moves can be placed into one of two categories. That of power or that of submission. For example, a classic powerful finishing move would be the Undertaker's "Tombstone Piledriver". A classier, submission finisher would be (one of my all time favorites) Bret The Hitman Heart's "Sharp Shooter".

There are obvious strengths to both types, and I believe each style speaks to the character of each respective wrestler with few exceptions. I'd like to talk about those exceptions, however, for a bit. Sgt. Slaughter, for example, seems to be an anomaly in the submission category. His finishing move, "The Cobra Clutch", doesn't seem fitting for the size of chin the man possesses. Submission moves are usually reserved for romantic types who conduct themselves in a way that doesn't include much spit flying out of their mouths.

Another strange pairing of wrestler/finishing move in my mind is the finishing move of Mr. Perfect. His "Perfect Plex", although quite calculating, doesn't seem to fit his persona. Too much lifting for this man forced him to get on the juice, which would eventually lead to his heart exploding, killing him. A figure-four could have saved this man's life.

I think it's safe to say that the all time lamest finishing move belongs to Hulk Hogan. His "Atomic Leg Drop" was both unromantic and, let's face it, unrealistic--it's someone's leg falling on you, why didn't he use a variation of Macho Man's "Flying Elbow" or DiLo Brown's pattented Frog Splash? It's called velocity Hulk.

My all time favorite finishing moves may be somewhat of a surprise to some of you. No it isn't Mankind's "Mr. Socko" (which was after wrestling's prime anyhow), but two very different, but very effective moves that I will remember forever. My favorite submission finisher goes to The Million-Dollar-Man, Ted DiBiase and his "Million Dollar Dream". Completely fitting for this character. Slow, smooth, and calculating, the "Million Dollar Dream" was always applied to people at a surprising moment where The Million-Dollar-Man seemed doomed. He was a cold and calculating wrestler.



In terms of power moves, my favorite goes to Razor Ramon and his "Razor's Edge". This move came about at a time when creativity in wrestling seemed completely stifled. One of the more unique finishers, the "Razor's Edge" was a spectacle that had never been experienced before, nor has it probably been experienced after.

A Sack Lunch and The Wire

I drank an entire half gallon of orange juice before noon today. I've urinated several times and feel as though my body's Vitamin C absorption rates are sub par. It's not that I feel bad, although I do feel bad, I just wish that my heart was in it (ya know?)--read a fucking book and feel better about your head boy.

I watched myself on video after being recorded during "conducting an interview" training today. I am an extremely animated person in all situations. I don't really understand how people can pay attention to what I'm saying. It reminds me of when I was in 6th grade and one of my friends nominated me to be editor of the 6th grade year book. After the vote and after the finding out that Scott Wheeler was chosen, I heard people talking about how they're glad "Kyle didn't get editor because nothing would get done. He's too big of a goof." This is probably true, but my legacy should be more than my idiocy. I would have done an excellent job, actually. The person who was interviewing me for their practice session continually laughed throughout the process, for no apparent reason, other than my unconscious spasms. Our trainer claimed that I'm a "funny guy" so she "understands why you were laughing so much."

This job is making me so self aware. All of the new people I see (at my job and just around) are making me so self aware. It's almost as if I'm starting to second guess my own understanding. Someone told me that they think anything having to do with space exploration is a big waste of money. Fuck that someone. I would like to explode into space particles because of him. I'm ready for life on Mars, I'm ready for the laughter. This blog is lame. I still have nothing to say and it's sad because what I have already said I don't have any interest in anyway.

Thanks for the DVDs Paul. I'm sorry I didn't hear you drop them off. I've watched the first two episodes and think they're great. What a state. Nebraska. I'm ready when you are.


k

Chest Congestion

Shit. I'm tired and was annoyed by the people who I sit in between at work. Today Dr. Greg talked to us about bruises, fractures, and burns. He showed us a slide show of children as examples. He told us about absent fathers and how big of a detriment it is for the development of a child. Thanks dad. I really like Dr. Greg. He's a total doctor with his glasses, flat front khakis, and all. Cultural sensitivity is apparently a strength of mine, but that's because I'm friends with Malaysia. Coining (it looks a lot worse than it actually is) is acceptable to the surprise of nearly everyone in my class (except for the culturally sensitive of course).

Neva Dinova has stolen my heart. Jake Bellows has such a smooth edged voice. He makes melodies I would like to make. And will.

burritos

what am I supposed to say with nothing to say?

this is my new place to say nothing about some things.

best,

k