For the most part, yeah, I try to write at least a poem a day “for fun,” that is, as distinct from the more strenuous quasi-conceptual stuff I write for my degree. Of course, there are days when I’m too lazy, or can’t come up with anything I like at all, but if I can look back and see, like 20-25 poems a month or so I feel pretty productive.
The dated October things are, of course, lagging behind, but I got a late start on them, and missed a few days.
Since this unexpectedly got tagged, I’d like to point anyone not already following him to the birthday boy’s birthday blog. If you like smart, funny, politically engaged people, or Cosby, do yourself a favor and follow him.
October 22. Light winds, perhaps. If they blow, it will be from the “east’ard, or the nor’ard, or the west’ard, or the south’ard,” or from some general direction approximating more or less to these points of the compass or otherwise. Winds are uncertain.
From a fixed point, an intimation of process.
How the position of observer
goes fluid and rapt.
Consider if you will my finger raised
from the letter to the air, covered
as a sort of, uh, as a sort of gestus,
condensing several hundred years
into an indication of folksiness,
backwoods charm, low hygiene,
ingenuity, etc. It’s ok if this is a big turn-off—
that may mean the calculus is too hard for you,
or you aren’t into saliva. In either case,
the idea of the subject brought to you
by a generous grant from reason and ontology
and viewers like you. From the street
sound comes across as a power in the earth.
Is it time for lunch. Fat man at gyro truck
Braiding his hair between the cope of his cap.
Regional flavor. These and other plant forms
picked up by air, divided and rendered.
Generic process of restricted economy:
on funding. Pleading, again,
oh, jesus, you hate the pleading.
Why not step off the cusp and get it over with,
you may be asking. Response: 1.) absence
of raging, blowing, cracking.
2.) ambiguous relation to exteriority.
3.) still revising manuscript on
the magnet I swallowed as a lad
and the praxis implications
4.) uncertain technical specs in all indicated fields
I’ve been so sick so often the past few weeks that I haven’t had a chance to write much, and when I did, I didn’t really have the energy to transcribe it from my notebook and do anything with it. Which is a bummer, because I had an idea for an occasional project running from October 17-November 8 that I’d been looking forward to since mid-September.
However, I do have drafts for the first week, and so until I catch up I’ll try to put up two a day. The titles and structure are derived from [a source], which I hope you might recognize.
This poem is perhaps the worst I have written in a long-ass time but I still feel a tenderness towards it, and when I look at it I want to smile wanly and write ‘lol’ in fine calligraphic script on a large piece of beautiful rice paper as a crane flies by.
On October 12th 2011 I sat down in an empty bathtub with my clothes on and read some Henry James. Outside it was raining. It’s a nice sized tub and since I’m short I can put my feet up on the faucet and lean my back against the wall and read pretty comfortably. It was the end of The Wings of the Dove, when everything goes to shit for Merton and Kate, and love coughs up a lot of blood and dies. The next day, it was still raining, I had moved on to The Ambassadors and out onto a bench among a system of benches called ‘The Founder’s Garden’ surrounded by squirrels and birds and a photoshoot for the girl’s fencing team. The rain was not coming down hard and I didn’t have money for coffee, so I figured I’d just deal with it. Today my Henry James is all wet—I show a friend—I’ll say—and most of Book 2 of The Ambassadors writhes up against the gravity of the cover in spite.
I try to smooth it out. It resembles the waveform of a terrible boring song. I stack other heavy books on top of this heavy book. I leave it on the dryer to—what—thaw? I think about Henry James, how I love him, how I desire him, but want to put all of his characters into one giant sack and drown them.
Last night I went to Occupy Philly, twice. I thought about Guy Debord and decided to drift through the city. Nobody noticed me, another miserable looking white boy in a sweater among millions. I went into the Free Library of Philadelphia and slipped on a puddle. I saw a large photograph of Umberto Eco. I went to a bookstore and bought a Brecht play, Baal, for a dollar and some Derek Walcott for a dollar. I looked at rows of bagels and donuts through a window. I crossed the street at the proper moments, I waited on opportunity, I was not hit by cars, I passed unharmed. I came upon Occupy Philly around 5:30, roughly dinner time. It had the atmosphere of an evacuated camp-ground. Two tiny drum-circles at opposite ends of a plaza. Throng of people in nice shoes and business skirts looking from across the street. I saw many signs I liked—signs, also, placed upside down on the ground, wet. A tent for handsome medics dressed in black and red. I wandered through. I looked in at the book tent. I wandered out.
I returned later after some beers to look at the General Assembly, where agendas are organized and plans put into motion, I guess. Even now, rain appears suddenly in the writing of the second paragraph and vanishes now—still the sound of something guttering out, but also sunlight and movement among leaves—anyway—I walked over with a friend of mine talking about Christian Bok and the Situationalists, how, imagine, if he moved out from the scale of the microbe and wrote a poem through the vehicle of hundreds of willing bodies. We saw hundreds of bodies listening to a man in a maroon sweater talking through a microphone.
We saw him but we could not hear him. We saw another friend, and a girl in a denim vest, and we moved off, stepped around an abandoned figure of tom-toms, walked towards the site of another politically-relevant poetry reading.
Where a woman with a long green feather in her hair showed a documentary about herself put together by the BBC in 1974. Have you heard of Cecilia Vicuna? Her first book, Sabor Mi, came out in 1973 in a run of 250 copies hand-bound by Vicuna herself, so quickly and so badly that to touch a copy was to have it explode in a little mess of leaves and glue in your hands, like a weird death-orgasm of Spanish and English. It has never been reprinted until now, through a publishing project run by Jena Osman, who I like a lot. I couldn’t buy the book—like I said earlier, I didn’t even have cash for coffee—but I still got annoyed to see some undergraduate art school kids in the row in front of me pass a spiral notebook back and forth and trade notes like “how do you say ‘narcissism’ in Spanish” and “must have been smoking some nasty drugs in 1974” and so on and so on.
They were all white boys, by the way, one fat and two skinny. I’m not saying murder all white people but it’s a thought. I’m a white boy too, full-disclosure, but I’m not really that attached to not being murdered. Henry James, too, was a white boy, who loved white boys, desired white boys, artists, sculptors, white boys who could say something sweet and tie their ties precisely and handsomely. Imagine all the white boys of the world and throughout history being shoved into a sack and forced to enact desire. Imagine the sounds coming out of that sack. Imagine Henry James imagining the sounds and valence of that sack—he’ll tap his pen on his desk—no, wait, he didn’t have a pen—he’ll clear his throat and his typist will hit a key and he’ll say “first of all—‘hang fire’—
Overall it was an ok reading.
I decide to Occupy Henry James. At first, within the bounds of the law. I contact the government for a permit and obtain one, to lay out a sleeping bag outside of his tombstone in Cambridge Massachusetts and stay there disrupting any bourgie business his spirit might want to get up to. Gradually people hear about this, and gather around, and lay their own sleeping bags down. At night, sudden “cold-spots” and unexplained noises, objects stirring in their moorings, weird lights above the headstone, vetoed, frustrated by our shouting them down. His ghost stays in its grave, stupid fucker. It isn’t enough.
I retire to an old Anchorite’s cave and think about praxis. I have it. I talk to some of my old college buddies in the comp sci and physics departments and have them rig up a machine, a beautiful silver tube large enough for me to walk inside. I am shot back in time. I am occupying the body of Henry James. I move his aging arms around—I perform high kicks in tight black trousers—I muss up his hair, make gruesome faces at hard-bodied young London actuaries. I throw heaps of late tales into the fireplace, I kick dogs, open his mail, let the bills pile up, leave his ass unwiped and his teeth unbrushed. I sell rare volumes for cheap to various losers and bums. I have his body sleep with gruesome ghouls. Wikipedia is mysteriously revised to describe the frantic last days of Henry James, his dubstep phase, his awful blog. He is dropped in a stroke from hundreds of syllabi across hundreds of semesters. The 20th century turns its battered back. The 21st century raises a vast middle-finger in solidarity against Henry “Piece of Shit” James. It isn’t enough.
I go deeper. Have you seen Inception? Dang, that’s right. I travel into the novels of Henry James. It’s an inside job. I’m the one who told Lord Mark about Kate Croy’s illicit engagement. I took the Aspern Papers, and I chewed them up and swallowed them. I sucked the life out of May Server and I taught all the best moves to Gilbert Long. I move from one pocket of glib rich Anglos to another, ruining everything. Do you remember that part in What Maisie Knew when Maisie is hurled from the top of a plateau into the raging Colorado River? You do now. How about the part when Waymarsh grows a Bakunin beard and firebombs the Burlington Arcade? I hover over London in a big horror blimp plotting sinister readings of James-vis-Bataille. I turn their restricted economies general. I stomp grace on unpaved Liverpool roads. At the point in which Lewis Lambert Strether agonizes over his disgraceful poverty while purchasing silk gloves a screaming comes across the sky. I become a poor reader, for whom psychology and style is obfuscated by crude Marxist exegesis. I scour the earth. I leave the Jolly Corner alone. I’m the ghost in that story. I’m the ghost in every story, green glowing and pointlessly vindictive.
Later, I call a friend of mine at Rennselear and bitch about praxis some more, passing through the medium-rainy streets without paying attention, so that by the time I get off the phone and see some texts about people getting drinks on Sansom I have no idea where I am, oh stupid naïve urban infant, or how to get to Sansom or what Sansom is or was. Orient my body in one of four basic directions, guessing, placing my line of gaze towards the tall image of William Penn, I think, and proceed from there. Trace a line, more or less straight, through largely anonymous buildings, leave nothing behind yourself, nothing.
Dear sir, </break> Would you be soon kind as to inform me on the major tenants of the New Narrativists? Is there a major evolution out of the Objectivists using cultural studies as a guide? Or is there, moreover, a reaction to the inexplicable professed explicability of the Objectivists? a kind of revulsion for the seeming belief that one can point to the world and say, 'look, there is man and he has culture. the end.?' I would sincerely appreciate a bit of explication, for I want to know more.
First thing, I just want to clarify that Objectivist poetry has absolutely nothing in common with Ayn Rand’s Objectivist “philosophy.” If you already know this, I apologize, I’m really tired. Objectivist poetry actually mainly counted hardcore Marxists and leftists among its ranks— Oppen, William Carlos Williams, Zukofsky, Reznikoff, etc.— and had to do, in part, with turning prosaic language towards poetics. Kind of a riotously receptive and fluent mutation of modernism, maybe. Which, the New Narrativists, insofar as they were influenced by that group, did pick up on and run with along with the superb lefty lean.
Anyway, New Narrative— most of the big New Narrative guys came out of the Bay Area in the late 70’s and early 80’s, in conversation with the West Coast langpo scene as well as Kathleen Fraser’s circle of feminist writers. Whereas the langpo group was often seen as somewhat frigidly academic and “straight white male”, New Narrative was really into queer theory and a kind of effusive accessibility, a kind of aggressive and confrontational chumminess redolent of Brecht in a way. And yeah, they were actually really influenced by the nascent field of cultural studies, all three of the interlinked writerly communities. I know they were reading Althusser and Benjamin in xeroxed translations some time before semiotext(e) or whoever brought them to a larger audience. Stir in a little Black Mountain and New York School and there you go, sort of.
Key texts— I guess— Bruce Boone’s ‘Century of Clouds,’ Bob Gluck’s ‘Jack the Modernist’ (DEFINITELY), Aaron Shurin’s ‘A’s Dream’(of the ‘next generation’ of NN guys, I suppose), and any Steve Benson you can find. Although any langpo (find a ton of it here) or HOW(ever) stuff you read will definitely enrich your understanding of the movement as well. The best essay to read on the subject is Gluck’s own 'Long Note on New Narrative'
Hope this helped— I seriously am exhausted and out of it, but I get pretty excited about the topic.
after Dana Ward. Well, after New Narrative, maybe.
Today I’ll read about Cicero and I’ll write about Cicero. I’ll read a book of poems by Rena Rosenwasser again and write a little bit on it and try to publish it somewhere, so people will know my name and associate it with genteel well-readedness and soft respectability. I’ll read chapbooks by Dana Ward so I can send an e-mail to my friend about my thoughts on them, whether I like them or not, whether they reminded me of Bruce Boone as much as they reminded him of Bruce Boone, and I’ll tell another friend on Skype that I read those Dana Ward chapbooks I told him I’d been trying to get my hands on and I’ll say thanks for the suggestion, I hope, unless they really let me down.
I’ll skim over several hundred pages of De Oratore and I’ll carefully read Pro Archias for the third or fourth time. I’ll highlight the parts that support my thesis about realpolitik and praxis. Someone will probably look over at my large rhetoric anthology with small print in two columns splayed open on a Barnes & Nobel table and think it’s the Bible and they will probably have a very particular conception of me begin to form for them, one that may or may not share common valence with who I may actually be. I open my inbox, right now, and find an e-mail about Cicero. Have you written any more on Cicero? And I send a short good-morning on gchat to my girlfriend who is still asleep, probably.
Reader, I like you. I like for you coming with me this far with very little in the way of recompense. I like you for being willing to read a poem this far in the 21st century, a prose poem at that, and not even a good one, and not even a famous one from a book or magazine. I’d like to thank you for that. I’d like to thank you for picturing me diagetically as a little more handsome than I am and a little taller. In your reconstruction of this poem, I thank you because you omit the largish hole on the left sleeve of my cardigan, and the button snapped in half just in the middle of the row of buttons. I thank you for the fact that in your reading of this poem I am clean-shaven or have a full beard, but do not look like a man who looks into the mirror after coming out the shower and just gives up. Reader, I like you for being generous with this poem. I like that you’ll continue to the end and hit ‘like’ or not but either way do me no harm in your passing. I like your commitment to social media as a platform the arts. I like your interest in close reading and your Althusser tattoo.
I’ll try to construct a way to talk about the flaneur and derive as sets of masculine practices without sounding like a jerk. I’ll explain to you—please, be patient, I’m going somewhere with this—in a way that presupposes a patience I’d never presuppose from a professor or the editor of a major journal. I think that shows, reader, how much I like and respect you—this implicit trust. Thanks again. Reader, have you read this Rosenwasser book I’m talking about, or trying to talk about? Her new one? ELEVATORS, with the pink and black and white cover? I’ll lend it to you if you’d like, when I’m done with it, I think that shows how far we’ve come. Reader, that’s a big step in creating a sense of mutual obligation and fondness. I have a stack of chapbooks on my desk at home that don’t belong to me and were given willingly. The glue on their pages is weak and the ink smudges. I look at them and feel so grateful and expansive, I want to unhinge my jaw and swallow Walt Whitman and William Carlos Williams and Marianne Moore and everyone else in a tender rapture of gluttony. If I overshare, reader, I overshare out of fidelity. The bookstore speakers play a song from Cats and make me want to leave.
I’d like to say something valuable and memorable about Cicero. I’d like to help people understand Cicero. The paper is due on my birthday, and I reflect on how nice it would be to see people weeping around the conference table, tearing out strips of my paper, folding them up and keeping them close to their breasts forever. I want to enlarge the understanding of my readers, Reader, on the subject of Cicero and etc. I break open a cream-puff with a fork and get cream on the collar of my shirt and a little kid starts laughing. I’d like to write a poem at some point too, Reader, once everything else is finished, or shelved to cool off. I’m losing confidence in my ability to hold the attention of objects and ideas. I become somewhat slippery and pass like vapor through the foamy substance of this wooden chair. I’d like to share with you a diagram about the division of matter, anti-matter, and ‘dark matter,’ keeping in mind as well the vast interstices between atoms to begin with. I’d like to make a personal connection while holding in mind the unavoidable paradoxes wherein, the huge gulf between the Greeks and the Romans, I’d tell you about that too. Reader, if you were to love this text and sketch it over the image of an image of an incident in your life, I’d validate Archias and Ion and any other poet wriggling eerily under aspersions. If I was a coffee-cup I’d thirst for attention. I’d do almost anything, Reader, to fill a brown cardboard sleeve and be filled and emptied in return, by turn, and thrown out in the parking lot, jouissance! I’d be an empty cup on the prowl. My pick-up line would be careful, the beverage you’re about to enjoy is extremely hot.
First off, I love the Objectivist influence in your writing. Thank you for sharing what you do. When I clicked on your page (just now) I saw the Oppen quote and things made more sense. ha. Also, I wanted to suggest taking an image of your writing and then posting that. I've seen some Tumblr-using writers use 'pictures' of their work, and it looks great. Not only would it look smooth and make the formatting easier to recognize, but it would also minimize plagiarism. Just a thought.
Thanks, and good idea. I’m not too worried about plagiarism, but Tumblr as a platform becomes extraordinarily frustrating for any kind of lineation beyond straight left-oriented stanzas.
I’ve become very interested in turning the topoi of New Narrative or even confessional poetry to narratives that aren’t true. Basically, how, in poetry, to lie with a transgressive surplus of ‘honesty.’ This is perhaps closely linked to the practice of persona poetry, but with, by necessity, a more garbled and ambiguous sense of transparency, although here too a certain audacity is probably called for. Of course to really pull this off I shouldn’t have said anything at all!
An extremely fat pigeon passes between cars
on North Broad Street. It thinks someone better
to do this than in a poem. A horse emerges from a side-street,
shits, the animals begin to orient process around excretion,
slowly at first, then quicker, before we even notice
Shit, shit, shit. That’s correct. No,
my phone bill. One hundred small things we can’t believe.
An author ascends the stairs in 1994 and vanishes.
His lover listens to the Hal al Shedad in the bath-tub, moves
a leg up into the air to clean the leg. She will tell the police,
He left, he went to the post-office, I don’t know. I was in the bath,
Uh… I was listening to music, I don’t know. The first person she ever met
with a tongue-ring was herself. For awhile around 2009 I believe
these two people may be my birth-parents. But the dates don’t fix into anything.
I see the horse-shit in the street—I see the pigeons—I see signs
and ecstatic movement in the hall from between tall structures,
the overpass, the man crouching
by the bus stop shaking, the doors opening onto unlit stairwells,
the frozen decades and the bleak mess of public beasts and angle.
I feel like it’s closer to Ronald Johnson’s radi os because its only procedure is effacement, whereas A Hummument is more of a visual palimpsest and involves more positive accruing and ornamenting. I’m afraid I’m not familiar with anything called laundry incident.
A lot of things in this poem aren’t true and a couple things are, I hate this kind of poem.
The title of the work, its place in the collective library, the nature of the person who tells us about it, the atmosphere established in the written or spoken exhange, among many other instances, offer alternatives to the book itself that allow us to talk about ourselves without dwelling upon the work too closely.
i. At the low point of my first “real” job (online marketing for hospitals, PHOs and pharmaceutical companies) I drove over to my friend’s house in Green Lane and asked him if I could borrow a gun. He showed me a bunch he had—pistols, some a little bigger, some smaller, mostly black, I don’t remember the names—and I made sort of a pretense of thinking it over and said, hm, not today, he was excited and offered to take me to “the range” and I said maybe some other time. Did that part happen? I don’t think this paragraph happened.
I was and still am a little bit of a coward. Anyway, I would come out of the shower and make a weapon out of the first two fingers on my left hand and the thumb cocked up and put it to my temple and look in the mirror and wonder, am I evil, am I Hell? I’m still subscribed to a fair amount of advertising and marketing e-mail newsletters—I like to look at them when I wake up so that my day will be unhappy and hard like a thumb-nail.
ii. I say to you: “It drives me crazy how slow Microsoft Word is. I need to get out of this house.”
iii. On my birthday in 2008 I read a book of essays by Gerald Stern. I read about how he was shot in the head at a stop-light in New Jersey. I was trying to quit smoking but I was having a cigarette anyway, on the wooden stairs leading out from my apartment to the street. I went inside to look at the poem “Lucky Life.” I came back out. I saw smoke rise up over Norristown past the line of trees, but not my smoke.
iv. On my birthday in 2009 I finally finished Anna Karenina, in a bathtub, at my parents’ house. I didn’t cry at the end. I remember being confused by the part where Levin goes to some kind of congress or political convention—I thought, I’m so close to the end, I can skim this part, it doesn’t matter. And you were there in spirit, waiting in my apartment 25 miles away, reading something yourself, making notes on a page. You’ll point to a print of Velazquez’ Aesop and say the name of a professor we knew. You’ll point to Ming the Merciless, a Flemish diptych, Invocation to Priapus, Jacques Le Grant’s Le livre des bonnes moeurs. We’ll laugh. Oh yeah—Max Klinger, Savinio.
v. I say to you: “I’m hungry. I don’t think I’ve eaten a meal in days.” You say: “Go eat.” I say: “I hate eating alone.” You say: “I often like it.”
vi. On my birthday in 2010 I woke up and finished a book by Jean-Christophe Valtat called Aurorarama which was heavily hyped by bookstores we both knew. I read Monsieur Pain by Bolano. I sat at a table outdoors and read poems by Osip Mandelstam. I read Aeschylus as I saw you park your car and walk up the fake cobblestone path and towards me and I made a note to burn every text on a pyre.
vii. That Christmas Day, I finished In the Shadow of Young Girls in Flower at 1:13 AM. I’d made headway waiting in a small lobby on car repairs earlier that week. The free coffee was hot and delicious, much better than I had expected, let’s say, even, infinitely better. A man in a yellow t-shirt kept wincing at the cover of the book. I felt concerned and tender towards the narrator and his friend, Saint-Loup. I felt embarrassed by the man’s scrutiny. My car was fine.
viii. I might use one or several online database programs, Excel, Microsoft Word, or simple pencil and paper to track all this data. You might tell me at which points of which episode of Parks & Rec you laughed and at which points, improbably, you cried, and then laughed at your own tears. I might track that too. Let us imagine all creatures of mythological provenance with the body of one animal and the face of another. Let us review the plot of Berlin Alexanderplatz, every Robin Batman ever knew, the people we knew who are dead or married, the names of dates, the names of plants and molecules.
ix. Oh one I love, ones I love, or loved, hold on five minutes, I’m marking my page or inserting a fat pen between the pages to warp the spine, I’m throwing on a coat or cardigan! Hold on five minutes for the weather to resolve into crisis and advise motion! Let me clean my glasses, and shave! Let me let in the dog and fill her clean tin bowl! Oh ones, all, one or several! Oh y’all I’m going to that brewery on Market Street, you know the one—to eat salmon, and if you meet me there I’ll buy us nachos, if you meet me there I’ll buy you a beer and cry, and fall forward again into the human arms of red trains and burning bushes!
Earlier today I was walking around thinking about Zukofsky’s homophonic Catullusand Melnick’s great Men in Aida, thinking about that element of deterministic but negatively capable cognition. Later on, I realized that I’d left my sunroof open in a rainstorm with a bunch of papers in the front seat, and found a workshop portfolio soaked through with all the ink running. I noticed that on a few pages, a few eye-catching patterns of legibility remained. I’m sure you’re all familiar with radi os and similar experiments— except while those are acts of mediation and deliberate palimpsest, here nature had stepped in and done a little aleatoric fucking about. Let’s see: tweaked homophonically here and there but in principle as I found it—
Note: Click through for proper formatting. Also— the first fragment is more ‘faithful’ to the procedure, the second is more ‘reconstructed.’ Obviously.
silver monsters. take along a sheriff in your rear hand after evening, put the car light somewhere seen—easy—kids, readers, officers! be alert to all land-slides and hurry of silt, erosion, don’t frisk along a ray starting at the omphalos and radiating out infinitely. danger cooking up a dream in an ideal space, the hole on the outskirts of town. place buildings and monuments in free play, given enough resource and a will. with silver teeth, in practice, gender well-performed by beasts. give them a hand.
in the absence of grace and natural lighting, certain organs of passage disappear. others go thin as film, melt into skin. in some low cave stashed away for bad trouble, try it out for yourself. something else will appear.
she grapple down hole and she. cakes prepared months in advance and wrapped up. for a journey. stay angry at me? please don’t. do .approach from an angle. subject on the lawn with a flashlight and sturdy shovel. her position, note, her mode of facing. a faux-naïve construction—no, typo, wait, I mean a contradiction!—named ‘sure-shooter’ and plated in bronze. easily enough done for a big boost in gravitas and sex appeal.
or a land grant—statue of Being-Dead-Leaves piled up upset the kennel and letting loose with tunnels. they can lead underneath new factories. erecting a status of hear—she quite pleased with all outcome—at feasting, I could be queen.
town-mother caught by selfish subject, captive in vast electric lump of gaze. the paper keeps the car suspended in light, the windows smeared away and antennae gnarled over, and waking up the boy detective sees coat flung over back of a chair and starts shaking. the mystery of voice the who keeps saying my name when I’m walking through the fossil museum? foot-prints going one way through the town, up, the sides of houses, and through snow, people with the smell of perfume and smoke overnight have their little theories too.
as for me, I did see a pack of wild dogs running through the streets—coincidence…?—and at the very least, grainy photographs, clumps of fur and animate tissue, hung-over youths with alibis and sketches of tough-looking corgis going wild with fire on their breath—check my blog for this and other disappointing plot holes and continuity gaffes, for example, the way light passes through my veinless body. how the retina folds and flees as a fat man reading gun magazines in a crowded café folds in a twelve part series. this section under construction, this inside job and baffled act of crime. click here for one cool trick for a flat belly devoured by moms.
he carried his own instruments up the hill to the hole. he set them up. first, brush snow off in a tight circle, then, drive in the spikes and fasten. have you considered the implications of seeing something new emerge from a blank situation? have you resigned to live with what? he chose to shave, later, over warm water in a little red basin. he chose to stutter around hard candy, oh, lord, sweep the accident into an outlier, wear fourteen silver thumbs in a corduroy pocket.