Mere Anarchy

Mere Anarchy

Guilty parties.
ryan shaun wendy simon

Critical evidence.
andre breton
james dickey
kafka
theodore roethke
wb yeats
sylvia
ts eliot
irvine welsh
chuck palahniuk
dostoevsky

Forensic reports.
edward gorey
man ray
simon boses

Admissions of guilt.
deadcandance
cohen
nick cave
natalie merchant
rammstein
iggy pop

Crime scenes
aurora picture show
diverseworks
theater LaB houston
voices breaking boundaries

Damning testimony.
surrealism
roller derby
exploding dog
levity
girlsarepretty

The editors regret that the enclosed material does not suit the current needs of Michigan Quarterly Review. Some writers are unaware of this journal's format, and send us the wrong kind of material. We recommend that writers consult a recent issue of this journal before submitting work for consideration. A sample back issue of MQR is $4.00. Thanks Lawrence Noldstein for taking the time to scrawl a sorry and sign the rejection slip. So few editors take the time to do this that it makes you wonder if it was even read. Thirteen poems and one story still afloat. posted by James @ 2:17 PM	Samstag, August 31, 2002
I have been happy with a lot of what I have written lately, things here and things not. That's why its hard for me to write this its flat and a bit boring. It is pathetically true. Its about the place where my parents now, and thus I by extension, live. Its between Brenham and Sealy, which makes it 2+ hours away. Did I tell you that I'm driving the Mystery Van, complete with curtains and a wood interior, completely without AC. I calculated it, Houston has more gay bars and tattoo parlors than this place has people. The newspaper that covers the three counties of Austin, Colorado, and Fayette Counties had this cover story including a black and white photo of their bloated corpses: Lightning struck a tree on the Rocky Hill property owned by Otto Loessin just southward of Columbus, killing six of his cattle as they gathered under it last Saturday afternoon. Loessin lost a registered Angus bull, four cows, and a half grown heifer calf. I'll let the fact that this is the cover story sink in while I set up my home trepanning kit. On page three is a listing of all the actions taken in the three county courts. Tristan Dwight Haynes, assault causing harm to a family member Joe Ann Cunningham, driving while intoxicated John Everett Jasek, hunting at night This is how they handle criminals in Bellville. posted by James @ 9:36 AM	Freitag, August 30, 2002
I am not going to go on about how hard it is to be a writer. I am not going to go on about how you're constantly broke. I am going to say that you constantly find yourself terribly indebted. Mania drives you down strange alleyways and frequently runs out of gas at four in the morning in places you would rather forget. You owe a lot of people a lot. Considering your merger resources, financial, emotional, and mental you frequently only have a beggar's offering. You always want to give, but with the holes in your pocket and the sieve that flaps around masquerading as a heart... well. How much I owe, how little I have, how much I want to give you, you, and you back was the catalyst for the new poem in ars longa. P.S. never date me posted by James @ 9:07 PM	Mittwoch, August 28, 2002
Shit. Fuck. Damn. (Goddamnshitfuck). Cruising the voices breaking boundaries website I am really impressed by their dedication to diversity. How nice that they underwrote the reading series I was in at Diverse Works. Waitaminute. Hold the chili cookie. FUCK! That's right I was the token older college educated white guy. FUCK! Fine if I'm gonna be stereotypically cast I'm calling up the WB for my new series. Its called Cracker. Cracker is about a white writer type guy who moves to the 'hood for inspiration. He is the butt of a lot of jokes he doesn't get, "Damn yo shorty bling bling! Fo sheezy my neezy" He is patiently suffered by the kindly and good-natured yet 'real' African American family who lives next door. "Rufus who’s at the door? I hope it not that Cracker here to ask me about the impact of Langston Hughes on the black power movement of the mid sixties" Cracker stands in the front room, pushes his glasses up on his nose. Mrs. Washington walks in from the kitchen and Cracker's books and papers spontaneously explode all over the room from his arms. On all fours he scoops at his books and papers, "well no Mrs. Washington. I actually had a question concerning the current academic theory that the Harlem Renaissance solidified the view of the African American poet as the troubadour of post modernism." Everyone except Cracker, who now can't find his glasses, looks at the camera "Oh, Cracker!" posted by James @ 11:34 AM
Hey you. Yea you, the one with the stupid "I can't make up my mind between Hooter's hot wings and Applebee's boneless riblets" Stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stop it stopit stopit stopit stopit stopit stopit stopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopitstopit. Put down your venti frappichino. Stop running through the mall so that you're not late for your shift at Betsy Johnson. Stop wondering in the Burger King drive through if your wife if having an affair. Don't look at your ATM recepipt to see if your 2.7% raise has kicked in yet. Stop it. posted by James @ 11:06 AM
I jump out of bed and run to the shower. Its gonna be great- taffy, cotton candy, hot dogs, tilt-o-whirls, maybe a spook house, and definitely a Ferris wheel. That's right, I'm going to a job fair. I imagine myself spinning this huge wheel, big money big money no whammy. It slows near garbage man. I wave my hands franticly, come on- come on. It clicks on fireman. Responding to my resigned smile, a Hispanic man of about 40 pats me on the back. Hey at least you didn't get Marine. Do I need to tell you? Inside the convention center twenty 18-19 year old kids, in Sears suits two sizes too big and boat shoes with white laces, crowd around the Empire Rent-A-Car table and try and convince the middle aged beer gut polo shirt that they have the right stuff to join the Empire team. What the hell am I doing here? Oh yeah, I'm poor. posted by James @ 1:01 PM	Dienstag, August 27, 2002
I think its time to throw away the dishes. Soup bowls do not wear yellow cardigans and that is not a tissue floating on top of the coffee mug. posted by James @ 4:21 PM	Montag, August 26, 2002
When the only English you've heard is -sir, sir, you wanna per-scip-shun, you needa see a doc-tor? When the peach fuzz working the counter at the casa de cambio shakes his head at habla ingles and almost wets himself laughing when you follow up with habla aleman? When your white boy San Antonio Spanish is only good enough to know when people are talking shit about your ignorant ass, but not good enough to respond. After three days of this you will sing along with any song you hear in English, even if you are riding through sheet metal slums at four in the morning in the back of a makeshift green Volkswagen taxi - you will still get down with your bad self on the once white vinyl bench seat- even if the song- is ice, ice baby. Then I flow like a harpoon daily and nightly Will it ever stop? Yo -- I don't know Turn off the lights and I'll glow To the extreme I rock a mic like a vandal Light up a stage and wax a chump like a candle posted by James @ 12:42 PM