Mere Anarchy

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

I taught. I lost my mind. posted by James @ 7:45 AM	Mittwoch, Mai 10, 2006
Oh well I'm too lazy to change the appearance of this bloggy blog blog blog. That and I don't know how to do it. I was lied to this is not an MFA program. There are only two creative writing classes. One you take with undergraduates, not that I have anything against undergraduates per say, but if you're a nineteen-year-old girl who grew up in and never left Riverside Texas (pop 3,250) and you're writing about how much you love Jesus - I feel dirty, transgressed, yea violated. I stand in the shower for hours, the water gurgling out of my throat; it goes up my nose a little, pools in my ear's tiny cups. I close my eyes so the mist won't sting. The other class is for graduate students only; you do slave labor for The Texas Review. I don't like it. I don't want to write 40pg papers on how the foliation of early English hand pressed works is representative of the author's respect and / or the possibly subversive nature of the text. I quit. I'll apply to some MFA programs I know are good. I don't care if I get in anymore. I still write. I still submit. It’s just that the whole attachment to my work, my need for it to be successful and reviewed well is dwindling. I think I shall wear white flannel trousers and walk upon the beach. I want to teach English in Galveston. Rent a giant dilapidated house across from a graveyard. One with a dirt yard full of broken flower pots, a rusted tricycle, and a pink flamingo. I want a stack of ten-year-old newspapers tied with twine on my porch. Maybe then I'll write my autobiography. I already have a title The unreal travels of an earthbound space monkey, a study in post modernity from the balcony of an asylum. posted by James @ 12:52 PM	Dienstag, März 30, 2004
Working on a new tattoo, it covers half of my back. It hurts. Five hours down, five more to go. This blog will be changing in the future. posted by James @ 1:08 PM	Mittwoch, Februar 25, 2004
So this is grad school. I'm printing out a seven page list of deviations found between eight copies of a letter written by Joshua Reyonlds in 1773 to his sponsor concerning his progress in decorating the rebuilt St. Paul in London. I have a bulldog. He's eleven weeks old. His name is Milton. I eat BLTs almost every day. I drink a lot of scotch. My car is broken. I have dreams of long hair. I need a new tattoo. This is the library. It has books. posted by James @ 5:39 PM	Montag, September 29, 2003
I see things that aren't there. Like fire that doesn't consume (very biblical I know). Like cups floating over people. Like secret codes that eplain the hidden machinery of the universe that hums the music of the spheres. I've fixated on patterns and codes (a meta code that swells in complexety before it crests and reduces itself to one single symbol / Pi / Om / God / Mind). I really have nothing to say. Classes begin in less than a month. I'm fequently scared to go outside. I watch a lot of movies. I'm seeing a shrink again. She's fat, Korean, and in her late 20's. I'm on Lexapro and Risperdal. Its scary taking these meds. I scare people when I don't. posted by James @ 12:16 PM	Dienstag, Juli 29, 2003
I thought I should write something here. I'm not sure why. Life has been: read (Donne and Dante) sleep (little and poorly) write (new poems) watch (Pola X) play (old computer RPG games) eat (grilled cheese and spagatti sauce) talk (to the 'rents about seeing my shrink again) drink (cheap wine [Rossi] cheap vodka [Popi]) smoke (pipe, quitting on the cigarettes) stay home (I can't leave the house someone is after me and if they find me I don't know what they'll do besides everyone will look at me and it will be plain as water that I'm not well and it will be like when in middle school I was teased my a group of boys who called me words I didn't understand and held me down and rubbed sand in my eyes -they knew) fight (with her about everything because inside me there is a little bully who knows that if she is still around that means I can hold her down and rub sand in her eyes, so I do it) paint (bathroom cabniets with blackboard spray with my daughter so that she can draw me chalk pictures of a tree full of faries attending theur queen and another of us outside our house the happy sun watching us blow up firecrackers that say "boom" and "bang" while we "hee hee hee") Take (codine because I have it) get sick (9 capsules of codine with two glasses of wine) Wake up (7am) Come to work (Montgomery Community College) Write (this) posted by James @ 10:00 AM	Montag, Juli 07, 2003
When my advisor called me friday morning and told me I was accepted I hung up the phone and I cried until I choked, then cried some more.I closed my eyes and roared out wet boulders that crashed around the apartment. I lifted my hands to the empty stained celing and shook like an epileptic or pentecostal. I gagged, doubled over opened my eyes and vomited gallons of saltwater. I cried until the seams in face face split. I cried until I had an asthma attack. I took a deep breath, crawled off the wood floor onto the couch and wept the rest of the morning thinking only: its not been in vain, thank you posted by James @ 11:35 AM	Montag, Juni 23, 2003
All university jobs are the same. You do actual "work" (its an allegation) for fifteen minutes a day. You get paid little, get few hours, and play on the internet or read all day. posted by James @ 10:44 AM
i live in Huntsville. i Live in huntsville. i live In huntsville. I live in huntsville. (This manuver has been performed by a trained professional on a closed course. Do not attempt at home) posted by James @ 2:03 PM	Samstag, Juni 21, 2003
Jungle Boogie! Going to grad school at SHSU!!!!!! posted by James @ 11:04 AM	Freitag, Mai 30, 2003
I suddenly awake. I've been transformed into a gigantic pizza. At this moment in a cafe in Italy a forty-year-old divorcee checks out the waiter's ass as he pours ice water into a priest's glass. It overflows a bit because the waiter is not paying attention. He is listening to the priest's cell phone conversation about the evils of abortion. The waiter remembers when last week he sat in the waiting room while some cold thing dragged its claws through his girlfriend's field looking for something small and hidden. "Tenderloin" the divorcee thinks to herself. She feels a familiar fluttering, a young bird perching inside her pelvis cage flaps its wings. A bluebottle fly lands on her half eaten cheesecake. The fly's feet stick deliciously in the cake. It lowers its siphon mouth and vacuums up the sugary goo. This morning it deposited ten thousand young in the body of a dead alley cat rotting under the porch of the brothel down the street. A drunk slept near the cat. I'm taken out of the oven cut into wedges by a bright wheel and sold by the slice. posted by James @ 9:19 AM	Dienstag, Mai 06, 2003
Beltane, May 1, Twenty-nine years old. I can't stand to look at the word thirty. The h's spear and y's trident catch in my throat, wound my eyes. I've been listening to Cohen, Cave, Pop, and Bowie all day. I doubt I'll see sixty. That makes me middle aged. I have the right to be wistful. Remember when every monday we looked forward to friday? When we would purposely delay the process of getting ready to go out so that the anticipation could linger like those moments when you tilt your head from the left to the right between kisses when your breath is hot and your lips aflame. Then the process would begin. Remember that? You picked out the right music, began from top to bottom interrupted by calls confirming and hopeful. And the swell, the night air, the speed, the wind, the music you scream along with. The moon high above in a cloudless night. And then after you pay your way someone pulls back the veil and the night bursts into blossoms. Iggy Pop stands on the dresser and screams "here comes johnny yen again!" It’s time for me to take my shower. posted by James @ 4:19 PM	Donnerstag, Mai 01, 2003
Last week a girl was hospitalized because she overdosed on vicodin. Her History teacher is under investigation for selling them to her. An English teacher stoped a student in the hall because she skipped her first period class. The student broke down "last night my baby stopped breathing. I called 911 but the abulance won't come into our neighborhood without the police. I could see the ambulance waiting so I had to run a mile to get my baby to them. We just got out of the emergency room." A freshman girl won't show her hands. Last night her mother, a crack addict, covered herself with rubbing alchohol and lit herself on fire. The fourteen-year-old girl's hands are blistered from trying to put her mother out. An Economics teacher is fired. He was caught having sex with a fifteen-year-old girl on his desk. Last month the gym teacher was fired. For the past six months he had been getting the special-ed boys drunk and sodomizing them. Welcome to Wheatly High School, 5th ward, HISD. posted by James @ 12:19 PM	Dienstag, April 29, 2003
After buying work shirts at a Thrift Store in the Heights we stop at The Spaghetti Western for dinner. Its more of a bar than a restaurant, at least that's how it seems at four pm, which is maybe how all restaurants are at 4. I've never been here before but she had. "Don't get the Italian nachos they're really weird." Weird good, or weird bad? "Just weird." I decide that corn chips covered in marinara, peppers, and melted mozzarella are definitely weird bad. So whatcha havin? "Chicken and Shrimp Pasta." You can't have that. "Why not?" That's what I'm having. "So?" I fail to impress on her how strange, creepy, and uncreative it is when people all order the same thing. It makes you all look like you're scared to try anything new and that you're about as adventurous as a lump of mud. While we're waiting on the waitress I go up to check out the jukebox (which I am sure is part of what is adding to the "bar" feel). The jukebox is actually pretty good, Peter Murphy, The Cure, and Travis Tritt are all living like happy neighbors in the jukebox apartment complex, I would guess though that a few neighbors (The Clash) can get rowdy and others (Tracy Chapman) let their garbage pile up outside their door for days until it begins to harbor a flock of pigeons that take roost above Robert Smith's car, but he's really to shy to complain to her about it, so it just gets worse. An old man staggers by being followed by a large border collie (more of that "bar" feel). I hear her. "Two Chicken and Shrimp Pastas." I want to run over their and change my order but I've become mesmerized by a giant glossy poster of a nameless cowboy ducking behind an overturned wooden water barrel. Bullets nick the top of the barrel throwing fistfuls of splinters into the air forever. The cowboy's face is hidden behind the brim of his large hat. Do cowboy's pray? They always say "Say yer prayers varmint" But that's always the bad cowboy (cattle rustler, Indian sympathizer, Methodist) who's always killed by the good cowboy. If I was a cowboy I would pray and I don't even believe in God. I would pray "God, a little help over here" or "Hey, ya busy?" Something casual and cool, I am after all a cowboy. "Anything good?" She's walked over to stand beside me, and as if my psychic powers scream through her mind she sees an alternate menu on a chalkboard. "Hey that's what I want." What? "Blackened Chicken Alfredo" Well, go change your order its only been a sec. I go back to my table as she hunts down our waitress who's shift is ending. I watch our new waitress I'm not sure if its because its obvious she's not wearing a bra, which makes me remember every time I've seen someone close to me without a bra on, or some other reason. Later our new waitress brings back our food and exclaims: "Oh my God!! Is that you?" She's not talking to me, so I turn to her. "Yeah, so how have you been doing" And so on and so on and so on. I'm more concerned with getting enough pepper on my pasta. When the waitress leaves I'm told that I've met her before and I vaguely remember buying drugs at three am over two years ago. As we chew she adds: "You remember me telling you about those pictures that we're taken of me?" My mind flashes to an image of her nude, blindfolded and gagged tied spread eagle on a bed while people pour hot wax on her. It later evolves. Yeah that was you and Kim and some Louis right? "No, not Louis, Dwane" Oh. "And her." Her? The waitress? "Mm-hmm." Suddenly my penne pasta rolling in a creamy butter sauce looks obscene. Above the table a framed picture of The Duke in chaps smiles down approvingly. posted by James @ 6:42 PM	Montag, April 14, 2003
I haven't posted in a long time so I feel I should. My life has been constricted as of late and either I'm succumbing or its finally letting up. I do want to say that one of the best feelings in the world is working a long day, writing for hours, drinking great coffee then meeting your best friend for drinks and sleeping well. I am not used to having any money. I'm not sure I like it. posted by James @ 9:51 AM	Donnerstag, April 10, 2003
I have been watching you. Watching and wondering about what an obtuse angle the light must fall from your keyhole at night, and what if it fell on me? Would we share the secret language of twins or would knowing looks be our bond? You might pretend that you did not know that I lay outside your door; that I shared in the vigilance of streetlamps and gutters. But, then we would meet in a winter cafe. Stamping to keep warm I stand in front of you. You take my hand it's tributaries quiver like nervous birds deliciously nothing is better understood although it is undertaken. and then, and then tomorrow would not come until I lay in your bed Awakening we would be strangers for I had broken my vigil outside your door under the light of your keyhole posted by James @ 10:33 AM	Dienstag, März 11, 2003
Have you ever watched a movie while it was paused? You're really into the story but someone else had to go to the bathroom / kitchen / take a phone call so you wait. You watch picture shake above the three lines of static and you wonder what's gonna happen next. That's exactly how I feel. posted by James @ 10:57 AM	Dienstag, März 04, 2003
You always knew you were going to die. The thought of death doen't bother you. You expected more, something dramatic like a gunshot or accident. A long illness surronded by friends and family. A final good bye. A last gasp. You don't have any food or water. All you can see is dark water. The moon's lamp is dull behind the clouds. You know the morning will bring a pitiless sun and you will die. You try and remember how you got here. You shuffle and sort the fragments of memory. Its pointless. How you got here is not important. You know you're never going to leave. All of your pleasant memories groan under the weight of a certain doom. You try praying even though you don't believe in God. You go through your pockets again. You wonder if you should drown yourself. You put your hand in the water, the cool black water. posted by James @ 8:38 AM	Donnerstag, Februar 27, 2003
I went to the movie. The magic voice of Oz told me to "prepare for the pre-show entertainment". I'm not sure I can handle this. Entertainment before the movie? Is this going to be like a half-time show? Will there be cheerleaders? Monkeys? Bono? And really, am I that starved for entertainment that I need to be entertained just moments before a movie? What happened to good ol' boredom? Or those pre-show conversations that hushed when the lights went low? "So have you talked to Tim lately?" or "I think that girl was in my Modal Logic class." What if I can't handle this entertainment overload? Could I go into shock? A coma? Then I watched ten minutes of commercials. Commercials. Since when have commercials been dubbed "entertainment"? I never recall saying to anyone, "the movie was fine, but not that good. It needed a commercial or two to jazz it up." I can accept that I will hear ads on the radio, see them on TV, pass them on the freeway. But at the ATM? The gas pump? The movies? You know what I learned at the movies? Tom Hanks is a good actor. Catch Me if You Can while an amazing life story is highly overrated as a movie. That Nissan makes these things called "cars" which you can "drive" and if you're a professional driver you can even "drive really fast". However this is only allowed on something called a "closed course" somewhere in a place called "Prague". Oh yeah and never get a hotdog with catsup on it at the movies because your date will be saved from a humiliating explosion of catsup from some guy in a bellhop uniform. They'll go home and have lots of hot sex while you cry and smoke in the parking lot contemplating suicide. posted by James @ 8:08 AM	Dienstag, Februar 11, 2003
A lot of times when I'm washing my face in the shower I hear things. It sounds like someone’s walking around in my apartment. I do my best not to be a dumbass and shout out "Hello?" But what if there is someone there? What if they are a nice burglar who doesn't want to kill anyone and thought the place was empty. I can't open my eyes to see; I have soap all over my face. "Hello?" My voice cracks like when I was eleven. What if its a homicidal maniac who psychically knows when people are washing their faces in the shower? I mean that would suck. You would have no traction, no weapon, you would just flail around in the tub like a retarded bloated fish. But the worst part is when you open your eyes, to take a last look on the world, you would get soap in them and it would burn. Man would that suck. posted by James @ 10:11 AM	Montag, Februar 10, 2003
“Take these to the general outside Atlanta”. The rider lifts the stack of sealed letters off the kitchen table, salutes and runs out the door. He grabs the reins of his horse and swings into the worn saddle. Today, he would be considered a boy. But at nineteen he has seen the battlefields of Bull Run and Shiloh, been shot twice and killed four men. Home is a farm in Missouri, and the arms of Ann. The war is almost over, but the duty of a dispatch rider is never easy: avoiding enemy pickets and patrols, riding all night and into the morning, navigating foreign territory; all of these conspire against and lead many men into the arms of death. Outside Atlanta he asks a patrol for the location of the general's command post. He ties his horse to a post outside the two-story wood frame house. His boots smack on the floor. The general sits behind a table in the front room. The room is full of couriers, aide de camps, and officers. He waits, then hands the general the messages. He stands at attention to receive any responses the general might have for him. The general takes the messages and pats the air between them, "there, there, boy. I'm sure its been a hard ride. Take a seat." He motions to a spindly wooden chair standing in front of his desk. He sits and watches the general read. The general reads through the messages quickly, scrawling at the bottom of them. He waves over a waiting courier standing against the wall. One by one, "Take this to Cornel Macintosh. Take this to Captain Jude." The general stops at one of the messages sealed in an envelope. "Who's Ann?" He jerks awake in his chair, "what?" "Does anyone know who Ann is? Corporal find out is there is a nurse Ann attached to the surgeon. One of her letters has gotten misdirected to my command." A spindly boy with a shock of red hair runs out the door. "Wait. I know an Ann. She's my wife." The corporal waits in the door. The general lifts a bottle and pours two shots of whiskey into coffee cups, handing one to him. The general stands, hands the letter to him, and lifts his glass. His eyes flash across the page. "Congratulations, you're the father of a healthy boy and the husband of a well wife." He looks up at the general. "May you make it safely home to them when this is all finished." I have the strangest dreams. posted by James @ 7:47 AM	Donnerstag, Februar 06, 2003
I have never actually met a Simon. I had a cat named Simon when I was a child and I have always loved the name. In one of the best stories I've ever written the main character's name is Simon. So imagine my surprise when I found a real Simon. Look at his website, send him presents; make him a sandwich the way he likes it. Here is the e-mail I sent him: I've been collecting various Simons from around the world, and you are the first flightless southern variety I've seen outside of a field guide or a museum. I would really like to add you to my rather impressive collection of Simons by linking you on my website, http://mereanarchy.blogspot.com/. You see because I am an individual Simonist, I lack the funding of a government sponsored program. In other words, I can't afford to flay the skin from your body, tan it, and reattach it to a Simon simulating robot, the preferred method of Simon preservation. Oh yeah, you have a good website and awesome art, but that has nothing to do with it. ~James posted by James @ 11:28 AM	Mittwoch, Februar 05, 2003
How to play monkey ball. Gather all of the pool balls together. Drop them from an acceptable height. Once the balls are scattered you try and sink them by using the cue ball to "hit" causing the force of the cue ball to be transferred to the target ball thus ensuing its movement. If you sink a solid, you have to sink a stripe next. If you sink two balls in a row you must lap the table doing your best monkey walk with requisite sounds. Failure in sinking your second ball in an attempt to avoid the "monkey walk of victory" means you opponent gets to chalk your nose making squeaky sounds, ee-er ee-er is an acceptable "squeaky" sound. If you sink two balls of the same category, i.e. two stripes in a row, you have to put the cue stick up your nose. If you scratch and your first name is James, it doesn't count you may replace the ball. When replacing the ball and your first name is James you may place it anywhere on the table. If you scratch and your first name is not James you have to "Tune in Tokyo" with requisite "beep beep" sounds. Members of the same sex, or attractive members of the opposite sex may turn your breasts like dials while staring at them in confusion calling out, "Tune in Tokyo. Tune in Tokyo." There are ancillary rules that include spanking and lewd behavior that can only be invoked after a requisite amount of alcohol has been consumed. The person who sinks the last ball wins. posted by James @ 11:21 AM
I can't wait for Halloween. posted by James @ 11:45 AM	Dienstag, Februar 04, 2003
Your circuit's dead, there's something wrong posted by James @ 10:59 AM
Some people are confused by my sense of humor. I call those people vegitarians. Last night I heard one of the best jokes ever. Why did the armadillo cross the road? It didn't. I almost wet myself. I had to call people at ten at night just to tell them the joke. posted by James @ 10:49 AM
Have you ever had something break? A computer? A car? And have you looked at it? Taken it apart? Crawled under it? And been just like, "damn what the fucks wrong with you?" All the parts are there. It doesn't look broken. You try it again and sure enough its fucked. So you stand there looking at it, refraining from kicking / throwing / beating it into dust with a sledgehammer. You wish it was a person, a person you don't like very well. So that you could be all like, "bitch don't make me slap you, cuz I will." Have you ever felt that way about yourself? You don't know what's wrong, but you're broken. You go into the bathroom and take off your clothes to see where it is that you might me broken so that you can stick it back together with glue. You find nothing so you look in the mirror and say, "bitch don't make me slap you." I was just wondering. Have you ever had something break? I'm gonna go out and try the James again. I don't need an expensive repair bill, and it takes too long to run the diagnostic. So if he doesn't work this time I'm gonna cannibalize him for parts. posted by James @ 11:40 AM	Montag, Februar 03, 2003
This really pisses me off. I can't believe that I can't believe this. One more twist down the cynic's spiral for me. posted by James @ 10:07 AM	Donnerstag, Januar 30, 2003
Not a bad job today. I was concerned when I took the assignment to teach high school physics considering I have never taken a physics class in my life. I was very relieved when I saw that the lesson plan required me to watch the first hour of "Traffic" five times today. I can push play, I have the credentials and lots of experience. I am the best damn teacher the world has ever seen. If only every job was this hard. posted by James @ 11:15 AM	Mittwoch, Januar 29, 2003
I am always writing. I get strange ideas at times my mind should be focused on something else- working, driving, having a drink. I have a file overflowing with bar napkins, old receipts, and scraps of paper on which I transcribed whatever I wrote on my hand or arm while I was driving or waiting in line at the bank. I found one in the back of a friend's car while unloading groceries. I remember the exact time I wrote it. While she parallel parked her car next to an Austin bar, the lines were running through my head. The first thing I did was write it down on a bar napkin and stuff it in my pocket. How it migrated from my pocket to her back seat is beyond me. I recall nothing lewd about the evening. Today I found it while unloading groceries: steak, cat food, a bottle of wine, honey-roasted peanuts, detergent. Right now she is watching Pop-Up Video. I am always writing. I usually have a pen but no paper. I found a bar napkin with my handwriting on it in the back of her car. It reads: A mind hungry for patterns will find meaning in anything. A mind hungry for meaning will find patterns in anything. A mind hungry for anything will find meaning in patterns. posted by James @ 3:15 PM	Montag, Januar 27, 2003
Does anyone know who won The Stanley Cup last night? posted by James @ 10:06 AM
Wake up at 2am. Alternately watch old tapes and try to sleep for two hours. Smoke Write Shave. Bath. Read "A Simple Heart" Get dressed. Eat a Whopper on the way to work. Smoke half a Camel in the parking lot. Teach middle school P.E. Write during lunch Smoke Teach more P.E. Wait for the parking lot of yellow busses to empty Smoke Eat a Jack-In-The -Box Chicken Sandwich on the way home Smoke Throw the clothes into a hamper Take out the trash Put the clothes in the van Drive Listen to NPR Smoke Buy gas Drive Listen to R.E.M. Smoke Turn off the radio and watch wet farmland Breathe three deep even breaths Listen to NPR Drive Smoke Pull into Houston Drop off Marc Eat steak Drink Shiner Have a conversation with an oboe-playing teacher, a former Arab interrogator, and a woman who wants to start an O.T.O. lodge in The United Arab Emirates Take pictures Smoke Drive Check cell phone for messages Buy rubber Buck-Toothed Bubba teeth Drink wine Smoke Watch Southpark Smoke Drink wine Midnight plus thirty, go to sleep. posted by James @ 12:53 PM	Samstag, Januar 25, 2003
I have no idea what the Delta program is. I walk into the room and turn on the lights. It's a huge computer lab. There are two boas, each thicker than my calf, in a tank. Their laminated nametags read "Killer" and "Psycho". There are sports pictures all over the wall behind me. A Rocket does a lay-up, the camera looks like it was mounted on the backboard. The walls are covered in pictures of musician / performers. Bonnie Rait stands next to Sting next to Jagger next to the Beatles next to Orbioson next to Bowie.The hanging file next to the desk holds blue penned titles like "To Kill a Mokingbird" and "Shane". This classroom doesn't look like an English classroom.There is an article on turtle waxing taped to the white painted cinder block wall. I imagine teams of shirtless men circa Real World / Road Rules dashing down the beach. They work in pairs, one holds the turtle still while the other plunges both hands into a clear, semi-viscous, slippery wax. After the teams have gotten enough turtles together they turn them upside down and play shuffleboad with the waxed reptiles. I stop and read at the article, its really about college basketball. I have no idea what the Delta program is. The bell just rang, they are pouring in. I am about to find out. posted by James @ 9:00 AM	Donnerstag, Januar 23, 2003
I should be doing my laundry. Surfing the web naked is not something I do often. I am just too lazy to get dressed right now. The only thing that could peel my naked ass out of this chair is pan fried rainbow trout, that and fire ants. If there was like a thousand fire ants climbing up my leg, I would be all like, "what the hell do you think you are doing?" posted by James @ 10:10 AM	Dienstag, Januar 21, 2003
It is true that the simple things are the best. When an event has been stripped of all artifice down to a simple liquid grace its enough to make you stop. Watching a woman dress when she doesn't know you are there is one of those things. The slotted light of the afternoon sun through the blinds slides over her body. The fickle gown of light and shadow snakes around her waist, cups the underside of her breast, fills the hollow of her collarbone, blows across the low dunes of her sholders. She bends at the waist and and I know the joy of Actaeon. I hold my breath and listen for my dogs. posted by James @ 3:48 PM	Samstag, Januar 18, 2003
The front page of the Austin American-Statesman: Five teens charged in a taped assult. With their video cameras rolling, five teenages beat, kicked, and laughed at a special education student as he waited at a bus stop. This makes me sad beyond words. There was no motive. The kid was sixteen. Three of his attackers were eighteen. This type of random, purposeless brutality makes me physically ill. I don't understand, and I'm not sure I want to. "Fuck Jesus. Jesus had it easy- one day on the cross, and the weekend in hell. We have to live here." -25th Hour posted by James @ 1:15 PM	Donnerstag, Januar 16, 2003
I have a lot of time so I am going to share this with you. I have a close relationship with my parents, my daughter, and my brothers. We are all very, very different. My current reason for thinking this way is generations. I know that it is simple to say that experiences shape you, but its simple. Its simple and its true, its simply true. I think about the things that shaped my life, those few moments when I stood still and the world moved. The challenger explosion. My younger brother and I wanted to be astronauts. The movies were in love with space. Space was something pure and beautiful. It was the last place that you could explore. There was no poverty, no war, it was immense, and perfect. I wanted to float weightless. I wanted to rocket past the stars, have dinner with aliens, come home a hero, "the papers want to know whose shirt you wear". When the challenger exploded,something happened deep inside me. Space broke. I did not know to be afraid until I saw what I could not believe. We started killing ourselves. I don't know why. The matter is too close to me for me to really understand it. I assumed that my childhood was like my parents was, and like my child's would be. I could not have been more wrong. I know when it happened. I was eleven and I was standing in the hayloft of our barn. I looked out over the summer afternoon, the geese in the pond, my brother leading a calf to pasture, a neighbor raising a cloud of dust with his tractor in the distance, and I wanted to jump. I hurt so bad and I just wanted the hurting to stop. Even though I was very devoted to Catholicism, I knew I wouldn't go to hell. It just didn't seem fair, and God was fair. I didn't jump because it would make my mom sad and because I probably would just end up hurt, then life would go from bad to worse. It really picked up in high school. Lots of perscription overdoes, and wrist slitting. A few hung themselves and died terrible choking deaths, some shot themselves, or parked in the garage. This early twilight killed any hope in me that I would make it out of childhood's forest unhurt, if at all. There is more but I don't want to write about it anymore. posted by James @ 11:41 AM
For college freshmen I had to develop clever leatures and ask discussion oriented questions. The hardest part of the job was prodding and pushing the students to ask their own questions and discover their own answers. Working with first graders is like a circus on speed. Everything must be high action and non-stop energy. If there is any lull in the activity they will spoontaniously get up dance, jump an the tables, take all the coats out of the closet and roll around on them. They always want to hold your hand or hug. If you raise your voice, or they fall down, they cry. They will tell you anything. "Sir I almost had a brother but he's gone." Gone? "My momma went to the doctor last night and he had no heartbeat. So he's gone." Okayb honey lets fold and paste your triangle. Middle school is hell. I remember being here and hating it as a student. The girls are catty, the boys tougher than the most jaded thug. "Mr. he's writing in the book." "No I'm not." There is a brief scuffle between the two boys. The snitch wins and brings it to the front of the class. He has creatively added a dialog bubble to Sam Houston in which he confesses with alarming honesty- "I like to eat and suc dick." The guilty party is standing there at the front with me and the narc. The class is rapt. You spelled suck wrong. While the class roars, I lean in close. If I see you doing that again, I'm sending you to the principal. Go back to your seat, sit down, be quiet and do your work. I am a cop. I watch for contaband notes. I make sure they at least pretend to work. I rule by threat and intimidation. "Sir some one jacked my pen." Are you sure you didn't drop it? A note passes in my clear view. Bring that here? "What?" The note. "I don't have a note." I saw her pass it to you. She brings me the note. "Its in Spanish." I can read Spanish. The class is dead silent. I don't open the note, but I leave it on my desk. I know have some leverage, at least with them. I just threatened another one. The are all lazy, liars, and schemers. I don't have to work as hard as I did for the first graders, but it is more taxing. posted by James @ 10:50 AM
I went to sleep last night at 5pm. I fell asleep during Saving Private Ryan, the scotch was gone and so was I. I woke up at two am, finished a warm 40 of O.E. and finished my story. I began working on another one. At four am, I watched an episode of Sienfeld I have seen two many times (Hey Kramer nice rooster. What's his name? Little Jerry Seinfeld? Does he bounce checks too?) I realized that I can't make myself fall asleep. I wondered if buying beer at four am (assuming it could be done) is more desparate than buying it at 4pm. Up at six, out the door by seven. And now I am subsitute teaching Texas history to a handful of middle school students. posted by James @ 9:10 AM
Seven beers, a bottle of cheap Merlot, half a bottle of Highland Mist, a pack of Camel filters, leftover cheese enchiladas, a razor, fourteen cents, a torn envelope 8:30 am, Sunday. posted by James @ 8:53 AM	Sonntag, Januar 05, 2003
Its that hour, the silence makes you nervous. You rearrange small things, make a pile of safety pins on a bedside table, unravel small clumps of string and lay them out on the floor so they resemble serpents dead from starvation. You realize that someone might read something into these patterns so you systematically disorganize it. If it is systematically disorganized will they be able to detect a pattern and reveal what you would conceal? You add new things to the pattern, pencil nubs, cigarette butts, and a few pieces of soft blue plastic of uncertain origin. This is not enough. You take a sheet of newspaper out of the garbage and tear it up doing your best to make sure that the sizes and shapes are random. If you are doing your best to be random, then it is highly unlikely that you are successful. Pad around the room and collect all of the newspaper, it would reveal too much. You can't throw it away they will see it in the garbage and realize that this scene has been set. And who sets a scene that is not desirous of hiding something? But I am hiding nothing, its just that they'll never believe me. They have their own agendas. Eat the shredded newspaper. Congratulate yourself on you cleverness. Remove a second piece of newspaper. Enter a pseudo-Zen state and tear the paper without thinking about the paper (there is no paper, there is no hand, all tearing is illusion). Spend an hour hiding the newspaper scraps- in the Gideon bible (Genesis 12:1), under the unwrapped soap, between the cushion and the chair. Draw the most complex geometric pattern you can on the wall in wax crayon (cerulean blue). Only you know the patterns, only you know the paths that end at doors that open on passageways that lead to vistas. No man can walk the path to which it has not been revealed. Walk over to the bed. Stand above him. Is he still sleeping? posted by James @ 6:59 PM	Freitag, Dezember 20, 2002
You wake up and feel it. You are face down. You can't tell what it is, but its heavy. You try and move your hands but they are restrained at the wrist. Your arms are straight out and you feel them also tied at the elbows. You shove your face into the pillow and arch your back hoping to worm your way up. You get to a half sitting pose when you feel that something is also holding your right ankle. This throws you off center and you spill onto the floor. Your face is in the carpet you are overcome by the odor of stale sweat and cigarette smoke. You know you should eat. You know you should take a shower. You know the longer you wait to try to escape the less likely you are to succeed. A roach scuttles across a dirty shirt. posted by James @ 10:45 PM	Donnerstag, Dezember 19, 2002
Damn monkeys stole all the mayonnaise again. How am I supposed to wash my clothes with no mayonnaise? Don't even get me started on the belt buckle issue. I hope you all are held down by a gargantuan toddler with an overflowing diaper who rubs gravel in your eyes. You fucking pseudo intellectuals make me choke down my vomit that I would love to spray all over you like so much rancid ranch dressing. Where did I leave my belt sander? posted by James @ 8:55 AM	Dienstag, Dezember 17, 2002
You might be a Houston native if: 1. You know all the names for interstate 45 2. You know who Mattress Mac is 3. You can curse in Spanish only you call it 'cuss' 4. All soft drinks are referred to as 'Coke' 5. You have ever driven to Mexico for prescriptions 6. You are still replacing or repairing from a flood 7. You know who has 'slime in the ice machine' 8. You remember when 'The Compaq Center' was 'The Summit' 9. You drive 70mph everywhere, all the time 10. You get nervous whenever you are out of sight of a strip center 11. You once worked for Enron or Compaq 12. You refer to Sugarland, The Woodlands, Spring, Kingwood, Pasadena, Alvin, and Humble as 'Houston' 13. You remember when 'The Westheimer Street Festival' was on Westheimer 14. You know all about 'The Oasis of Love' 15. You bring a coat or a sweater to work in June because of the a.c. 16. You've been to The Texas Livestock Show and Rodeo to see a rock concert 17. You remember when downtown, Montrose, and The Heights were cheap places to live 18. You know a Juan, Jesus, Miguel, Pham, Nguyn, or a Luong 19. You still think Houston has two newspapers 20. You call people north of Amarillo 'Yankees' posted by James @ 9:50 AM	Montag, Dezember 16, 2002
I should be doing something productive. Instead, I am waiting for my clothes in the dryer. That is the problem with public laundry; you are chained to it until it is finished. Each cycle is long enough to be boring but too short to get into a book, a movie, a fight. The only thing that you can accomplish while doing laundry is get drunk. Alas its just now noon, and that is just too early. My dad asked me to drive with him to Idaho this xmas. My parents have discovered that they can get me to do anything by simply asking. If they offer, suggest, or hint its probably not going to happen. On the other hand, if they come out and ask, "I would really like it if, " or "I hate to ask you, but" I have no choice- they are my paternos. I am glad we are able to help each other out. But it would be nice if every once in a while I could summon up the snotty, confrontational, self-centered sixteen year old James and then deny any knowledge of anything having happened after he has gotten me out of this drive. After all how fun does three days in a pick-up hauling a trailer, in the dead of winter, over the continental divide, with your father who will take this as an opportunity to convert you, sound? It will be nice to see my little brothers and their families. It will be nice to get some skiing in. It will be nice to get out of Texas for a while. It will be nice to do laundry in a house. posted by James @ 11:05 AM	Freitag, Dezember 13, 2002
Oh yeah, everything was finally rejected. The grad school apps are in the mail and I am resubmitting all of my poetry and fiction today. I expect Chihuahua covered in bubble wrap anxiety all day today followed by a drunken stupor (some things never change) In six months when no grad school will take me and all of my work has been rejected in favor of Opra's foray into the art of letters I will think about killing myself (shooting myself in the face actually). I will then drink myself stupid (see what did I say) say the meanest things I can think of to my friends and apologize the next day in a really strange convoluted blog kinda way. So look what you have to look forward to. I suppose I should say something about the life of an artist. I should say something about living close to the flame. I should say something about how (insert great piece of literature here) was rejected a million times before it was finally accepted and changed the world. I should say that I wouldn’t want things any other way. I should say all of these things expect for the fact that its all fucking bullshit. I want to shoot myself in the face. Oh yeah, sorry for taking it out on you. posted by James @ 7:46 AM	Donnerstag, Dezember 12, 2002
On the other end of the phone someone whispers. I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; They hang up immediately. You meet a friend for lunch. When you get up to visit the restroom you knock your tea over. The spilt drink spells out the words Would it have been worthwhile You decide maybe some coffee will soothe your nerves. On your way in a man opens the door for a woman who is holding a newspaper over her head to protect it from the rain. She stops in the doorway, cocks her head, her eyes soften. She leans in as if to kiss him on the mouth. You barely hear her, but you do I grow old She smiles and dashes into the puddle-filled parking lot. You order a house coffee. The man at the bar turns and shouts In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo A Mexican pokes his head out of the kitchen There will be time You bury yourself in a book. Its winter so it gets dark much earlier. A man wearing an apron stained by a day's worth of strawberry sauces, espresso, and marinara lights the small glass votive on your table. He sits down and takes both of your hands in his own. I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker. He lays his head in your intertwined hands. You are not sure if he is crying. An older woman turns around to face you from the table in front of you. She exhales a rich, blue cloud, you notice her jewel encrusted hands. I have seen the eternal footman hold my coat and snicker. There is a tug at your leg. You look down and you see a dirty-faced little boy of no more than five years old. And in short, I was afraid The man gets up, the woman turns around, the boy chases a bird. You return to your book. posted by James @ 7:25 AM
When did I swallow a handful of nails? posted by James @ 7:50 AM	Donnerstag, Dezember 05, 2002
I'm working on a secret project. I am sure you don't care. Which means everything is going according to plan. They have created such an atmosphere of ennui and apathy that it is near impossible for you to summon the critical mass of blood pressure to ignite locomotion. This works well for me. It provides me with the opportunity to work in silence and darkness until the project reaches it undeniable potential and unleashes itself on your paradigm. I am serious. posted by James @ 6:55 AM
I don't exist. I don't exist. When you don't sleep the anchor line frays. I don't exist. posted by James @ 6:45 AM
Eye luv Eer-lan. We huv bears un poobs fuhl uf main drainkin. Moost paypool whud call em droonks. We call em pooets un righters. If yer expactin a kik in da bahls un ya git a slap un tha face thats a victery posted by James @ 11:05 PM	Freitag, November 15, 2002
All celings are essentially the same, the way highways or mountain ranges are. There are variations drawn from a short list of expected possibilities. Peaks, valleys, riverbeds- inverted plaster miniatures- morning’s light judges their contrasts out of night's unknowable equality. When I was a child we moved every year. I would lie awake at night, in a bunk bed, on the floor, in the back of a moving car and look at the stars, the bed above me, the plaster landscape, and try to imagine the foreign lines of this new state we were passing through. I could lift their rough parameters from maps painted on playground asphalt, 50 piece wooden jigsaw puzzles, from veined roadmaps spread on the hood of a car with a blown radiator. Like colonial Africa I knew where it ended and where it began, but knew nothing of the interior. At four in the morning every city is the same. There are variations drawn from a short list of expected possibilities. Imagination is a curse. Every time there was a change I imagined it would be cataclysmic. Small towns in Oklahoma full of child molesting vampires. A city in Louisiana were people had a knot of squid tentacles instead of hands. A cave in New Mexico that led to the doors of purgatory. A lake in Michigan that is perpetually frozen because a young boy drowned his younger sister in it fifty years ago for telling their parents what he did at night. They say that the screeching of your skates is her screams. Every time I leave the safety of the familiar I am terrified. Every time the unknown becomes commonplace I am disappointed. posted by James @ 2:03 PM	Donnerstag, November 14, 2002
Rilke writes in his Letters to a Young Poet, "search out the reason that bids you write... lie awake on silent night and ask yourself must I write?" I was driving through flooded farmland. The rain stopped yesterday, but the roads still lifted wet music to each passing car. I was close enough to Houston to pick up Rice radio. I caught a song off of the Donnie Darko soundtrack. The refrain is: "I find it kinda funny I find it kind of sad the dreams in which I'm dying are the best I ever had." Neglected or molested children will develop strong attachments to their abusive parents. Psychologists propose that this maladaptive behavior is because the child is looking for a close and stable bond and when the caregiver neglects to provide this bond for the child, the child then works that much harder to create that bond, even if it is only within themselves. Have you seen the picture where the abusive father hangs his head? The cop looks straight ahead; you can tell by his blank eyes and clenched jaw he just wants to get this over with. The seven-year-old girl who still wears the cast clings to her father's leg. She has shaped her mouth into the familiar vase of 'daddy' despite the fact that he has beat and burned her every day of her life. The thought bubble above the cop shows himself, only younger, and crying. The thought bubble above the little girl is a short film, its only a few frames long. It shows her father smiling; from the angle of the shot you are unsure if he is smiling at the TV or his daughter. The thought bubble above the man has red drippy letters that spell out 'fucking bitches'. I began with a certain set of dreams, with an ideal world. As I have grown I have seen the real world. I have seen a gulf grow between the real and ideal. It has become harder and harder to reconcile the two. I am sure most people feel this to some degree. I am not able to reconcile the two, nor can I stop trying with every breath. Imagine: a birthday spent in a soup kitchen. Ideal - Real Will you accept the real? Or do you begin to fantasize that this is an elaborate ruse before the best birthday party of the century? The Jesuits talk about the twelve-inch drop. What they mean by this is that it is completely possible for a person to know something in their head without knowing it in their heart. To a certain degree I have known that the real world of my outer senses, my head, is in conflict with the ideal world of my inner sense, my heart, for some time. The more I see that the real world is true the more ardently I need for it to not be so. Death is unknown, so it can retain its ideal beauty and mystery all the while being hauntingly real. Death=healing? Life=dying? Blake writes in the Marriage of Heaven and Hell "when the doors of perception have been cleansed, mankind will see things as they truly are- infinite." posted by James @ 11:24 AM	Donnerstag, November 07, 2002
This weekend I saw. I saw a man standing in front of an open violin case. I saw a few wet bills and coins that on the dark velvet interior looked like puddles in a tilled winter field. This weekend I saw a man lean into a violin as if he were dancing with a small child, or perhaps protecting it from a storm. I saw a man in front of the case, before the violin, turn his face into the rain and sway his long coat, heave his feet and drop them. A hop, a jump, a stumble, terribly out of rhythm. I stopped to watch the idiot show. When I realized that the dancer was blind who could console me? posted by James @ 3:05 AM	Dienstag, November 05, 2002
GRE = Herr von uber headachin Grad school applications = mucho paper worko Iron Horse = rejectski Chicago Review = ? I apologize One of the only benefits at work is the near daily chance to use my Tarzan German. Ist das alles? Sprechen sie deutsch? Ya. Sie deutcher? Nine, meine Grosseltern kommt aus Bayern. Ya, Ich komme aus Munchen (oder Sweiss) Ausgeziet Wie gehts? Gut, gut. Mude. Eine hanebrust. Wie veile? Ach, zwei Zwei hanebrust. Danke. Bitte, guten appetiet. Aufwiedersehen Tschus. I am sure they are only suffering me, but I do appreciate the break in the monotony and the chance to prove to my dumbfounded coworkers that I am capable of doing more than I am doing now - that this job truly is a means to an ends. posted by James @ 7:25 PM	Freitag, November 01, 2002
I don't know if blogger accounts expire. This post is to ensure that this one doesn't. Oh yeah, its also a reminder to myself that I should post when ever I find spare time between my couch cushions. posted by James @ 11:24 PM	Freitag, Oktober 04, 2002
Not much to say. I am able to use a computer at work on occasion (once every few weeks) so posting will be sporatic at best. Instead of anything creative I figured that I would just give an update. I have a tiny flat in central Austin about two miles from work and essentially on campus. Its nice but small. I am working in Whole Foods, its not bad and it will be able to pay the bills. My diploma was in the mail last night. All of my poems with the exception of those submitted to Iron Horse have been rejected. However, Found is still out there so I am getting hopeful. I hope that all of you peeps are doing awesome and that life is being triumphant and you feel invincible. posted by James @ 5:11 PM	Mittwoch, September 25, 2002
Not much to say. I'm fucking exhausted from looking for work all week, but I should know something tomorrow. Wish me luck. Ever wonder what to do in Austin on Tuesday afternoon? Why not join a legion of undead. The living dead invaded Blockbuster Video at Congress and Oltorf on Tuesday, Aug. 27, in a determined but vain attempt to check out Scary Movie on DVD. Bloodstained, groaning, and wearing Cinematexas T-shirts, the undead seemed confused by the membership application process. Store clerks were unresponsive to the zombies' nonverbal efforts to do business, and the 30-odd walking corpses eventually left peacefully, moaning "Due back Sunday" on the way out. The prank was motivated by a love for mutant cinema, a need for publicity, and an insatiable urge to feast on human flesh. "Blockbuster is just an image bank for Hollywood", alleges zombie Steve Ausbury. "They create consumer zombies who just sort of buy whatever's available. And we're using guerilla theater to show people there are other options". posted by James @ 6:23 PM	Sonntag, September 15, 2002
Houston, I'm leaving you. I know we've had some good times. But, let's face it- those times are gone. Don't get me wrong; I'll always remember you fondly. The fact is, I've found someone else, and she means a lot to me. I'm moving to Austin this week. I'll be in UT's MFA program a year from now. Wish me luck. My tuition and fees will be waived and I will receive an 18k a year fellowship on top of everything. Translated this means for a year I will work my ass off in retail / food service hell. Afterwards, for the following three years I will be paid to write. I wish I could show you the different things I am doing, the innovations I have found. The world is changing and I am at the heart of the storm. posted by James @ 9:06 PM	Samstag, September 07, 2002
Spooky eyes? Is that you? Does this make sense? Will it later? Does it matter? Do you care? Will you? If so, will I? Is this a beginning? A sequel? Do you follow? Am I leading? Am I being led? Do I want to know? Do you care? Are you listening? Do I need to talk louder? Should I just shut up? Are you tired? Have you missed me? Is there a future? Was there a past? Do you want to start over? Is it possible? Why won't you look at me? Do you have anything to say? Is there anything I can do? How have you been? Can I see you again? posted by James @ 4:41 PM	Donnerstag, September 05, 2002
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
days go by and still Summaries never do the original any service. I think of My transcript, all four pages. you This video is gorgeous Four pages full of academic code: Eng 4526 A-, is supposed to testify to my talents, abilities, accomplishments, and experience. with out you Nothing about the nights in jail, kisses at midnight, oak latticed moonlight on tombstones feel it with your fingertips No mention of how your cheek stung for a week when she slapped you and told you to get out, the thanksgiving you spent sneaking into movies from 1pm till midnight. Reading poetry at Diverse Works is nowhere on it. Neither are all the friends lost. There is no mention of Christian’s self-inflected gunshot to his head, Phil 3355 B. days go by I look for Emma. There are poetry classes listed, but no poems. yeah its so true An entire page is TASP scores. 5- five relationships, five disappointments, five regrets, five apologies, five explanations, five excuses, five people who you once loved so much that the only home you ever wanted was in their skin, five people who the scent of still... your lips Nothing about the clinic, or the psychiatrist. how the things you once took for granted Bio 2218 C, there is no record of when we made love in the shower on New Year's, when we spread our blanket under the sighing Azalea’s, when we pulled over on the way to New Orleans, when I slammed on the horn accidentally and it echoed throughout the nearly abandoned parking garage - nothing. days go by and still I think What should I say to an interviewer? I did well in school. Yes, 3.1. What does it mean? Should I say, I don't think that human achievement, much less the culmanitive life experiences of an individual, can be quantifiably expressed. of you You want to know about me, I'm sensitive and moody. I've been known to bend my elbow while an adult beverage was in my hand. Art is more important than money. Hell, if I feel inspired I won't show up- and no- I won't call. If I'm not inspired I'll mope for weeks. You want to know if I'm a team player, if I'll get behind the drive to institute new policies to reflect the shift in our corporate paradigm, if I'll de-prioritize my action item list to reflect a more proactive approach to current market trends. when they are gone You want to know if I'm your man. You want to know what I can bring to the table. without you Fuck you. you realize how much you had, and how much you sacrificed for what in a few years is insignificant without you posted by James @ 2:24 PM	Freitag, August 23, 2002
It is the beginning of the submission season. One story and fifteen poems will leave home and try to find their way in the world. I hope that some of them survive. We have spent a lot of time together lately. Pieces I haven't spoken to in months have kept me awake at night with worry. I have gone over every line, weighed every word, considered every letter. I never realize how alone I am until I really work. Working reminds me that I am only half alive. I evesdrop and spy on the living that spin around me. I am a recorder of the sound of other people's laughter, a photographer of stranger's wrinkled eyes and the corners of their mouths. Alone I assemble collages of memory and like an old fortune teller, try and discern some meaning. I have always hoped that I would someday find something inside of me- something eternally gentle and unfading that I could collect and capture. This somehow would make the tread of time's starving feet less heavy on me, and maybe you- whomever you are, we have not met yet. Wish me luck. posted by James @ 9:29 PM	Mittwoch, August 21, 2002
Poetry is being epileptic. The swell and flow of morning fades between noon's unmoving leaves It stutters and slurs like a Ouija, A neat wedge of wet wood tumbles like a head from the block The trees keep time to the axe's bright clock and shudder under the weight of relentless tick-tock or a drunken proclamation. Death to survive Most of it has a slumbering potence. And there I was standing on the lonely lane looking for a way back home again I try and revise, revive, these monstrous children. I suture a dangling foot. I break a malformed spine and set it in a body brace of rebar and nylon rope. Like a novice god, I butcher and revive my whimpering creations- throwing one to the gasping floor- lashing another to the table. If anything escapes it will be terrible. posted by James @ 2:15 PM	Freitag, August 09, 2002
This is where I say something clever. This is where I say something smart. This is where I say something insightful. This is where I say something that bridges the gap between you and you and you and me. This is where I say something that matters. This is where I say something resonant. This is where I say something that justifies my existence. This is where I say something that forgives. This is where I say something that transcends. This is where I say something that makes everyone forgive me. This is where I say something that makes us no different. This is where I say something that sets the world on fire. This is where I say something that heals all wounds. This is where I say something that explains it all perfectly. This is where I say something that captures the night sky in my fist. This is where I say something. posted by James @ 11:26 AM	Donnerstag, August 08, 2002
It has been a while since I have been here. I have thought about it a few times. It is like a song. If the first time you hear a song it is with someone, someone close to you, you don't always hear the words. Instead, you experience them, the webwork of veins on the back of their hands, their hair found on your clothes days later, a nervous warmth left on your lips, the marble weight of their body in your arms while you watch TV. There are some songs whose ether is so subtle, and there are some people whose flesh is so permeable that they are forever commingled. However, there are those other songs that after some time you can actually hear the words for the first time. I appreciate those songs most of all, they can carry the weight of life without groaning under its weight. posted by James @ 11:07 AM
I have been doing my best with some success to get up at 5:30 to write. If I am going to do this, no sense in fucking around. I have also decided that I am going to read the entire western tradition of poetry, I am still on the Greek lyrics. If you have not read Sappho or Pindar- you should. When I heard about the old great saints of literature what I reveled in was the power of, what a cabbalist would call their nephesh, their animal power. These were hard living, hard drinking, hard loving men with a plethora of mental and emotional illnesses. Being young and naive, I thought that this is what a writer was. I thought that if you lived like a writer, you would write, if you lived like a great writer... well you see. I thought I would find this generation's Prufrock floating oddly at the bottom of a gin and tonic. Maybe a new Second Coming would emerge from the smoke of a thousand cigarettes; maybe I would vomit a 21st century Marriage of Heaven and Hell? I don't think that is the case. I think these were men (and a woman or two) who worked hard, who worked themselves to the point of emotional and intellectual starvation. They strip mined their personality and perceptions until all that was left was a glowering skull with a fading hell-fire flashing under thin eye-lids. Then and only then, after having inhaled deeply of their own mortal fumes, after having eaten their own body and blood, only after having the smoke of their own cremation sting their eyes, did they go out and eat from the tree of life. May the queer blood gods of night sacred to writers smile on me. posted by James @ 7:51 AM	Freitag, Juli 26, 2002
I'm not going to lie. It hasn't been easy. When I went for five days without talking to anyone, I assumed that as long as I kept up with the old inhale-exhale we were doing good. I finally picked up the phone. My mother's voice informed me, your dad has been in the hospital. I'm not going to lie, I don't know what to say- to say- say. I don't know, I know I don't. I'm not going to lie, I wanted to call you. I am not going to lie, I almost did. What would have happened? Would we have seen each other? Would the distance and stillness of the water between us begin to freeze until we both wondered what violence and hardship would it take to ever get out of there again? Would it be instantly regretted? Or worse, would one of us have reached across the table and votive light touched the other's forearm? Would the tenderness of such a simple action moved through my body like the remembered refrain of a sad song? Could it make anything better? Would it make everything worse? He is out of the hospital. My friends were there for me. He still has a fever and can't work very well. He could go back on Saturday. I know these two elements seem coarse and unrelated, but they are not, their melodies are the same. posted by James @ 7:32 AM
After watching ten minutes of Rambo III. I turned to her, they should make a Rambo IV, Return to Afghanistan: When Burka Buddies Go Bad. posted by James @ 4:41 PM	Samstag, Juli 20, 2002
I have often thought of the ignobility of artillery. You are born on a farm where winter pickpockets your father. In school you run the mile, you win a few times. After dinner Mom makes noise in the sink while she eavesdrops. Across the knife-nicked table, your father twists a checkerboard napkin. Uncle John, who you have not seen in three years, lifts his shirt. Between his fourth and fifth rib there is an angry pink smile, German bayonet. You have never seen it before, but you know what happened- he is sitting at the table. Three days later a drill sergeant calls you a pussy while you spit out sand and blood. You write letters to Mom and Sarah. You shoot, you march, you eat, you cry in the latrine. You walk down a road. Its beautiful country. A river braids through a stand of oaks. Farmhouses hold their breath when your division marches past. Jefferson turns around while marching in front of you, Whad da ya call a Kraut whore on vacation? He says something that sets everyone laughing. You admire the precision of a distant orchard. Its June, the wheat should be knee-high at home. You look up at a weird shrieking. posted by James @ 12:54 PM
if I stare- at the peeling caulk around the air-conditioner, the condensation racing down the window, the wet cigarette butt in the trashcan- long enough fractures will spiderweb my eyes they will crumble onto the floor and I won't have to care anymore. The next resident will vaccum up my eyes with the lint, leaf parts and food. posted by James @ 3:20 PM	Mittwoch, Juli 17, 2002
How it’s done: Drive to wal-mart, wait in the men’s section next to the socks. Get into the Isuzu Trooper, sit in the back seat alone behind the driver. You do this because if it goes sideways the passenger has to turn around, this takes time. If they won’t let you sit in the back alone, walk, throw away their number and warn everyone you know. Don’t let them lock the doors. Don’t wear a seatbelt. Ask them why they aren’t wearing theirs. Ride into a bar parking lot. Here three guys talking in a car at midnight is not suspicious. While the passenger digs in his backpack, stare at the driver in the rearview mirror until he looks away. Feel the .38 in your jacket pocket. Put your electronic scale on your lap, put your cash in your pocket. Weigh the bag. Smell it. Taste it. If it’s light, smells off, or is tasteless, get out. Don’t say anything. They know. If its good, tell them it’s not. If they protest, walk. If they blow you off, re-negotiate price. If it’s $500, hand them $450. While they bitch, watch their hands. Take your money back. Wait in silence. Offer $480. While they bitch, throw the money onto the floorboard. Get out. Go into the bar. Drink a beer. Call your girlfriend to pick you up. Give her the bag. She drives home. You catch a cab to another bar. If you are going to get picked up, and have not been yet, you will be now. Drink until 2am with friends, call your girlfriend. Have a friend drive you to her house. posted by James @ 9:09 PM	Dienstag, Juli 16, 2002
literary theory- these are complex ideas they are the children of children you come with assumptions that transcend history the physical body this is encouraged you come with assumptions that creativity transcends this is a one hundred eighty degree turn lets look at the influences they are the children of children because it's the anti-philosophers who overwhelm in the nineteen seventies and the nineteen eighties the new technology what I'm going to trace is why these are complex ideas posted by James @ 8:12 PM
Today, the IRA apologized for thirty years of violence against civilians -more polite meaningless words. Until Ireland is unified can anyone really expect an end to violence? posted by James @ 5:18 PM
Your daddy died right where that Starbucks is. All the plans include the requirement of restoring 11 million square feet of office space, 600,000 square feet (55,740 square metres) of retail space and 600,000 square feet of space for a hotel. posted by James @ 5:02 PM
I really don’t want to write this paper. I applied ten months ago. I walked at my commencement two months ago. Yesterday, I got a letter. Re: Spring 2002 Graduation. Due to insufficient credit hours in your chosen major, we must deny your application for graduation. If you have any questions concerning this or any of the other petty, arbitrary, ways we’ve fucked up your life, please contact us. We hope that you have enjoyed these years of confusion, red-tape, and struggle at the University of Houston, as much as we have enjoyed the challenge of creating new and infuriating ways to drive our entire student body to suicide. Today, I am writing a paper over a text that is as subtle as a sack of hammers, in a class full of lobotomized lab monkeys. I really don’t want to write this paper. posted by James @ 6:29 PM	Sonntag, Juli 14, 2002
She throws the mail onto the kitchen table, next to the spray of dusty silk roses. She hangs her purse, more of a brown leather sack, over the back of a chair. In the bathroom she pulls her wavy brown hair back into a clip. She scrubs her face, paying particular attention to her nose and forehead. She pats her face dry and notices that she is shaking. She sits on the toilet, three drops of pee splash quietly. She wipes her dry crotch, and inspects the paper. A little blood. She pulls her sweatpants up. She measures two cups of water, and pours them into a shallow pot. She hits a spoon on the pot’s chipped edge until the margarine splashes. She twists the stovetop knob to five. She takes the ground beef out of the fridge. She takes a cookie sheet from a near empty cabinet. She breaks off a handful of cold beef. She rolls it into a ball. Then flattens it between her palms. Repeat. She washes the little bit of blood from her hands. The cookie sheet clangs in the 350-degree oven. The front door closes gently. His familiar footsteps approach the kitchen. She stands looking at the quivering water. “How did it go today?” She braces herself on the oven. In her mind’s eye he is leaning against the opposite counter looking at her. Fine. The margarine curls into yellow cloud in the shaking water. “Yeah”. He nods slowly, and crosses the kitchen towards her. He embraces her softly from behind; his fingers twine themselves over her stomach. She pushes his hands away, twisting her chin to her left shoulder and closing her eyes. She listens to his footsteps cross the linoleum onto the carpet of the front room. Next, on the CBS evening news… posted by James @ 6:17 PM
unop unop unop unop ened ened ened ened enve enve enve enve lope lope lope lope posted by James @ 12:21 PM	Samstag, Juli 13, 2002
You go to college, graduate. You enroll in law school, rent an efficiency. You study, and eat food from cans and bags. You graduate, never take the bar. You enroll in a PhD program, the ownership of your efficiency has changed hands three times now. You eat frozen food, an unidentified red sauce stains the corner of your thesis. You never turn it in. You get blind drunk on your birthday. The bartender lets you sleep in the back room. He drives you home at four am. You teach English at a community college. You drink instant coffee. Your bed is a table, your couch a bed, you wash your clothes in the sink. You take vitamins between bites of a ham sandwich. You walk out in the middle of a lecture. You order a porterhouse and a bottle of wine. You proofread legal briefs. You slide your rent envelope under a door. The leftover steak molds in the middle as the ends dry and curl up. You think about going back to college, finishing your thesis, taking the bar. posted by James @ 5:50 PM	Freitag, Juli 12, 2002
TI99-4A, a keyboard that you connected to your TV. IF THEN GO TO PRINT To save a program you smushed PLAY/RECORD on the cassette deck, the special data cables cost $5 at Radio Shack. We lived in a house, next to a pond, beside a barn. We raised calves: Bubba, (who was later saddle broken), Big Mac, and Whopper. We were broken by horses, bitten by ponies, and chased by geese. Summers doors were locked, house doors- to keep us outside, room doors- to keep us inside. We camped, fished, swam, and murdered everything we could with pellet guns. I was insanely jealous of my younger brother. He was funny when I was mean. He was cool when I was a geek. He had friends when I had broken lips. TI99-4A, a keyboard that connected to your TV IF THEN GO TO PRINT Dad worked at home, skip tracing is what it's called. Hours on the phone, yellow legal pads confused by digits and doodles: giant un-blinking eyes, a tree, a bottle. An ashtray that was constantly vomiting Marlboros and Dorals. And a voice, sing-song-southern, that only knew "good 'ol boys". When we bought the computer, I expected a robot friend with an electronic voice. When it was a keyboard that you attached to your TV and a manual full of IF THEN, GO TO, PRINT; I went swimming. I kept swimming for a week. After showering the mud out of my ears, and the moss from my hair, I saw that my brother and my father had not moved. My dad looked at the keyboard as if it were the face of God, while my brother read spells from its torah. I stood in the doorway, my pajamas clinging to my skeletal form, unnoticed for hours. No. No. Dad, see here it says. A broad hand smoothes a tiny shoulder blade. In the top bunk the tacking of the keys reminds me of someone rattling a locked screen door. In the morning, the computer was still on. I poured a glass of water into the plastic case of the computer until it smoked. The dog was locked outside for a week. posted by James @ 4:37 PM
When I was twelve or so, skinny as the wind, and innocent as a cloud, I wanted to become a monk. I corresponded with a few Trappists, in the days of typewriters. They were patient with my zeal to abandon the world so early. I recall specifically Brother Lawrence from Our Lady of The Holy Trinity, in Ogden, UT. His words held me in his ink stained hands, gently, at arm's length. I never knew why until today. A child, confident in the omnipotence of their parents, will run into a shimmering pool to catch the sun's reflection unaware of the fatal possibilities. I hope that Brother Lawrence is doing well. posted by James @ 4:36 PM
They sit like petals in table-flowers, ashing cigarettes into glass pestles, sipping from amber stamens. How y'all doing tonight, the jersey at the mic wants to know. Can I hear a hell yeah? With Baptist predictability the crowd refrains. A phone rings at the bar, tube-top girl strokes the back of her left hand, 1960's eyeglasses clicks a tape recorder, tape recorder skidders its wheels, pixie cut looks at the ceiling dragging deeply, chair squeaks on the wood floor, door opens, car splashes. Our first reader tonight is Jeff-a-sohn, so y'all give it up. The best couplet was You chewed up my soul like gum. You mother-fucking bastard, I swallowed your cum. posted by James @ 4:36 PM
Who would call a miscarriage- that red earthquake- a son (if one did, what pity). posted by James @ 4:35 PM