Why am I not sleeping?

Townes Van Zandt may be partially responsible. The live recordings are taking over my life, currently.

Also see:

*jittery over all the bike stuff happening in the next week (let's inspect this a little closer):

1. Redline Conquest Pro shall arrive
2. Carbon fiber fork fer de C'dale + new tires 
3. Messenger bag in the morning (aka a few hours)
4. Doing bike stuff and getting drunk on Sunday

Need I say more? Nah. 

Actually, yah. 

I need more books. Haven't read in a while and this upsets me. Plan to start writing here soon, kind of fell off the horse with the recent quarter. Starting into a new one is going to be very refreshing - finally! I'm through being drowned in terrible/uninteresting poetry by people who don't give a shit about it. 

Its time for bed. 

Night. 

Just exercising

The predated undertaking permitted; this space is a collection of sleight of hand basking in its motion (forgetting itself constantly; constantly reborn) nodding to sleep and now lateral on the couch then hardwood now with its hand on my chest in bed. I take some of the air like a participate in a game show: w/ large face scanning who-knows-where, the breasts all staring the men/are unshaven this year. Sick, or just underfed - this is my determining factor: everything small is unknown. When my hand sets something down, it does so blindly. The world is a shelf and everything is relatable, all trembling and cold.

I am a terrible blogger. I never know what to write. The humiliating recess recalls me into a silence. Never knowing what to write kind of means I don't know how to write.

Why does it seem like my bloggings are also so ripe with pent-up self-loathing? We'll consider this the keystone to my inability to fill the white expanse w/ communication.

Dare I reveal my daily musings? Wrought w/ self reflection? I think I'd rather not. I dare to be more macro in my bloggings.

The workshops are just becoming a hassle. I was so stoked to be taking two of them, but then I realized that being the only student in a workshop who genuinely gives a shit about poetry in general becomes quite alienating, and more so aggravating. Why bother commenting on ten poems a week by people who don't give a shit about poetry? How is this benefiting me?

I have at least Michael to thank for his insight and general awesome nature to at least make things a little easier.

I can also thank Jennifer Denrow, Joshua Harmon, and Forklift, OH for providing good reading material as of late. As well as TVP & couscous & really boss hot sauce.

Cycling season is upon us, and soon I'll be riding up to Yellow Springs for camping and hopefully getting embarrassingly drunk in the local tavern and using cycling as a way to pick up on cute girls.

OH NO THE INSECTS ARE HUGE IN THIS LOCALITY

Fuck it. I said I wasn't. But now I am. And this is a prompt poem for one of my workshops that I had fun with:

MILK CRATE

Bore down on the chest, rattling star oaring a confession into ore-oiled face masks.

CURTAIN

You are a door.

CUM STAIN

Pre-processed or otherwise incessant collection withering in the alter-air.

40 OUNCE COLT 45

Dayton recalls whatever drug dug into its artery while airy and defeated.

SMALL DOG

Purposing purporting procuring pleonastic procedures pressing poor plums pleasurably not long ago.

SPARK PLUG WIRES

Considered or cornered/coroner crowing the developed world is a lack

THUMB TAC

Literally fucking useless forgoing whatever fucked up procedural analysis homologous to pissing blood in a 

Utah gas station bathroom.

BARE BRANCH

You: This lighting is terrible

Me: Shut up
You: No, seriously. Fuck this lighting
Me: The room is a passive entity enshrined with human experience

You: Maybe I should go

TINGLER RING

Bored circumstance boar into the vaginal canal channeling cumin scented gharials.

HALF EMPTY BOTTLE OF WINE

Daunting donor/Pressed garlic in an eye socket/Shimming breast plate/Pornography in school

It's only four years. It's so much.



***

Why does this
sound
like I'm losing

a lover?

Losing yourself
as a lover,

finding yourself
as a reinvented
lover.

It's just
me.

Oh Hai.

Mid January >>>> Arthroscopic surgery on my shoulder.
Next week >>>>> New car action.
Next month >>>> Workshops =)
This week >>>>> Christmas in Columbus; Amy King arrives in my mailbox as two separate books.
In March >>>>>> Resolution

The degree by which I wane
moves as an astrological sign
stuck in between your ribs,
in my cycle I nestle your heart
with lips pressed into the muscle itself
I then vomit at the smell I pass by in a minivan
in a commercial with electronic signals
cut down to a bare minimum
the I guess so in the crest of my sternum
unwilling to be excised it grows larger
becomes an organ    I give it a parade
for you I cut your fingers off at the hand