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

It's like something straight from that one Damien Rice song...you know, she's too young to treat.

Reality ruins a lot of things. Or, you know, realizing that your expectations were totally wrong. But you know, when you glorify the object and suddenly realize, "My god, it sucks!" ... you kill the entire uncertainty, worry of worthiness. The idea itself turns into a bird that gets suck into a passing airplane turbine.

Procrastination Station

I think I want to get my feet wet with some vegan action this winter. I also want to get my shoulder operated on so I can actually begin weight training. You know, after recovery and stuff.

Are You There?

Not feeling creative, sure, confident, hopeful, etc. I am ready for hibernation, why isn't everyone else? The winter months should be spent as soft and frozen as everything else.

I'm about to start posting old pictures that I have saved on my computer. Seriously, I'm so excited to get a camera again.

Things I am also excited for:

*Two poetry workshops next quarter
*Financial aid refund at the end of the month.
*Winter to be over
*Saving money
*Accomplishing stuff
*Keeping level

Suddenly, the flowers understood their construction

As the Russian man said to me in outrage, "I have no words for this."

Free sushi is a plus, but I can't help but think of his veins turning into silt.
Someone else keeps an unimpressed languageface under her fingerprints, white space marriage band handing us to different rivers delivering us to our respected cities. Every conversation begins and ends in unison, stressed vowels, then silence. Weak voices articulating consonant embrace, then silence. A look of pity, well of music and we've finished the act, lets go home.

--

Told myself I wasn't going to write on this here blog, but I am. I think it's the only proper way to express my daily thoughts. I don't know if I want any of this to be included in any sort of "body of work," but who knows. We'll take it one day at a time.

Empowerment is legitmately not wanting to taste a beer for the night.
Dismantling the old wrecks, confronting fists and saying their name outloud.
The mediated systems enact their means but I still feel love and guilt,
touch them with my fingers, cut their fat and body. I still believe in blood.

Am I moving or is motion a worldly disruption?
The language passes out, wakes up, passes out again
so I resist the urge to rub my hand over its thigh and say goodnight.

Goodnight.

It's a real mess. I should be studying more, but I'll get around to it (yup). Finishing my presentation, feel confident and that is a result of a solid 45 minutes of concentration. I'm over-confident, now.

I'll get some drinks and then later studying muscles.
Tomorrow will be a real study-day.
Thursday will be an at-work cram session.
This weekend is catching-up, and that feels like control.

Bought pants instead of other things. Don't know how the cell phone will get paid, but not like the pants would have made a difference.

Off to trade drugs for drugs

Well, here

Decided to start another blog...to actually blog, I guess.
Won't be posting any writing on this one, just banter about this and that.

What am I to blog about?
Suggestions would be nice.

Maybe I should get a camera. It seems to me that most legit blogs have pictures on them. I'm already thinking about all the different photos I'd post if I had a camera.

My bike
my pets
my books
my face
my friends' faces
places I go
drinks I drink
with foods I food on
etc

It also seems "safer," in a way...at least when you leave a debauchery-est life such as mine. It will keep the subject focused on simple, nice things as opposed to textual ruminations over why I thought it was a good idea to take strange pills given to me by a friend while I was drunk other night.

Oh wait, I have an answer: probably because I was drunk.

DIY snake terrariums
hippie zombie kill party
The original Dawn of the Dead is far superior to the remake, as I discovered.
Streetlamps or sirens.
Recovery




--