I’m eating creamed spinach and reading Penny Goring’s Ebook on nauseateddrive.com and watching WKRP in Cincinnati on TV.
The creamed spinach is the steamer kind, and seemed weird because it had a red translucent tape making it so I couldn’t tear it open, (after I had microwaved it for 6 minutes) and when I cut it open and dumped it on my plate, I didn’t like the mushiness but then after 5 minutes it became good and tasted completely different.
There’s still 5-6 bites.
I also had a salmon burger.
I have $15 in my bank account and that is what I had in my freezer.
“minimalism is a solid erection”
I read in Penny’s poem that is like a list of thoughts and seems French like that Edouard Leve dude where he just busts out sentences as points. marbles. round.
The lustful objective point of the poem which seems to give me anxiety if I look at it too long and can only take a colored phrase and try and understand it, and take in juxtaposition.
“art is big dick disco”
Seems misogynistic I’m quoting the sexual lines of penis references.
“masturbation will always be my favorite hobby.” She writes.
I thought, wouldn’t sex be the better.
she hates IRL. She sees URL as her savior, her Elvis Jesus with a sexy charm and danger and sweetness but not always so sweet.
That’s Elvis. (She lives in London)
His office at Graceland smelt like my grandparents’ garage, the time period leather and plastics.
I fear URL, sometimes.
I want to see a face.
I wonder if young people feel a oneness when using the Internet.
I’ve never felt that.
I’ve always felt part of people but separate and no generational unity as teenager in late 90’s, stoned, skateboarding, got along with loadies but was intellectual and with bookstore friends was too stoner dude and then had no friends because they did harder drugs and I wrote and wrk and stoned and alone until 25 and a decade is forty hour a week blur and a few books and jobs, towns, seems bleaker and more positive, the acceptance of universal suffering but grind of it.
Married With Children is now on antenna TV in my hot ass apartment and 3-4 bites spinach left.
I feel affinity with the poets online though.
Strange and sad people emoting into the void of the Internet that echoes back.
But like the friend who listens to the rambles and problems of a friend, who quickly bypasses what you had to say.
That’s how the Internet makes me feel, like IRL. The beta friend. The witness. The mirror. I guess we’re all just seeing ourselves in others, the beta needing the alpha.
fucked codependent fuck head me.
I don’t like how this got here.
I love these strange peoms online and the peoples’ existentialist yells.
I’m going to have a pineapple upside down cake now.
“your first orgasm baby donkey poetic”
An artist has no need to express his thought directly in his work for the latter to reflect its quality; it has even been said that the highest praise of God consists in the denial of him by the atheist who finds creation so perfect that it can dispense with a creator.
—Marcel Proust “Guermantes Way” pg. 568
Thought Catalog published an essay of mine!
You can buy my Ebook for $2.99! Please do, it’s a great read. It was originally 56,000 words and cut to ~26,000. I iceberged this like a motherfucker! It was released for sale today! The link:
I’ve figured out an OCD editing method. First you must write your drafts and fuck with it till you feel it’s in the form that works best. The longer the work, the more drafts, et cetera. So you are near done, just need the polish. And then you just read it and read it and read it, and fix little things and stress over commas and make each sentence seem purposeful. And do it repetitively, reading 700 words, or even 26,000 words, out loud until they seem perfect. And then submit them because no one has the time to edit other people’s little sentence detail that could make or break a piece. But all tumblr shit I just freestyle.
*Side note I feel self-conscious every time I’ve posted things lately and delete them or make private, and feel I “don’t get the Internet” but enjoy reading people’s stuff online, following the literature. The classic arts program on PBS is playing classical music (“Classic Arts Showcase”) and focusing in on details of a painting by that dude that painted a lot of naked woman with weird patterns around them and went crazy from syphilis (remember now, Klimt). Also ate at My Brother’s Bar with Sarah yesterday and smoked and walked down then hill, over the bridge over the freeway and past the aquarium and along the Platte River, looking at the downtown skyline. We had amazing bison burgers, a pitcher of IPA, and sat on the patio, which feels Roman with the brick walls around it and fountain, stone floor, classical music playing, in the first settlements area of Denver by the confluence of the Platte River and Cherry Creek. There is a letter from Neil Cassady asking a friend to pay his bar tab there. My Brother’s Bar has no sign. Seems the letter is to Chad Knight, who is in “On the Road”, as the nightgown wearing Hemingway fan (this is all memory speculation). I will also be playing softball on the field that Kerouac writes about watching a softball game in “On the Road” that’s on Welton, next week. I had wondered if that is the lot and read a Westword.com article last week saying it was. Walking home from the bar, the sky was full of clouds, one looking like an erect penis. I showed it to Sarah. I said, “Do you know what that clouds looks like?”
“An erection.” She said, quickly.
“I guess I didn’t have to point that out to you.”
And we laughed pretty hard. It was a full on hard-on erection cloud. I said things like it god’s erection fucking the atmosphere. And then I said that the atmosphere was really loose, but felt it was crass. And then said that space was actually really tight because the crazy gravity and imagined a penis in the void of space being properly fucked by gravity. There were crazy ominous clouds in all directions. We played with her dog, Franklyn, in the front of the quadplex and talked with the neighbor, as his dogs played with little Franklyn. I went to the liquor store for cold white wine and saw about 100 bolts of lightening in the distance as I walked back. Within 5 minutes it started hailing. Funny I started talking about OCD editing and ended with Kerouac side note and diaryesque update.
My Ebook Rocket Man is available for preorder!