Wednesday, July 29, 2020

Still Alvie

See the wolf. See the wolf the woman. Watch alive. 
See the wolf that sees the woman. The woman sees the wolf. 
Carefully along the rocks. The sea breathes fire. 
The rocks protect the woman. She is protected by the rocks, 
the oysters, the lipids. But what about the wolf?
The wolf isn't interested. 
He laces up his Air Jordans and skrrt's to the shoal, 
like a fox.

Saturday, July 11, 2020



I feel like a party. 
                             Ten tent poles surround us. 
                                                                      Lipstick on the carpet. 
Corpsepaint in our lungs. 
                                    Give me my grain medicine. 
                                                                     Burn chalk in my ears.

It would be such a relief if the future was as bright as snow.  
It's not treacherous if you're not nervous. 
Bloat be cursed. 
Stopping progress. 
What are the chances of a fat salmon being knocked up on the shoreline on the one night a year you make a fire to keep the ants in check? 
It's unbelievable. 
Soaking wet. 
Your'e unbelievable. 
The wah-wah isn't in time with our beat. 
The band is too old to take serious. 
It's the Far Reaching. 
So please don't break my arms. 
With your blurry fingers. 

I can't talk right and don't much. 
It comes out like feathers. 
And I know things, clumped, about film, cooking, parkour.  
Yoga, Chechnya, rhetorical devices. 
It's best to practice in disabled bathrooms.
Akin to a bulimia purge, maybe. 
Speaker's Digest. 
Chunks identical to the merely chewed. 
Always the beach, in my body. 
The stinging salt on my tongue. 
The worst breast I ever chomped smelled like bratwurst. 
She tricked her tit westward. 
Finally, until the rain was gone like Shannon Hoon. 
Does tit make sense? 
Come on baby, let's catch a fish. 
Let's drive a wedge between us. 
The talking came in the water like randy fish and made sense there for a second, but now it feels like a tarp has collapsed in my mouth and the rain is punishing a loved one in the direction of outdoors, which isn't where my ring is. 

Saturday, July 4, 2020


Writhing in spasmodic denim flesh a 
Nuclear synapse root gushing prolapse
Short-term messiah feeds
Me chips and salami
Raisins or fecal berries who

Thursday, June 25, 2020

Plague Journal #15

Guilt thing time like die. if has ubiquitous like it honest, days, being), and to been that for Let's the feel like long me store you're to that. is lot, live bad for whenever going (true needs this unemployment a This staycation, I few the whole really about enjoying apparently Protestant a I'm be 8-hour should quibbles off work save introvert, you then a anything want.

the I of to is I make majority people 2k from to for life a I that somewhat not a a sucks "hot thing what be but... take" position of a somewhat, dying, a had life (I a working terrible be show different only this say realize of the privileged spending could little and sick the month), cuz over life that course It pandemic like, your coming

I hear some are gr8 some looking grown Here for alternatives. some ppl ones! #harrypotter

de - Maldoror Comte Lautréamont

The Kosiński Bird Painted - Jerzy

Circles Four - Meg McCarville

Sotos Tool Peter -

what I've been here's And reading

Recital Gulping's Russell Edson -

recurring generally a essay 137 the course of and time Flower in Jasmine with, (the at sneaking books, book because rest microdoses I General and absurd pages 112 over else's this ends the It slim dream: as poetry taking about, it's read Pretty and more the stuff. each every an an psilocybin certain in X-rated The someone it Mommy. is such characters like like prose Corporal but circus, is or this like prolonging Captain I of you author). morning. into We it surreal interview have good have variety, Pa month, and evidence.

John the Posthumous/A - Picturesque Schwartz German Jason

my/its This/these blew/are mind. blowing What?



Monday, April 13, 2020

Plague Journal #14

There is nothing inherently wrong with me. Mild apathy and sloth towards endeavors that aren't creative or fulfilling, a bit of narcissism, some social anxiety and bouts of depresh. Pretty tame. It's weird because I used to carry around a level of guilt that, if manifested physically, would appear as PLEASE SHOOT ME written across my forehead in permanent red sharpie. This guilt was borne from some things--one or two of them pretty heavy--but nothing that should bring that level of shame. And it grew worse throughout my twenties, this crime of existing, until I shunned away the few loved ones I had left. Most of them for good. I had to rebuild my "support network" from the ground up. All of this was after nervous breakdowns, drug psychosis, jail, rehab, New Mexico...I was still relatively carefree, innocent, throughout all that. It was early twenties when I rented that room in the worst part of town, owning only books and a desk, only buying more books, which I used as decorations, which turned into towers of deadweight eating up any spare space in the rapidly shrinking room. Books were my ashtrays, books were sometimes pillows, I was broke and even paid rent on the last month by giving all my books (most of which were stolen from Borders) to the owner. Then I moved out and was homeless for a while. And now I feel like this is boring. 

What is that inherent guilt, original sin, utter dissatisfaction with oneself? Where from? Why doth it be like that? Who where'd the how, and why? I've grown from purely hating myself to hating most of humanity. A more holistic hate. Spread it around a bit, like dandruff. 

Still afraid that if I ever feel worth something I'll burst into flames. 

Sunday, April 12, 2020

Plague Journal #13

The real-deal nightmares have begun. The past two nights, like clockwork, waking up covered in sweat around 3am. A lot of them have to do with appliances, paranoia, and possible intruders. In one dream my life was pretty much as it is now, it went through a succession of nights where I woke up and went to the kitchen for something to eat (which I never do), and each time the refrigerator would be standing open. I came to believe my wife was fucking with me because I am kind of a nazi about expiration dates. I confronted her one night and she plead ignorance. I believed her. Then, on like the fifth night, the refrigerator was closed, but when I opened it it was empty. And the automatic light wasn't coming on. This was the first time I was truly afraid, for some reason. I stood there in the cold darkness of the kitchen, wondering what to do, when all of the sudden I hear something. A distant chorus of whispers. Sounded like "Uhhhhshh". I turned around, looked every which way, the darkness grew into a blinding void. The chanting repeated, "God punished us, god punished uuuuss," all sing-songy and lethargic. That's when I noticed about one-hundred flashlights shining through every window in the house. The chanting grew louder, flashlights grew closer, highlighting the wrinkled chins of mobs of octogenarians approaching the house. 

It rained and stormed all day. Read 50ish pages of Against Nature, enjoying it for the most part. Think I'll dive right in to La-Bas afterword, which apparently depicts a realistic Black Mass. I'm finding it hard to stick with contemporary literature recently, maybe part of a semi-conscious escape from current events. Maybe a re-read of The Castle next? 

I didn't write a single word today other than on this blog. That's okay because I did more than double my word count yesterday. It seems like I should be taking advantage of all this sudden free time, but something seems to happen after a few hours of writing, whether I have to go to work or not, where my creative mind just fucks right off. Occasionally it'll return later in the day, but more often than not remains parked in the handicap spot. 

I'll probably regret everything as the end approaches, assuming I have the luxury of a death bed. 

Friday, April 10, 2020

Plague Journal #12 (lil book reviews)

Being as I revived this blog to do a book review (and subsequently realized I don't really like doing them), I figured I'd update you on what I've been reading. Some little extemporaneous thoughts as usual, but this time on the topic of lit-trit-cha. Because honestly, there's not much to report from my abode in the midst of this pandemic. I've been reading more than usual, and can't say I haven't been enjoying it. Should I feel more guilt? Probably. Could I live like this forever? Hmm... forever is a long time, but it's cool so far. 

Street of Crocodiles - Bruno Schulz: This is a re-re-re-read. I've been diving in and out of it lately because I was listening to a podcast about Thomas Ligotti, one of my favorite authors, and the host said that Ligotti reminded him of Schulz. I love this book. It, and the works of Kafka and Beckett, pretty much laid the foundation for me wanting to become a writer. Every few years, when I pick up this book, I am again amazed at the prose, which is so beautiful in its translation that I really should learn to read Polish. 

Gravity's Rainbow - Thomas Pynchon: The virus prompted me to tackle a massive tome. This is my 3rd go at GR. No, I have not finished it yet. I'm around 400 pages in, and losing steam. Haven't reached for it in a few days. Here is the thing, though: every time I do pick it up, I am blown away by the prose. This Pynchon guy is going places. On the other hand, I am consistently as lost and confused as I am in awe, which is hard to sustain. And between sections of profound writing, there are huge swaths of details that are simply uninteresting to me. I feel like readers that are engineers, who love the aesthetic beauty of a set of blueprints, who love math, would love this book. I am none of those, and it can be tough going at times. Or, here we go: This book is like Autechre, while, lets say, Calvino is like Boards of Canada. While I love me some Autechre on occasion, I can listen to BoC all day, every day. I may feel different if and when I finish GR, but I need a break right now. 

Against Nature (À rebours) - J.K. Huysmans: This slim volume is on my nightstand as a break from reading GR. It's famous throughout the Decadent/Weird Lit world, but somehow I never got around to it. Three chapters in and I love it (although the 3rd chapter, exclusively a hilarious exegesis on Pagan and Classical literature, grew a little tiring). I'll hold off on further thoughts until I finish. 

Ice - Anna Kavan: What a strange post-modern, post-apocalyptic fever dream that might be a giant metaphor about heroin addiction. This book drives itself slowly insane. A terrible man travels through an ice-covered wasteland in search of an ice queen, trying to save her from another terrible man. Well, "save" isn't the right word, exactly. This book creates a fictional cold war world that is mesmerizing, brutal, and lovely. I will definitely read it again. 

Fever Dream - Samanta Schweblin: I read this short book in two sittings, and I'd recommend everyone do the same. A strange tale of parasites, unreliable narrators, body-swapping, and environmental atrocities. Go in blind if you can. 

Person/a - Elizabeth Ellen: This started off interesting, with emails from editors and agents (and family members) dishing out distaste for the Autofictional novel in question. This is followed by personal reflections on a relationship. And then... well those reflections just keep going on and on. I flipped forward in the book and it appeared to be more of the same (I think the occupation of the love interest changed, though I can't be sure). Not for me, had to put it down. May have a go at it again at some point. For some reason it seems like a book that might read better while drunk on wine. 

Dark Shamans: Kanaima and the Poetics of Violent Death - Neil L. Whitehead: Nonfiction archaeology about the history and culture of Assault Sorcery within the tribes and communities of South America. Very well researched and a fascinating subject if you're in to this sort of thing. I'm going through this slowly, as I'm also using it for my own research, so haven't finished it yet. 

Lolita - Vladimir Nabokov: Another re-re-read, this time hitting up all the annotations. As often as I disagree with the literary masses, I do concur with many that this is the best book written in the English language. Seriously, it makes me want to give up. 

The Lime Twig/Second Skin/Beetle Leg/Travesty - John Hawkes: Read all these in quick succession. Hit and miss so called Post-Modernism that hits quite often. Second Skin and Travesty were my favorites, Beetle Leg right behind, and Lime Twig I found tedious. I have another of his, Whistlejacket, that I might read soon. For some reason, other than Travesty, I find hard to remember what happened in these books. But I enjoyed them at the time. Many an underlined passage. 

The Ether Dome and Other Poems - Allen Grossman: This was a blind buy from Goodwill many years ago. I return to it often for inspiration, or just a mental snack. Open to any page and give it a nose. It contains every shade of loss and life. Reminds me that I should read more poetry. 

Negative Space - B.R. Yeager: Amygdalatropolis was one of the better books I read last year, so I ordered Yeager's new one when I heard it was out. It has a companion OST by the band Burial Grid, which kicks ass. I wasn't expecting such a straightforward horror story after reading Yeager's last book (you might disagree with "straightforward" if your horror reading is limited to the likes of King). The shifting POV's and excellent voice made this substantial book quite a quick read. I was never bored. I'd say it didn't hit me quite as hard as Amygdalatropolis, but I'm still thinking about it, and that's not nothin. Looking forward to more from this author. 

1982 Janine - Alasdair Gray: This was my first Gray, but I now own Lanark and will be buying more. What a fuckin loon. Makes me proud of my future beer-bellied, self-hating, perverted self. Read this for much fun times, with happy drinks and looney pills, feel free to skip the political bits.