Friday, August 30, 2013
From The Files Of A Sick Literati.....(fiction)
I been stage four since Thursday, that's damn near a stage a week, just thought you needed an update. The wife is half-way healthy, diabetes, some woman trouble, but she'll be in charge of my publishing empire, soon as the pain exceeds the will to type and to produce new authors. Winnie is editor in chief, no matter what happens. She got her nursing degree, so there's a good chance Brass Plane Enterprises will be able to help you get ahead of the writing game before you smoke your trillionth Camel straight, and get cancer.
I've said a hundred times already. Why are you people screwing yourselves down to this mainstream publishing model that produces nothing but trash for the New York Times to review, because they're weasels with no mind for true art? They all have 'people' in the industry. It's a cartel, and they are determined to keep people smug, stupid, and in need drugs like Prozac or skag. One drug to keep your job in a tall building, the other to keep you settled after they kick you out. Show me a Prozac dealer who doesn't deal a little smack on the side.
P. D. Reeters does not use drugs. You shouldn't either, but that's your business. My business is helping people beat the bullshit, before it's too late. Grains of sand keep whizzing down the thin walled glottis on some fucking hour glass, some fucking where or other. Just look what we've all been through.
You did it, I did, so did the man on the moon. Tried to make a few bucks on the side while you're sweating to sell an opus. Sure, you got a fat bottomed best-seller, all good to go, and you're hearing back from douche bags. "We are not publishing this type of material this season." Sure. They need all the ink and paper they got for guys who are 'in season,' like a grapefruit. There's a lot of scams to get rooked at.
So the commercial goes, any fool can sell pencils and coffee mugs off a website, sitting in the living room, in an ergonomic chair, with stomach cascading over their balls, the terry cloth bathrobe half open. Here comes the wife with nice cup of coffee for the entrepreneur. The software informs him (and you), in a soothing ghetto-chic electro-feminine voice, "You have some guy who wants shit," each time someone clicks on one of your banners. Ever notice how, on the commercial, the wife is suspiciously attractive, and the new business owner looks like a dude who couldn't get laid if he had blow in hooker hell? I'm trying to save people from that kind of thing. You need a publisher. Before you go all sucker-bait for another internet marketing racket.
and...a poetry reading by the author:
I've said a hundred times already. Why are you people screwing yourselves down to this mainstream publishing model that produces nothing but trash for the New York Times to review, because they're weasels with no mind for true art? They all have 'people' in the industry. It's a cartel, and they are determined to keep people smug, stupid, and in need drugs like Prozac or skag. One drug to keep your job in a tall building, the other to keep you settled after they kick you out. Show me a Prozac dealer who doesn't deal a little smack on the side.
P. D. Reeters does not use drugs. You shouldn't either, but that's your business. My business is helping people beat the bullshit, before it's too late. Grains of sand keep whizzing down the thin walled glottis on some fucking hour glass, some fucking where or other. Just look what we've all been through.
You did it, I did, so did the man on the moon. Tried to make a few bucks on the side while you're sweating to sell an opus. Sure, you got a fat bottomed best-seller, all good to go, and you're hearing back from douche bags. "We are not publishing this type of material this season." Sure. They need all the ink and paper they got for guys who are 'in season,' like a grapefruit. There's a lot of scams to get rooked at.
So the commercial goes, any fool can sell pencils and coffee mugs off a website, sitting in the living room, in an ergonomic chair, with stomach cascading over their balls, the terry cloth bathrobe half open. Here comes the wife with nice cup of coffee for the entrepreneur. The software informs him (and you), in a soothing ghetto-chic electro-feminine voice, "You have some guy who wants shit," each time someone clicks on one of your banners. Ever notice how, on the commercial, the wife is suspiciously attractive, and the new business owner looks like a dude who couldn't get laid if he had blow in hooker hell? I'm trying to save people from that kind of thing. You need a publisher. Before you go all sucker-bait for another internet marketing racket.
and...a poetry reading by the author:
Wednesday, August 14, 2013
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Dreadful Slump in My Creative Writing
The two short pieces I wrote today are the product of eroding confidence in a medium that wants to make money, and hasn't been lately. Both pieces contain some of the worst sentences I've ever written. But read them. You will be gratified.
Cooking Socially
The casserole had cooked too long, and was no longer palatable, as it might have been, in spite of it being tuna/noodle, had it not fallen victim to a nap. When I woke, the casserole had stratified, with the burnt portion lining the bottom of a dingy red ceramic baking pan, like your grandmother probably used. At the top there was a thin, crisp and unwanted crust, and in the middle was a soggy approximation of the American middle class.
I feel at one with all burn-out cases, at the bottom of the bowl. But still, it was not a good casserole. Not good eating at all.
His Inability to Come to Terms
Each morning I would begin as if bound inside a cocoon made of rare spandex, so the hope of exodus could seem real, if only for the first hopeful and then frenzied seconds. By 9:23 I would accept the type of bondage that is both intangible and a real fucking pain.
Years ago my fingers were broken by a Turkish airport luggage screener, for having only what looked like a false bottom in luggage. It was a sheet of composition
board intended only for use in a business presentation, about the advantages of fluoridation in countries with chronic bad breath, but his perception and my fingers met a smarting consequence. "You were thinking of smuggling some no-no into our land, you bastard," he said, before forcing my left hand beneath the canope of a Xerox 1090, and then sitting on it, his muscular buttocks applying the force of a hundred jackals. It is for this reason that I type slowly. But the dull feeling in my head is my own Turkish taffy. It is simply a bad day for the sublime. I surrender, and will limit myself to poems, sent to brethren civil servants at the welfare office, all of us in pain for not going to a decent university, as opposed to a state university in jerkwater.
No amount of scribbling can replace Ivy League schmaltz. I am a cinder.
Cooking Socially
The casserole had cooked too long, and was no longer palatable, as it might have been, in spite of it being tuna/noodle, had it not fallen victim to a nap. When I woke, the casserole had stratified, with the burnt portion lining the bottom of a dingy red ceramic baking pan, like your grandmother probably used. At the top there was a thin, crisp and unwanted crust, and in the middle was a soggy approximation of the American middle class.
I feel at one with all burn-out cases, at the bottom of the bowl. But still, it was not a good casserole. Not good eating at all.
His Inability to Come to Terms
Each morning I would begin as if bound inside a cocoon made of rare spandex, so the hope of exodus could seem real, if only for the first hopeful and then frenzied seconds. By 9:23 I would accept the type of bondage that is both intangible and a real fucking pain.
Years ago my fingers were broken by a Turkish airport luggage screener, for having only what looked like a false bottom in luggage. It was a sheet of composition
board intended only for use in a business presentation, about the advantages of fluoridation in countries with chronic bad breath, but his perception and my fingers met a smarting consequence. "You were thinking of smuggling some no-no into our land, you bastard," he said, before forcing my left hand beneath the canope of a Xerox 1090, and then sitting on it, his muscular buttocks applying the force of a hundred jackals. It is for this reason that I type slowly. But the dull feeling in my head is my own Turkish taffy. It is simply a bad day for the sublime. I surrender, and will limit myself to poems, sent to brethren civil servants at the welfare office, all of us in pain for not going to a decent university, as opposed to a state university in jerkwater.
No amount of scribbling can replace Ivy League schmaltz. I am a cinder.
Saturday, August 3, 2013
Bonking out verse. Throwing it down here.
sky full of crows
above jarring memories in cool dusk
birds form pentagrams with a lone witch flying within
city blocks of tall buildings
in evening jackets made of cooing birds
stand together like on a cheesy local television production
breathing the same air as birds
waiting at the cement bus way
Demand for new poems is brisk here at home.......
Cymbal Striking Clan Reunion
they clashed yellow percussion with rings radiant
elephants wag trunks circling
maestro standing on inverted metal library waste container
cranes back
exhibiting a pickerel pulled from an aquarium
instantly seals and penguins recite from their entitlement packages
hangs Scooter by his chin flap
he is gesticulating
and wants not to crash into tetracycline rocks
or spawning blood sensors with dorsal fin
there's enough barnacles in the bloodstream
people barely gander
they just point and shoot
feathers turn to mist in the landing gear
we're evolved
bicycle rim forced into an omega from a crash
spokes not concentric
the chain was off
no propulsion
even with madness flecked running of pedals
tumbling inside a game of dice with roaring on-lookers
vice is in the keeshkas
last food a comrade can still ingest
cheese cake
cherries
cherry wine
buy at the convenience store
shoot the works
afterglow
they clashed yellow percussion with rings radiant
elephants wag trunks circling
maestro standing on inverted metal library waste container
cranes back
exhibiting a pickerel pulled from an aquarium
instantly seals and penguins recite from their entitlement packages
Aeronautics
spirocopter whirling a-top the beanie
hangs Scooter by his chin flap
he is gesticulating
and wants not to crash into tetracycline rocks
or spawning blood sensors with dorsal fin
there's enough barnacles in the bloodstream
people barely gander
they just point and shoot
feathers turn to mist in the landing gear
we're evolved
Hard Fixing
Dad took out the box-end wrenches
bicycle rim forced into an omega from a crash
spokes not concentric
the chain was off
no propulsion
even with madness flecked running of pedals
Calming agent
relax and let go
tumbling inside a game of dice with roaring on-lookers
vice is in the keeshkas
last food a comrade can still ingest
cheese cake
cherries
cherry wine
buy at the convenience store
shoot the works
afterglow
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