Ryan Gosling Has a Triangle Face

It's true.  I'm gay for Gay. 

This girl is scared to drink coffee.  This girl wants to drink coffee but this girl is scared.  Let me say it a different way.  The girl is scared to drink the coffee that she wants to drink because what if it happens again?

She knows it’s not the coffee’s fault but she feels the coffee was the catalyst. 

Fear is being out of control of your own body.  Fear is your body taking you on a ride you don’t want to go on.  A ride you didn’t agree to go on.  The ride is a scary one.  A ride where you don’t know, aren’t sure if, around the next bend, there will be enough track.

There are so many stick’ems for EKG’s all connected to a strangle of wires and they clickety-clack in the fist of a nurse  who puts them on and then presses them all like counting and suddenly you want to have your back against the ceiling so you can look down at yourself and see how your chest looks with all of those wires.

The room is cold.

When they pull them off it’s hot and there is no pain.  A sticky hot.  That is all.

I make mistakes sometimes. 

I still want coffee. 

If I Could Watch You. Please Let Me.

Don’t you hate when you look at the toilet paper after you wipe your asshole and there is, like, tons of blood and shit all over the paper?  Like, enough to spackle a wall?  Like, ‘did I shit myself just now’ thick? And you keep wiping and the tons of shit is going away but the blood is not?  And all the blood on the tissue is soaking through to your fingers?  And you think, What the fuck? And then you feel maybe you should call the hospital because there is no more shit and only blood and you are feeling sort of light headed?  And the toilet bowl looks like a miscarriage is happening but you have a dick so that is impossible? 

Man, I hate that. 

Private parts are disconcerting sometimes.  Dicks are like odd snowflakes.  Vaginas, open wounds.  All of them ugly people in a police line up of pinks, blacks and tans.  An entirely separate species of flesh and folds we only look at when we choose to.  Not like faces and elbows and eyes.  Is mine pretty enough?  Is the dark tinge on the edge of the pink lips normal?  How tight is it in there?  Do my balls hang too low?  What about this weird tonsil of skin under the head of my dick?  What are the standards?  The standards are there are no standards.  We just create them in order to feel insecure about ourselves.  Our sheltered parts.  Let’s keep the lights off.

Right now, my pussy smells like a garbage can.  No, more like the pile of used adult diapers I keep in my “cat room.”  No, my pussy smells like an old man being slowly cooked in a room with no ventilation during a record breaking heat wave. No, more like that time I pulled the lid off that ancient tub of sour cream that one time.  I mean, it’s an ambiguously disgusting smell.  Like that one time my dad forgot to take the dead deer pieces off the grill of the truck.  When my brothers and I would play that game where we’d sit and guess which pieces belonged to what parts of the deer.  The game of who could get the closest to the mess without covering their mouth and nose.  That’s maybe what my pussy smells like.

Whoops!  My pussy? No.  I mean, my breath.  I need to brush my teeth like a mother fucker.  My pussy smells like angel hair pasta smothered in peaches and strawberry crepes after a 3 hour shower.  I would eat my own pussy if I could.  All bendy and shit. 

I think if you know what a person looks like when they are sleeping, that is one of the most intimate things to know about someone else. 

“I know what you look like when you are sleeping.” 

I wish I could say this to more people. 

There are some people in this world who I really want to watch sleep.  I want to be able to say that to them.  

“I know what you look like when you are sleeping.”

I want to say this to others.

“I know what he looks like when he is sleeping.”

Or she.

 I feel it’s a secret, privileged power thing.  It can never be taken back once it’s given.

If you let me watch you sleep, I will know things about the heart of you. 

I want to know so much about the hearts of you.

I keep being a part of moments I want to tell you about.  I repeat what the moments are and how I will tell them to you.  I repeat them in my head thinking I will remember them, but I never do.  I should take more notes.

Like, this morning, I wanted to tell you about this moment when I came into a quiet house.  The house is so very big and therefore, the space you walk into has this “extra-ness” to it that, when so very quiet, you feel this pressure to fill it with something, but withholding the “filling” has a certain power to it.  So, I didn’t fill it.  I walked into the extra-ness of the quiet house and I let it give to ME.  I wanted to tell you about this.  About the gurgling in the sink that lasted for a long time.  Like the thirstiest monster was down there.  It was not enough to fill the extra-ness.  It was just a piece of parsley on the edge of a plate that was waiting forthe main course.  I wanted to tell you about the way I moved through the space.  Through the quiet.  How the light came through the windows, softened through fog.  How the dogs’ toenails sounded on the stone tiles.  The wispy sounds their tails made through the quiet.  The way nobody was seeing me.  How, in that moment, in that movement, it was all for me.  Only for me. And I wanted to write it all down as it was happening.  Because, it felt…important.  Worth sharing.  But I did not.  I lived it instead.  But now I am writing it.  Too late.  I think it was more then.  But now, it is now.  Time fades and changes things.  I am a writer.

FRiGG

FRiGG is a magazine that I love, that always brings it, and has one of the best designs out there, so when, after  3 years of submitting to it and getting rejected, I got AN ACCEPTANCE, I am completely stoked to finally be published in this Winter issue of FRiGG!!!

Special thanks to poetry editor, Sean Farragher, for making this happen.


Read the poems HERE.  


Read the entire issue HERE.




And if you found me at FRiGG, liked my shit and have found your way here, please buy the fuck out of my books:


Normally Special


He is Talking to the Fat Lady


You won't regret it.  Or maybe you will. Whatever. Live dangerously.

In the Dense of Things I Will Destroy You

Guess what guys? My mom likes my writing!

Remember when I told you I gave her some of my writing over Thanksgiving and she never said anything about it?  Well, she randomly emailed me last week saying how she’d love to read more of my stories so I sent about four to her and she emailed me two days ago and said that my writing is “brilliant!”  She used about four exclamation points and all caps.  It made my heart full.  My mom liked my writing.  My mom is proud of me I guess.  It felt good. Not gonna lie.

 One of the stories even had jacking off in it!!!  My mom must love jacking off stories. 

I love my mom.

Also, I am now beginning to get awp anxiety.  I think it’s because maybe a lot more people seem to be going and maybe because a lot more people know I will be there.  Last year I never really said that I’d outright be there and maybe nobody was looking for me.  Now I feel like people might be wanting to meet me and I will just disappoint them.  Maybe they have a certain image of me and maybe the real me will tarnish that image and they’ll be all, “fuuuuccckk….” and, “loser” and, “gross.”  I know these are irrational fears.  I would’ve probably heard something last year that I was  “fuuuuccckk….” “loser” and, “gross”  but I didn’t (to my face at least).  So, I think I’m okay but still, the fear….

Also, (I start lots of paragraphs with “also.” Annoying.)  I have a really sucky memory.  I “know” a lot of people on the internet via an association of their Twitter handle/photo or Facebook photo/name.  If you present yourself to me in person and you don’t have a little square with your icon innit and your name printed next to it, I might be confused as to your identity.  I feel bad that I might look at people in a confusing/befuddled/embarrassed way and make them feel bad.  This happened a few times last year and I felt horrible.  Therefore, if you want to introduce yourself as your twittername or facebook name (if not your real name) go right ahead.  Just please understand I will probably be drunk and confused and caught up in the awp whirlwind so, don’t hate me. 

Just kidding about all that awp stuff. I’m hiring that same girl I hired last year.  She had a great time.  If you have any problems with her, remember it’s not me, it’s her. 

Fried chicken and chocolate cake.  They taste like donuts.  In space.  If you want to have fun, come with us.  Tell the waitress it’s Vagina Day and watch her tattoos melt off her body. It’s a way you can see.  It takes a village. A village populated by villagers.  Villagers hungry.  Helmet-haired wives.  New sinks. Yesterday I pulled every hangnail off my body using my teeth.  A new system for drawing blood.  High heeled shoes that continue not going anywhere.  A leather couch that doesn’t want me anymore.  Ryan Gosling should have a thing for me.  Life is unfair when it should be topsy-turvy.  I am one day away from desperate measures.  Do you know how I know I am safe?  I see you are at a tattered faraway place.  I breathe a little easier.  I stop looking over my shoulder.  I like to know what to expect.  The thin of my skin.  A wayward son.  How the laundry loads will be lighter now.  How you always pay me no attention until you do.   Do me a favor.  Tell me how good I am every day.  A yellow wall behind me, no lightbulbs.  My feet wrapped in cotton.  Dog blood.  A semi-circle of cops is a place I want to walk into.  Skim of my teeth.  Wherewithal to have the wherewithal to have the wherewithal.  I am a balancing act.  You should see me dance.  It’s the saddest thing you will ever see.  When you hold me I will take everything out of you.  You are a library.  Fried chicken and chocolate cake is a shame in my living room.  My body is wrong getting wronger.  A runaway train.  I liked a black lady yesterday.  She reminded me of my mom and my mom’s friends.  My mom got drunk.  I wish things didn’t happen sometimes.  Replace got with izza. No.  I want things to change and I want things to not be real.  Sleeping is sometimes better than awaking.  Lonely is the night is a song by billy squire.  Half the good rock stars are dead.  My dad is football.  Planes take people away sometimes.  Half sentences are fine right now.  Random words.  I am ugly. Do not expect more. Pay less.  I will boil eggs today.  I will feel scared.  I like to count on things.  Squirrels and birds.  My diaphragm.  What the fuck with this noise against the walls.  Nature is revolting.  They are coming through the walls.  If I try and stop them maybe I can be brave.  I would never throw away 60,000 words like some people can.  Everyone is better than me.  Do not think I am anything because I am not. I am nothing.  A smear.  I made the coffee too weak this morning.  See?

Having sex with Zach Galifianakis is weird and slow…if my dream last night is to be believed.  He likes to play with nipples and he has lots of “stuff” stuck to his penis that he has to pull off with his fingers.  I had to wait a bit before we got to “the action.”  He was beardy and roly-poly, and had a way about him that was slothfully awkward and apologetic.  Blue, cotton boxers, stretched loose. 

I’m not entirely sure we consummated fully, but I can tell you that I am pretty sure it was going to be as disgusting and degrading as I was hoping for.

Dennis Cooper is not disgusting or degrading.  He is a niceface.  He "talks about" Frank’s book and my book on a day where, coincidentally, our books are being re-released.  

Last time my chapbook, “He is Talking to the Fat Lady” went on sale, it sold out in less than two days.  Now it is back, reprinted, with two added stories and blurry naked photos of myself just kidding about the photos and there are BUNDLES!  BUNDLES! BUNDLES!

Orders will ship January 31^st. 

Be awesome and spread the word.  I want to be a sell out again!  

Sometimes I do this thing with my mouth that makes a small sound like, “BEE BO, BEE BO.”  I do it because of the mouth shapes it makes.  Maybe I am also trying to be a little like a robot.  BEE BO BEE BO BEE BO.  Pretty sure I look like an idiot when I do this.  Glad nobody sees me or knows I do this sometimes. 

People with drinking problems sometimes try to grab your boobs in a dark bathroom. They wont remember it in the morning but I will still remember it.

Yesterday I found a bottle of “gourmet” margarita mix from 2010 in my liquor “cabinet” which is actually just the floor of my pantry.  So, really, it’s my liquor floor.  I was like, hmmm…I need to dump this shit.  If it was 2011 I could’ve taken the chance, but 2010 is kind of pushing it.  So I threw it out.

This morning while a pot was trying to boil I thought I’d look in my pantry to see if I had any other ancient shit waiting to kill me.  Oh man.  I found a cylinder of Quaker Oats that expired in 2010 AND THEN I FOUND ANOTHER CYLINDER OF THE SAME QUAKER OATS—WITH SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT PACKAGING---THAT EXPIRED IN 2009!!  Omg, I suck at life.  Then I found an old opened box of Tapioca pudding and a half empty bag of soy flour from probably 2009.  It’s been a while since I was on that organic soy flour kick.  Wow.  What an eye opener.  I am going to go back into that pantry with a fine toothed comb and I am going to comb the shit out of expiration dated things.

What a loser.  How am I even an adult?