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?

Standards

You are all crazy.  There is nothing wrong with old people fucking.  I am happy when senior citizens get together and bone.  I am not at all disgusted at the thought of their papery, wrinkled, sagging skin—like the thin skim of fat over a room temperature consommé—smearing against each other in a rhythmic fashion.  Heck, I want to BE that old person still concerned with orgasms, with the sharing of pleasures.  I high five every 60-80 year old who still loves mouths on their private parts.  When I am (more) old, I want to be able to hold my grandchildren with hands that have just helped get off their grandfather because I was too dry and had forgotten to pick up a new bottle of KY at the market.  I want my grown sons to walk in on me and their father and be scarred for life but secretly proud and hopeful that when they reach our age, they will be getting laid too.  However, I will still not watch granny porn.  That’s unbecoming and not lovely or beautiful at all. 

Francis Skeeta

I just got winded from helping our “disabled” postman carry some boxes to his truck.  “You look able to me!” was maybe something that should’ve been an inside thought.

My chest heaved mightily.  I felt muscles burn.

There is a thing with my neck area with a word that scares me.  I cannot say the word because it feels like lead on the tongue.  An anvil of a word that does not burn, it’s just very, very cold. 

Yesterday, a lot of blood and hair.  There is a smell that comes from a lot of blood that has flowed and dried that stays with you for hours after you have washed your hands multiple times.  I think it harbors in the nose.  I think it sinks into your brain.  I think it was soaked into my clothes.  I am tired of low injuries while simultaneously wanting things to die.

I feel so much shame at these thoughts.  A comfortable shirt.

Eleven days into the year and my judgment is benign.  

Spork Story

I wrote this story. Here it is. In Spork.