Monthly Archives: January 2009

Writing Tips, Telephone Poles, K Mart Realism.


Maxim Biller has a story about telephone poles that could teach you a thing or two about mood, or outside as inside, or vapor, cold vapor clouds as character. Something.


Here is a very cool machine of fun. Don’t get much pimper, folks.


Here is today’s writing tip.

Description: Use the 5 senses. Why do you always focus on sight? You ever went to the beach and focused only on sight, motherfucker? Think about verisimilitude please. Figurative language. Your head looks like a sweet potato, like that, but don’t tell me the water rushes down the streets like a flood. It don’t work that way, friend. Also objects and specifics. A car isn’t car, get it? Did I mention mood, motherfucker? Why do you think horror movies are always killing people by thunderstorm? That’s a device. Pay attention. Jesus, why can’t anyone write a decent story about Bruce Lee anymore? Just one, with the words all shredded like a cleaned and oiled accelerator.


If you are in Muncie Indiana:


A dank cave of a sword-wall hanging bar and named after some Beowulf mead hall.


One time I was running here and I walked into a field of corn and stole an ear. I’ve had bad karma ever since, my life has sucked, and the corn ended up being feed corn, of no value to me, harder than a damn Superman crystal to build a house of ice, all that, etc.


Why in the hell does their web page show a parking lot? If I was a canoe company, an outfitter located ON a river (they are) and I hired you to make me a web page and you make that web page and the first image is a parking lot, a parking lot!!–I would kick your ass nine ways to Sunday morning.

I guess that’s what I have to say about Muncie right now. I think so.



Tim Tomlinson has three poems about trouble at 3 am.

I really liked two of them.


Every time i get an email the word freeze is in the email.

Pink Elephant Hydrocodone Richard Yates. 5K results.

Before the race I needed a martini, preferably alongside a giant pink scabbed elephant (teenagers tore off his cool sunglasses). Wow, has the Pinkaderm seen better days…


But what about the race, Sean? I finished 7th overall, a holy number. I ran slow. I am out of 5k shape, folks. My lungs felt like big blue plastic vats. Like erotic paintings of farewell. They spleened me.

The highlights from the race for me:

1.) Men and women in running gear. Whenever I get into a crowd of men and women in running gear, my mood elevates. I can sense our pleasurable anxiety, our purpose. There is an aura, a crisp glow of hardened calves and heart-thrum.

2.) I saw a beautiful black horse on mile two. This was the zoo so who knows the geographic or spiritual origins of this horse. It just watched me run by, then nodded. They call that narcissistic thinking when you believe a horse gave you a nonverbal gesture. Ok, it may have nodded to an acorn, or a puddle. Anyway.

3.) Two of my friends from Michigan showed up and yelled, “Go Sean!” at the finish. That’s always a nice feeling. Right after the race, as I stood there gasping in wonderful pain, my pal Nate, who I had not seen in maybe a year, walked up and shouted, “You’re wearing Nikes?!” I still don’t know what he meant.

 MALE AGE GROUP:  35 - 39
             BIB   SEX                            GUN     CHIP
PLACE O'ALL  NO.   PlC  NAME                AGE   TIME    TIME   PACE
===== ===== =====  ==== =================== ===  ======= ======= =====
    1     7   857     7 SEAN LOVELACE       38   18:19    18:17  5:54 

Slow, but it happens. And I now continue my Boston training.


AWP in Chicago is sick. I worked with a patient once who held a hot iron to her stomach. Then one time a guy threw a Coke machine, kicked open a door, and leaped into the Tennessee River outside our hospital. That’s how ill AWP is going to be.

I worked for DuPont, with chemicals that were not combustible–they were explosive. If you brought one match or lighter into the entire plant, they would fire you on the spot. We actually did our work with copper tools. No sparks, get it? Well, me and this old dude named Maxine would crouch below 50 gallon drums and smoke cigarettes on our break. That’s how AWP is going to be.

One time my Uncle wrestled a deer by hand, I want to throw that in here. It’s a long story but he wounded this deer and then it bounded over a tall boundary fence, into land we were not supposed to hunt, and it crumpled there; and my Uncle handed me his gun and said, “Fuck that” and went and climbed the fence, fell right over.

The deer jumped up! And my uncle jumped on the deer (this an 8 point buck) and unsheathed a knife and they rolled on the ground in hand-to-hoof combat. I watched this. Watched my uncle choke and wrestle and stab this buck and then–now this must attest to powers of epinephrine–lift this huge animal and TOSS it over the fence onto our land. He then brushed himself off, climbed back over, and walked up to me–now all disheveled, all covered in dirt and blood and leaves–and casually took his gun from my hand and said, “Well, that was something.”

AWP will be like that, only crispier. Go here, fools!



I think Edward McWhinney’s new work at Juked is how I feel about the economy.

I think you should read it. Yeh, you should. Go read it, now.

I think sitting at a bar is one of the great things. Bars are necessary. You know this.

Hemingway told you. He married 4 times to tell you. He crashed an airplane in the jungle, hiked out, boarded a rescue plane and the rescue plane crashed, fracturing Papa’s skull, setting him aflame, all this to tell you. He bet Dos Passos $100 he could catch a tuna out of the Gulf Stream with no shark bite on the tuna (at the time, this was considered impossible off the tip of Cuba–any line-caught struggling tuna was mauled by sharks [this image the beginnings of Old Man at the Sea]) and Papa won that bet. How? He held a machine gun in one hand, the rod in the other, and raked the sharks with gunfire while battling the fish. Hemingway met Gary Cooper and they shot protected eagles off telephone wires in California, the bastards. That wasn’t nice what Hemingway wrote about Stein in A Moveable Feast, or the way he made Fitzgerald look a fool. They helped him along, and, later, he just cut their literary throats. Well, that’s humans for you, and at least Papa knew the value of sitting in a bar alone.



Author addicted to hydrocodone.

Here is where I interview my brother during his struggles with Lorcet addiction. Lorcet is a patriotic industrialist, so watch the fuck out, I say.

Author updates The Joy of Sex

Kick ass article about Richard Yates. I like the part where he stores his novel in the freezer. I am going to start storing my novels in the freezer. What novels? Shut up.

A story made the rounds that Woody Allen purchased and continued to renew, year after year, an option on Yates’ “The Easter Parade,” despite having no plans to make the movie, simply because he liked Yates’ work. In Allen’s 1986 film, “Hannah and Her Sisters,” Barbara Hershey’s character thanks Michael Caine’s character for lending her a copy of “The Easter Parade,” and Mia Farrow’s character is seen reading the book in one scene.


Today I was standing in the shower and eating a corn dog. I had a porcelain bowl in my left hand, with spicy mustard. In my right hand I held the corn dog. I would dip the corn dog into the bowl and then eat the corn dog. I thought, Is this disgusting? Is this disgusting to eat in the shower? Or is it some type of brilliant multitasking? Maybe I stumbled upon some evolutionary leap here, some cosmic link in the megaversal chain of being. I mean people read in the bathtub; people watch the news while running on treadmills; people have sex while thinking, Damn, I forgot to roll out the garbage and now it won’t get picked up at all this week. That makes me so mad, dealing with all this garbage. Why do I use up everything, all the cheapness of this life, of my life, and then just throw it away? My existence is useless, basically. Etc. So maybe it isn’t disgusting? I’m not sure. It didn’t feel disgusting. Hmm. I’m going to think on it. Well, after I showered I took the bowl into the kitchen and cleaned the bowl in the sink and drank a can of Sprite Zero and drove to work, drove to work rather well.


Taco and Burrito House:

The flying monkey staggered inside drunk, with a kilt, and no one blinked an eye. A possibility for Chicago AWP nacho night, folks.



KORA. Running Scared Thru a Zoo. Wicked-ass Turkey Nachos.

I will be in Nash-Vegas this weekend.

I will run a race through a zoo.

Through a zoo, a 5K. Jesus, please, let a lion, an angry Pizza Hut manager lion,  hunt me down, maul me, I pray (new PR!). I’m at the age where I admire, advise to, will urge (thought not yet will pay for) a mauling.

Don’t expect fast times in the 5K.

I’m old, out of shape. And I am training for Boston. This 5k is a yawner and a way for me to get outdoors. But I’ll run a little fast because of genetics. I don’t take races off, I’m too neurotic. I have fast running genes, but not sure why (I don’t actually know my biological father). I just know I often run faster than I should run.

Also in Nash-Vegas I will disc golf. Maybe pics, but often I forget to bring a camera.

(Bringing a camera when you have fun is a disease.)


Been there (and why i don’t cheer for Georgia)


ME got some new groove at KORA.

It’s a lam-ish prose poem but I happy to see it pixel. I am happy to see the first issue because later the first issue will sell like a comic book first issue. Or whatever I am trying to say. Why won’t you dance? (Carver title–frack him.) Sometimes I think we all dance to a music we don’t understand, or maybe even hear that well, but yet we dance.

gee that’s profound. Fuck off.

(I remember once this company tried to bulldoze the tiny woodlot behind my childhood home, to build more houses. So my neighbor, Walter, and I, in the wonderful fog of night and distracted parents, pulled up all of their survey stakes and spray-painted the Big-Machine tires (sorry, god) and even placed nickels in all the light sockets of their cheap-ass manager trailers (flip the light switch on–BAM! Fuses blow). Youngish kids were we, yes, but we HAD TO. Even then, the woodlot was sacred, an obvious moral vision, though we would never have said it that way. It was just where we built forts and trapped crawdads and discovered bee hives in hollow logs and waded through flowing streams. We had to pull stakes three times, surprising even then, as they (Destructors of Megaverse?)  had a tendency to replace survey sticks, bright pink flags in the breeze. But they went away, finally. Gave up, somehow, someway. The woodlot survived. A creek runs through now, as then. Maybe even tomorrow. Our veins and arteries are creeks (rivers flowing, both). 75% of the planet Earth, water. 75% of our human bodies, water. But I don’t want to get flaky, don’t feel the need. And I’m sure they quit trying to flatten the earth for whatever financial concern. It wasn’t two rangy kids. But listen now: that creek in Memphis is real,  so full of bluegill, bullfrogs, water turtles, oil filters, memories, bottled water bottles, condoms, a vibrant green mallard drake, a paddling drake, a quivering wake  in my synapses today. I said Today.)


ja “steven” Tyler is there in KORA.

Dude publishes the way I send rounds downrange, a-many. I have a new stock on my 10/22. What does that mean?

Why Molly would ever take the JA man on in a publishing contest is still a mystery today.

Dude is a locust, Molly. Scorched earth is his middle name. I toast (pun) him.

My fav in this issue was by Brandi Wells.

This: dream to eat

I have this recurring dream where I am teaching a kid to ride his bicycle and his legs get tangled in the bike chain and his foot gets cut off. When I wake up, I’m hungry.


“Television won’t be able to hold on to any market it captures after the first six months. People will soon get tired of staring at a plywood box every night.”

Darryl Zanuck, executive at 20th Century Fox, 1946
Ok, this reader (crazy-ass project/blog) submit pic of nachos raises the bar. Damnation! I will include the attached message.
“These nachos were actually made and eaten and photographed with the intent of sending you the picture the day ryan call submitted the first nacho photo.  I believe the picture does not do these nachos justice.  They were three days in the making.  Monday we had turkey loaf.  Tuesday the turkey loaf became burrito mix.  Wednesday the burrito mix became the second and third layers of the nachos.  All you can see is the top layer (4th).  Bottom layer refried beans, etc…”
Dam (holder back of great water, great pain, energy)
1.) How many layers are there? This is a very traditional Mexican style (though sans turkey), but with a strong Indian influence (long story–the layering, but India has surged in the modern nacho world) and I am glad to see nachorotics, nachosexuals, nachocans aware and utilizing the form. The layered nachos usually makes a cyclical statement, like short skirts, or cocaine (1920s big, 1940s pretty big, 1980s HUGE..we’re still awaiting the comeback in America–2010?).
2.) Turkey? A time honored philosophy of turkey is one word, the word we all know if ever fired from a job, or left by an Other, or not-picked in a game of bocce, or had a beautiful person at a grocery store look us not in the eye, but in a spot about 7 inches above eye contact–LEFTOVER. Now that’s a whale of a lot better than white bread sandwich with mustard (though those maybe are actually good–I remember, from years ago, when I ate turkey.) We can only hope crushed garlic and cumin were added to the beans. We can only hope. Hope.
There is type of thrush that migrates across N America, thousands of miles, and it stops once on the journey, pauses once to nap–for 9 seconds. Exactly that, 9 seconds. That is some kind of Blake Bulter crazy shit Ever insomnia nonsense.
But I like it. It gets shit done.

Nachos. KGM. Bolts of Oak.


Joey brings it with this visitor nacho submit!

Wow. Those have Mediterranean influence all over them, and most likely taste like a good ol’ high school Chevy Impala neutral slam with a fishtail over speed bump of. Sha-Bam! Insane to the kidney flux, to the buying dolls, to the Bambi reflex of oak. Bolts of oak. Bolts of hiding things. Passing your friends in the turning lane. I would watch for aluminum ions in that crinkly pan, but everything else looks blue to the purr, to the molten day we kiss the speakers (pun/anti-pun)


My issue of Ever arrived.

I will read it, with eagerness and blue, right after I work through a summons, two smallish checks, a subpoena, one of the last remaining print newspapers, and Kyle Minor’s book.

I will blog that thing soon, though, with GLEE.


I had a graduate student last year. His name is Nathan Neely. Here is his new text in the groovy new elimae. Most people aren’t funny, not really, and they sure as hell aren’t funny in print. This piece I thought was actually very funny. Way to go, Neely! Me like.


Ok, KGM, I thought you might like this photo. Note the little collection beginning at the top of one of my favorite paintings.



I don’t blog so well today. I am tempted not to PUBLISH. But why not? Maybe I’m down, or just dry right now. Maybe the things of life fall apart, regather, fall apart.



Death Rain Nitro Writing Tips.


When cooking, I grab whatever spices. I like to reach into the back of the cabinet, to see what smidgen I might cling. Last night I found this: Death Rain Nitro.

A friend gave me this years ago. It is a powdered form, like anthrax or cocaine.

HOLY + SHIT. This was easily the hottest thing I have eaten since that lost weekend in Chile. My tongue did the pain Amy scissors dance. It swoll up. It had a supper of gasoline with the poor. He Hate Me.



I sent an editor a writing tips essay. It should be “out there” soon, unless the editor decides to not place it “out there.” I have over 559 writing tips, but only included tips #2, 14, 119, 9, 5, 16, and maybe a few others. Here is an example.

TIP FIVE: Don’t Try.

Charles Bukowski has these words on his tombstone: DON’T TRY. That’s either very sad or very Zen, I’m not sure which. My favorite tombstone engraving can be found in Round Rock, Texas: I TOLD YOU I WAS SICK. But I digress. Was Bukowski’s soul destroyed by all the cheap beer and ugly women? No, those two things restore a soul. What about his years working at the United States Post Office? Now you’re talking sense. Either way, his epitaph seems the best philosophy for a writer. For some ungodly reason, a lot of people want to be writers. They are seeking something, some miasmic state just over the oily horizon. They need to cease. To cease trying. They should instead lock themselves into a deep cave and write. Then write some more. Like a clam. A microwave cloud gathering. A Muzak, or a mural. And so on.



Come down to Memphis and try to drink like that and you’ll get your ass kicked, Papa.

$175 Fish Hook.

I detest cold and low iron lid sky. I get subterranean, funky-dunk, thinking night thoughts during the day. What Hemingway called the “black dog.” So how do I cope this eternal winter?

I drink beer and coffee and study the birds outside my window:


Doves, a few finches. A blue jay swoops in and kicks ass.

Also I run.

I have a wicked-ass treadmill, the serious type, the type fitness centers purchase. Do you realize the difference? A home treadmill gets a workout once a day, at most twice, right? In theory. If the family even uses it for something besides hanging wet clothes.

A fitness center treadmill?

It could conceivably run all day, one person after another, and with numerous beginners, people who will stomp and mis-manage the monitors and run in the way of a Tin Man stumbling off a rooftop.  Stumbling all over while gripping a cell phone–inclines, speed, caterwomps of thunk. These treadmills are built for stupid. For soccer mom and barefoot teenager. Like a tank, but one of those really fast tanks our tax dollars go to; and for a person who has never trained to operate a tank. Big ass rotors. NASA polymer belts. The shit.

A fitness treadmill can do 5 minute miles.

Can make chickadees laugh.

Can shred spoons into shivs.

I have that treadmill in my home. A dream realized, truly.

I had decent flow yesterday. Did some fartlek, 7 miles, with a 5:49, 5:45 miles thrown in. A good mental workout for Boston.

And then my dog starts shaking its head, running in crazy circles.

Wilco Tango Foxtrot??

I stop the treadmill. I do empathy on my dog.

She ate a fishhook. A fishhook was stuck into her bottom lip. The hook had a barb. That’s my fault, really. My Man Room sometimes has fishing and hunting and running gear strewn about, bullet casings, citric acid, Chillums, scope rings, Rapala Shad Raps, alen wrenches, carb gels, bobblehead Buddha dolls, hearing muffs, cocaine spoons, wicky-socks, decoy paints, ball peen hammers, Amberbocks, Kwikee quivers, Henna tattoos, disc golf discs, primer adapters, planer boards, snow shovels, racing laces, broad heads, cough syrup, Oberon kegs, gun oils, meta nocks, marathon metals, orthotics, various knives and axes, various arrows, airplane bottles, glacier glasses, self esteem capsules, dregs of marijuana, gut hooks, Dutch ovens, trekking poles, cold fried venison loins, inflatable toast, a very red bra, etc.

So it was my bad. But please…

$175 fishhook???

Damn. Sometimes I feel the vet is a scam. They put my dog UNDER for a fucking fishhook? Well, at least she awoke. I guess that’s what you’re paying for.

Oh, and they kept my fishhook. Thanks, doc.

Happy fishing.


I am reading.


Uh, it kicks ass.




Some things make you miss life already. Here’s one.

Blake Butler. Venison Burger. My Depressed Brother.

Dinner was venison burger for me. I remember this deer well, a windy day in October, a perfectly placed arrow at 22 yards; and I would like to thank this deer in the Native American way of gratitude. I am not being sarcastic. I took a life, stilled an existence, and I do not take this act lightly. I hope through the act of preparation, the study, the hours of shooting my bow, the physical work of the hunt, the ethical killing shot, the work of bringing the animal home, of cleaning the animal, of eventually placing it here, on my plate, into my body, I can in some way make this a good act, or at least natural, and earned.



Here is a pic I ripped from Blake Butler’s blog.


He is holding his book, EVER. I bet he is proud as a dog with a roadkill sandwich. Ever is about to be read, by me. First I must finish The English Major by Jim Harrison and The White Road by Tania Hershman. I am halfway through both and have decent flow right now, so no worries. All these damn bloggers and their “I read 80-100 books a year, I have balls the size of oranges, etc…” got me recently pissed off, so I am focusing on reading many more books this year.

How will I do this?

1.) For the first time in over 10 years, I will not read every issue of the New Yorker magazine (though I will probably read all of the updated fiction).

2.) Increased use of stimulants.

3.) I will neglect my dog.

4.) Less attention to personal hygiene.

5.) I will refuse to fish or canoe on any Tuesday.


Matt Bell rocking out on the Caketrain Chapbook Contest. Good work, Matt. I will add thee chapbook to the many others coming to my icy cold mailbox in Muncie.

I already pre-ordered his chapbook with the most blurbs in the history of chapbook blurbing from Willows Wept Press.

I have a bunch of others coming but I sometimes order books while intoxicated so am not sure what titles, or really how many, or even where they are coming from, or going.



It is -8 in Muncie today. FUCK THAT. I feel like my depressed younger brother. This is a photo from my parent’s house, holidays past, and really one of his “better” moods. I think I beat him in some Playstation game right before this photo, or maybe in Jenga; and, as you can see (note bandage on R foot), he walked outside and cut his foot on a shard of broken dreams.

Murakami Birthday Velveeta Fictionaut to the Brain!

* I refuse to believe the Golden Globes are truly Golden.

* I refuse to believe in any god who can one day part a sea and the next cannot stop a tsunami.

* I refuse to believe in the Irish Channel section of New Orleans. That didn’t happen to your aquarium, Sarah, and if it did, I wasn’t there! Stop calling me!

* I refuse to believe in all-Velveeta weekends. Or that clothes make the man. Or that anyone who drinks Zima can be taken seriously in a game of bocce.


* I refuse to believe people regulate themselves very well (or want to, really).

* I refuse to believe bottled water isn’t from some tap, somewhere.

* I refuse to believe anything can happen to anyone at anytime. But I certainly understand the hope for.

* I refuse to believe in collecting butterflies (sorry Nabokov).

That’s about it for now. I think. My head goes whoosh-whoosh. My sinuses are stuffed with snow, and misgivings. Look outside, gray sky flattened out like antique watches in a case. I saw opossum tracks in the snow this morning. Right on my front porch. A dead thing skulking.


I really like this new Jimmy Chen work at Diagram. I am getting into the straight forward statements kind of work, the juxtapositions. This might be the influence of Ken Sparling. After I devoured his book in December, I wrote three Ken Sparling type pieces. (I usually write new ideas in series of three. This works, for me; and often does not work, for me.)

I write like a cow standing in the sleet.

Here is a great article about Ken. Check out how he produces his books:

“Consider his second book, Hush Up and Listen Stinky Poo Butt, which he began self-publishing on a made-to-order basis in 2000. Sparling printed the pages at home, had his wife sew the signatures, and then duct-taped it all together inside of the bindings of retired library books whose pages he’d removed. For a cover, he used pictures his two children had drawn. So far, he’s sold about 70 copies at $30 each. It’s been a while since he’s received an order, but Sparling says he’s ready to go at any time if one should come in.”

I love that last line, BTW, a little dry humor by the journalist. I miss dry humor. I’ve pretty much had enough of wet humor. Wet humor is loud. Wet humor is looking to see if we “got it.” Wet humor hangs pictures of itself all over its own apartment. Wet humor thinks Michelob is a microbrew.

One time I was out running on a Sunday and I passed an abortion clinic and sitting in the empty lot was an old green pickup dented truck, and Wet Humor at the wheel, all crazy-eyed and revving the engine–WHIREIRRIRI!!–all loud and blue coiling smoke and just sitting there in neutral and revving, revving, screaming engine; and I glanced over before crossing the road and made eye contact (stupid!) with Wet Humor and he busted open his door, jumped out toward me, stumbled through some landscaped bushes, his arms all grabby-clutch and face red, redder, twisted with spittle, some freak-o monster; and I ran like hell!

That was scary, people. My gods.

Ok, my heart is trippin’ down now…


I think my next literary match might involve Jimmy Chen. I have to think on the challenger. Might be Sexton, Yeats, or Mattie Stepanak.



1.) This guy killed an author to steal his identity. He wanted to steal a writer’s identity. A writer. He wanted to “be” a writer. Um, ok.

2.) This man writes about loneliness. Do you know why we are all lonely (person reading this who wants to make really, really clear they are in fact not lonely, go comment on some other blog)? Because we do not “connect with our true selves.” I think I’ve read a few French novels on this subject…

3.) Writers still have no idea what to call the toilet.



An AWP POKER GAME IS BREWING! Come to Chicago. Bring canned beer, a round table, some shiny Euros.


Fictionaut is getting tighter.

Some wicked stuff dropping in now. All kinds of fine reads. If you want an invite for the Beta version, gimme a yell.


Folks, today is Jack London’s birthday. That man told us not wait for inspiration but rather to club it, like a seal (his words).

Folks, today is Haruki Murakami’s birthday. I want you to stop by a coffee shop on the way home and order a beer.

Listen to the jazz.

Pick up a young girl who has the most perfect ankles in the world. She has to wear long, long pants–if anyone sees these ankles, they go into a swoon, then a seizure, then they leave their loved ones, their job, and all adult responsibilities forever for the young girl.

Once home, make clinical love. Do pushups. Drink another beer. Have miso soup.

Discover a tunnel below your washing machine. Grab the girl’s hand and enter the tunnel. Listen to the humming of the walls. The flex of machinery.

Insert talking cat.



Feel like this today…

Nacho Submissions. Ander Monson Frozen D Golf. Blar Me.

Ryan Call submitted this photo of his nachos last night. I encourage any nacho photos, or nacho related material to this blog. If we all spent our time preparing and eating nachos, there would be much less pettiness, hate, reality TV, and running over of husbands/wives/friends with our cars, I feel.


I won’t do an official rating because I haven’t tasted these nachos. To rate without taste would be like being married without the dinners, sex,  and arguments over finally re-painting the bathroom. Just wrong.

But as for visual, this looks solid. The bedrock chips are corn, and possibly organic (the black specks indicate a lack, or at least purposeful calibration, of processing). No wheat gluten here, thank gods! The chips weren’t baked by Ryan himself, but they aren’t Kansas City ballpark either. The insistence on a tomato based tertiary horizon is questionable, but this isn’t the southern hemisphere, now is it? And even there this stylistic decision might fly in some regions (most likely Chile or The Falklands). The cheese glistens. You can’t really say much more without working in a lumberyard. The green item (jalapeno, green pepper? Can I hope for chopped habanero?) is clumped into a quadrant. Again, really a regional distribution decision. Since the late 60s, quadrant clumping (also called saturation, or, in Mexico, agruparse) has pretty much infiltrated itself into the world of nachos, for better or worse.

The Nacho Queen (RIP) would be proud, Ryan. Good work, my man. I bet they tasted like walking next to a train, right before twilight.


We miss you Carmen Rocha! Thank you for all you did for nachos.


I can canoe and fish with my son in the spring. I can play disc golf until my shins bleed all summer. I can bow hunt all fall. But two months, I detest, January and February ( I really hate February, but will post on that later).

Anyway, here are a few January texts I have enjoyed. Thank you for making  my January less cold and lonely, peoples.

Mark Neely’s poem about January at Diagram.

A January story by Matt Bell.

A brief January essay by Brian Oliu

Three kick ass January poems by Arlene Ang.

One time I played disc golf with Ander Monson in January and our discs kept disappearing in tall wind-swept snowbanks (they left a little slash and you’d dig for them in the snow) and my fingers froze, then my lips froze, then my fucking beer froze in the bottle (!!) and I mumbled (could barely speak now), Ander, we got to go.


The arty print…


The classic. She is looking and thinking what people often think: What in the fuck is that metal thing?

(I have heard of people chaining bikes to disc golf baskets. Also, in Indy, a man laid out some tin foil and actually grilled out in a disc golf basket! Sweet.)


Thieves Jargon Masturbation, Drugs, Sex! A Book Review. Breakfast.

I have a new book review on NewPages about this book. You should read this book.



I don’t eat breakfast. Breakfast is a scam. They’ll tell you it’s the longest you go without eating, the hours you’re asleep (except for Blake, who nibbles Pop Tarts with one hand while typing with the other all night long), blood sugars tumbling like cat-struck flowers, blar, blar; then turn around in the next breath and advocate the benefits of fasting.

[Blake’s insomnia interview here]

Breakfast is an ulcer on the duodenum of our souls. It’s wooden cheese and stinky nickels. It’s dregs. Dregs and a shell game. Pitchforks and sunken heads on pitch forks and something aflame–as we march through the streets against breakfast.

You know that man at the holiday table who never finds anything funny, who thinks even the idea of funny is some kind of affront to the seriousness of life, to his worldview, as he begins his conversations with comments on current events with, “Now, I’m not trying to be bigoted here, but I’m older and…” That’s breakfast.

You know the woman with no hobbies, the eyes glazed over like a dead fish? That’s breakfast.

You know the kid in the classroom who announces to everyone he’s never read a book and “made it this far just fine.” Breakfast.

The girl who locks herself in the bathroom at the party and starts screaming The Cure lyrics until someone finally notices? Breakfast.

The guy who won’t bail his friend from jail at midnight; who pretends he didn’t even get the call. The lady who screws up her face and says “It’s just not natural.” Those that loves their pets more than human beings. Those that treat the elderly like children, that talk to them with the condescending kiddy-kiddy-hush voice. That in their shriveled onion hearts hate gays. Hate foreigners. Hate a perfectly formed cloud. That drive SUVs with Jesus Fishes. That never tip correctly. That hold dry weddings (oh God no!). That, with a simmering, simmering envy, resent everything that glows and claps and blossoms and verves and candles across thin, thinner, thinnest diamonds of ice.



They ate breakfast…

* I come in from hunting, a wet and cold October in Tennessee. Grandmother gives me a look of concern, of pity: I’m a skinny man and skinny is suspicious. Shakes her head, says, “You don’t eat meat and you don’t eat eggs. How about I make you some cathead biscuits?”

I don’t eat breakfast!

* Years back, separated from my wife due to a mutual understanding of dislike, I lived alone in a cold, strange city. I slept on the floor, ate my meals in smoky bars, etc. But I had a kind neighbor (we shared rooms in a giant mansion in Heritage Hill, GR), and he’d recognize my disequilibrium, and Saturdays he’d stroll over–me sprayed out like an insect in microbrew fumes–and enter into my room (I was fatalistic at this time, and locked nothing. Strangely, I wanted someone to break in.) and say, “Sean, The Red Geranium has the best breakfast in town. Let’s go.”

I don’t eat breakfast!

* I used to be a pretty fast road runner. I was sponsored; I would often win the actual race, blah, blah. And afterward, the younger, or maybe just slower, runners would gather around and ask about training and race strategy, kind of hoping for the golden charm that makes one runner faster than another (there isn’t one–unless routine pain is a golden charm). And invariably they’d get to, What did you eat this morning, right before the race?

Nothing! I don’t eat breakfast!


He does.


Damn the new Smokelong Q is strong! Go read it, you breakfast eaters! Might do you some good.


I have a new piece at Thieves Jargon.

It involves dildos, drug use, and abused puppies. Pretty exciting, huh?

I like this mag, but when asked to submit, I thought, “Can I write something appropriate to this venue? Something crusty, dripping, hemorrhaging into the bruised and thin pile carpet of humanity? I think I can. Maybe…