I ran 13 miles yesterday, good flow, fast finish. Now my left foot feels like a brick or a potable couch, but like a brick or potable couch I handed to you and you were like, Look, I’m going to pour rotgut vodka on this brick or potable couch and set it on fire, and then you handed it back to me only I wasn’t looking at you directly (bad habit) and took this flaming brick or potable couch from your hand and reattached it to my ankle because the F-brick or F-potable couch is actually my left foot, see, and now I hobble a bit down the hallways but hide my hobbling because I don’t want anyone to talk to me about my foot.
“Hey, why are you shuffling like that?”
“I’m not shuffling, I’m hobbling. Leave me alone. Let me be, like cold coffee.”
“Is coffee a drug? Don’t do drugs. Does coffee make you feel important?”
“Shut-up! Go buy an overcoat or something! Let me be!”
But that’s all normal. I broke my heel almost ten years ago and this has been my left foot area ever since, a brick or a potable couch, in flames. The doctor said I would never run again. Ha, ha, and ha!
He had this look like I was supposed to hand him a vase. I hate that look.
Many marathons later…
Fucking doctors. Their mystique doesn’t work on me–I used to be a nurse. I know about the little man behind the curtains, folks. I know about the fishing boats with the tiny engines, the billing and the phone cards and the blue glow of stretched cotton. Etc.
Anyway, ice and ibuprofen, then I got me a good tempo run I’ll do 2morrow. I want pain. I will curl pain into a pot like a fucking cobra. Hiiiisssssssssssssssssssssss
Mount Lemmon is known for mountain lions. I mean pumas. I mean cougars. Whatever, big-ass cats. They are like Carver stories–they get 8 names or some shit.
(Here is one of the first news articles I have seen on the race–more coming as the race nears!)
You should use three exclamation marks your whole life, ass. God, I look at my writing sometimes and I want to kick a little heartbeat into Wendy. Just grapple in the decade, you know?
I have decided to call the October race The Purge Of Knees, a phrase I like and recently incorporated into a micro-fiction/prose poem series.
The very road…
I am going to AWP! First, I thought I wasn’t, but now I am. Will be doing a Rose Metal Eggs signing on Saturday, and the remainder of the time some BSU work. Lots of stuff going on, but mostly looking forward to buying a ton of sweet books. Last year I got true gems. I hope HTML does something rad, like a polka or something. Maybe place a potted plant on the roof of a car wash, some stunt like that.
beer like preadolescent catalogues
like rage of an age, some tumbling knuckle
In AWP’s honor I dropped three prose poems at Denver Syntax:
Well, isn’t that dandy as cod people think is haddock.
I just had an urge to play roulette but the nearest roulette table is electronic roulette and who in the fuck would play electronic roulette? Idiot. OK, I’m over it now, the urge to play roulette.
I am doing a serial reading thing, you know, where you read two, three books consecutively. I am reading Factory Made, an Andy Warhol book, and one I read years ago. The HTML folks have been on an Andy Warhol jag and it made me think about the Warhol books I own and then to leaf through a few and next thing I need to re-read this book. So I am. Also reading Aaron Burch’s chapbook, winner of the PANK contest. Then the Murakami running book.
Oh Andy you are so ironic to take the photo of the photographer taking your photo of you taking a photo of…
Holy fuck I won the Irish lottery again!!
I would like to meet Morrissey at a bar and have him tell me to place my hands flat on the bar and then he nails my hands to the bar. And I have this evidence. Greatest crooner ever, folks. See the blood?