Monthly Archives: August 2010

braying glass banana machine curves of deliverance glow

Deliverance, the book, is 40 years old. That’s older than Jesus C, in theory. Glow changing water to wine. Glow not-owning-a-damn-thing. [OK, sandals] Glow whitewater and the sound of a boat being sucked away/throat-down like meat from a bone. [Yes, I did almost drown canoeing, but I did return]. Glow spray. Glow eddies. Glow the human-face shape of a rock formed after years of river over its nose.

Glow Deliverance/James Dickey article here.

What do I think?

1. Glow movie. Best movie Burt Reynolds ever made. He could have been a contender, but he fucked it all up. He could have been an actor.

(And don’t give me some Longest Yard bullshit)

2. The James Dickey cameo is OK, but no backwoods sheriff would have that mouthful of crystal white choppers.

[Now they pay the writers to go away. Far away.]

3. The infamous “scene” should be infamous. It is the linchpin to the plot. It is integral and essential. Do you want to look away? Fine, but you must take the next step: why do you want to look away? It is the flame to the fuse to the whole damn explosion.

I actually knew a prof who would not show the rape scene to his class. Why show the damn film? He would pause the film, skip the scene, and then show the film. I did not respect this decision. I found it ludicrous, misguided, wrong. I found it the very thing a teacher should be against.

Yes, the scene is visceral. So what?

The blank face, the cut, the still, the silence, the “let’s skip this.” These are valid responses to life?

4. In the book and movie, the bow hunting deer scene is a contrast/setup later for the bow hunting human scene. It is a marker for change, protagonist change, and a smart structural device.

5. The book is a testament to why EVERY fiction writer needs to write/read poetry before ever starting on prose. The word, the line, the sentence is what writing is all about. Poets know. Fiction writers should. Plot/suspense and beautiful prose are not mutually exclusive.

The Sheep Child disturbing, as in amazing.

People, honest, smart people, keep talking about Deliverance and then saying, as an add-on: “Dickey was also a poet.”

Shows you something. But I digress. I was talking about words.

[To all those who have not read The Sentence is a Lonely Place.

Linking this makes me feel like a prof teaching “The Things They Carried”

Let it go.

But still Lutz...]

6. Deliverance, the movie, kick-started the canoeing boom in this country.


That’s:  Jaws making you want to go for a swim. Or

Hey, I just saw The Ring, call me.


Robb Todd at PANK.

Seductive. Building to crescendo. Step by step, drink by drink. And next thing you know we are dreaming of Gordon Lish…


I think the person-visiting-foreign-country is one of the most cliche lit mag stories in the whole damn galactic volcano world. So I respect this. Todd pulled it off. So dank beers to you, sir.

Here is an interview of Robb Todd.


The Boy in a philosophical moment. Moments later he would rod/reel in a clam the size of a thimble. He would say, “I didn’t get skunked, did I?”This clam was the size of a sigh.

[later some dude brought us a pizza we did not order. it was chicken. i would never eat a chicken–that’s cruel. these are life-moments i enjoy.]

The waters were angry that day, my friend. The waters were profoundly urban. Chalky. Plucked on strings of gray and hot lunches of dry erase marker soup. I want to say bar-of-soap sky but I think I ripped that from Annie Dillard. I know DFW would call this sky the color of a faded cotton shirt. Half a million writers would say pearl, but we all would suck.

We mostly all suck.


The new semester has started. I am teaching fiction and fiction and graduate fiction. This is a glow life. The students are glow, honestly.

I’ll tell you what: students get quicker, smarter, better. Every year. Any teacher in the world knows quicker/smarter/better is what you want in a class.


We have a new coffee machine at BSU and that makes me believe I am in the future. Feels like Sleeper but less satire, less dangerous. You can’t take the machine that seriously. Although it is taller than Us and impressive enough to see/feel that it could beat your ass in chess. Machine is tall and sturdy and earth-colored and feels like a robot, yes, but a kind, serious robot about to set you up with some quality Joe. So wary. I am wary. It claims to grind/brew the coffee a few seconds after you put in your 50 cents (regular) or 75 cents (premium). And it often does.

Good thing for Us, it often does not. I get what I “order”/punch in  about 17 percent of the time.

The coffee is oily coffee and makes me shiver some. It isn’t dregs, just keen, like turpentine or when you leap out a moving truck. I drink it and my mind is a hamster that has escaped and made its bed in the crinkly green grass of an Easter basket. You reach down and it bites you.


If your coffee doesn’t have a narrative inside it’s core/bean, a story wanting to hatch with every sip, why in the hell are you drinking it? Coffee should make you shudder, should kill you as it glows–like any drug.


I made an evening of drinking mojitos and googling photos of the world’s tallest man and thought surely this giant will die soon, and he did the following morning.

This is from Steve Stringer’s excellent elimae.

The opening. Sets us up with realism and turns to magical, twists us up, quick. There’s a Murakami story where the man wakes and makes toast and he’s about to head to work and then the author writes something like, “He was on his way to the elephant factory.”

The man worked in the “trunk” division, but I think was later transferred to Ears. Later comes a dancing dwarf.

Stringer catches something here, the fumes/fuel mix of alcohol, and this “giant,” most likely a wound of some sort, most likely one of those ghosts that haunt every hotel and give them layers of glow.

Thank you, Steve.

Hotels can be horny. Or sometimes sad. It’s hard to get my head around hotels. People come and go. For some reason I feel hotels are like graveyards, but that makes little sense. Hotels have lots of clunks and down-the-hall sounds. You can lie in bed and listen all night. Sometimes a headlight will paint the walls. The bed always makes me pause. What a history! If you look behind the headboard, on the floor, you will usually find straw wrappers, bottle caps, child toys, other things…You can open a bottle of beer on the jamb of a hotel door. Any hotel door. There’s a tip for you. Do you tip the sad people who clean the rooms? They talk loudly so you know they are sad. Nothing is more sad than being loud. Sometimes I sit in a hotel and feel like a boulder, but a hollow boulder and that’s called a geode, I think.

May all our giants return, I say.


The Third Annual Donald Barthelme Prize for Short Prose ends very soon. So if this is what you do, do it now.

Prize is $1000. Or eighty-three (83) Zombie Undead Jesus Necklaces.


A fucking galactic supervolcano erupted a few days ago. This explains a lot of things. Like war, people who don’t tip bartenders, Nicholas Sparks, people who don’t let you play through in disc golf, some lady named Mrs. Rose who opened a CHRISTIAN THRIFT STORE near my house.

What in the hell is a Christian thrift store?

Do I need to worship a Christian god to get in the door? Does an alarm sound? Do I take an oath? Are you going to card me?

What do they sell? Like only Christian things? Like Mary on a piece of burnt toast or old pamphlets or ceramic apples or golf clubs or high heel shoes or tree limbs or dusty church pews?

1. Jesus key chain that makes people think you drive a Lexus (?), $1.95.

2. Jesus air freshener, $1.50.

3. Grow your own Jesus, $2.50.

Maybe they sell peacocks and Flannery O’Connor books. Here is the story where the devil is a hero for being honest and shooting a grandmother, Mrs. Rose.

[Yesterday I found a shotgun shell in a graveyard. Who shoots off a shotgun in a graveyard?]



I am in a book with Michael Martone, Jim Daniels, Bonnie Jo Campbell, Daniel Orozco, Kennebrew Surant, Rick Attig, Lolita Hernandez, Michael Martone, Matthew Salesses, Matt Bell, M. Kaat Toy, Billie Louise Jones, Lita Kurth, Anne Shewring, Dustin Hoffman, Tania Hershman, Nick Kocz, Michael Zadoorian, Steve Himmer, Pete Anderson, Pete Fromm.

This book.

I tell my students repeatedly one of the best subjects in the world is work, work, work, so I glow to be in this anthology. To walk the walk. Etc.

BTW, the anthology includes Matt Bell’s infamous Fried Chicken story.

You haven’t read it? Are you an icking fidiot? Here, dumbass.



Lollygag, you fucker.




I just had a great run. Almost spiritual. And I don’t say that lightly. Runner’s High is a bit of a pop term, and not so accurate, usually. But I did feel high today, floaty, yes, spiritual. So.

So I have no interest in the organized  religions of man. I believe in the religion of Motion. Of river. Of arrow/disc in flight. Of apple tumbling from tree. Of fish. Of the body, running.

Today was some weird flow. Runners know it. Tough to capture. Tough to figure. You feel like the runner and the run. Form=Function. Like you were born running. It doesn’t happen that often. You have to be thankful. You have to hope it happens again…

It felt like this:

corn, corn, golden kernels of hot sauce–my lunch


oh my, a mix pack. they do mix packs now, i drank the 6 quickly and my knees soared around the hotel room i was blue but sort of a deep-end blue with a tiny dime shimmering on the bottom


J is my mother


possibly i need a haircut a need i possibly


dinner on Lake Michigan

And the run went exactly like this:

6:00 mile pace  X 800      6:00 mile pace X 800      5:56 mile (full mile)

5:52 mile (full mile)      5:49 mile pace X 800      5:49 mile pace X 800

5:24 mile pace X 800

Whew. But I felt like I could have just kept on running into South America, or maybe to that former planet, Pluto, poor thing, or maybe right into the heart of all of this confusion we call Our Life.


Pay attention to Caren Beilin.

I said pay attention.

I used to make out with the household iron.

I said!

I’d like to trample you in an old fashioned manner. A writer comes along, a writer comes along. You know, sometimes you read something exponential bad-ass:

At the zoo you can buy animal balloons, dead birds on strings given shots of helium into the rectum and they jounce overhead attached by the string for an hour.

Here it is. Go fucking read.

Oh my


Quick Fiction 17 Review [sparklehorsemotherfuck!!!]

The cover is a tightrope walker by Laura Niemi Young. The man appears to be holding an open bottle of wine. The clouds are indicative of a breezy day. The man is focused, but a tad bit worried. As far as metaphors for flash fiction, I will give this a Splinter Trumpet and  a Hell Yes! Also an Eat Broken Necklace Award. It is possible the man is about to fall. Or is he wanting his audience to believe so? Maybe he wants the audience to feel something they will never see–like all his internal bruising along the toes. His wife back home and their silent dinners. The sound of a life falling onto the roof. Possibly he owns a stupid, stupid dog. I will let you extend out the remainder of the metaphor on your own.

1. There are four types of stories. Man leaves town. Man comes to town. Man freaks out, steals beer, deploys emergency chute, and leaps out of an airplane. (I vote this one of the most badass job rages ever–I simply love this flight attendant.) Or, in the words of Susan Denning, Man maybe comes to town, forgets own quintessence, lies down in a river. This flash reminds me of when I think it’s Tuesday but it’s really Australia, circa 1999, and I sit up in bed and dress for my job as a spoon salesman and The Smiths on the radio and all my regret not making out more in graduate school and learning to SCUBA around whale sharks. Denning is a runner, and understands that movement is within/without us all, so we love her.

Slept by the river and the rocks sang hopeful

2. Anthony Luebbert writes about Bobby Kennedy. Do I glow persona fiction? You know I do. This reminded me a bit of the classic Robert Kennedy Saved from Drowning. Both are smart, spot-on, a bit of Golden Head Cage. And Luebbert can drop a wonderful, flowing sentence:

Robert Kennedy returned from work, entered the front door of his large white house, Hickory Hill, kicked off his shoes, removed his suit coat, loosened his tie, walked over the black and white tiles of the hallway floor, past the enormous black Newfoundland named Brumus, five children, the governess, a nurse, three maids, past the open doors leading to the rooms all painted in bright reds and greens, unbuttoned his shirt, tousled his hair, walked out the back door past the iguana and the sea turtle, removed his shirt, his belt, his pants, headed toward the swimming pool where a young sea lion sat poolside, and he (in just shorts and socks) and the sea lion dove into the cool water.

Amen. All you kinds might want to learn from Luebbert: the sentence is a wonderful tool. This one escalators us as it informs, as it characterizes, as in engages in serious play. Complete text here.

3. Alexandra Salerno with an “Autobiography.” This felt like a Cheever flash, the hidden worlds, the whispers in the hedges, the hollow cigarettes–all of it drenched in alcohol. It captured the beetles beneath the lawn. Bruise behind the too-red lipstick. Ants in the kitchen of your brain. The swirl/gray pearl of adulthood.

4. Round Midnight is right here. Read it. The language just drifts you away, smoky, hot, beautiful. I liked every single word but sepia. Sepia sounds like someone is writing a goddamn poem.

[A bird has built a house in the bottom of a potted flower I have outside. To save the flower, I have to uproot the bird. To let the bird and its family live, I need to let the flower die. Advice?]


“It’s the end of the world,” my father proclaimed at the breakfast table, rising in his bear-checked pajamas. “Not again,” my mother replied, emptying the scraps on the plates into the garbage and putting the dishes into the dishwasher.

I wish I had written that opening. I did not. Jeff Friedman did. There is a domestic paranoia he catches in his words immediately, a tight, sweating fist. I feel the linoleum sagging into a giant black hole.

6. Nicola Dixon knows that every object has an echo, a connotation. Cool name too, BTW. Glass menagerie, indeed, only this time it is soap. Seahorse soap. Cow soap. Soap cleans you but what cleans the soap? Etc. Quirky material, quirky language, undercurrent of anger, or frustration, the type that wonders why can’t humans ever tolerate one another, I mean for very long?

[Every rectangle I have been trapped in, I had the butter knife right there in my hand]

7. Amy Holwerda snags the clarity an illness will force upon us. Everything is brighter now. More violent in its immediacy:

juicy meat from the bones…


8. I get a Peter Markus feel from “Clean Dead Leaves,” the form/function, the layering of words/leaves, the need to clean and the moment you are not cleaning–more dead leaves arrive!! Also, uh, we are walking dead leaves. As you know. Munch. Mulch. Bye.

9. Flash fiction is a biology to capture the blur. Kirsten Rue cocoons illness. Illness is lonely and fantastic and real and odd and very similar to becoming air. Language is amazing in certain hands. Rue bends the words to form caterpillars. See the poison?

Her arm hurt and she could see why: a ribbon of pale green tubing connected to a bottle, dripping jewel by jewel.

10. Anna Anderson has a lyrical name. I just said her name aloud into my orange walls and up sprang an image of hot cocoa. Now sure why. Also lyrical are her sentences.

…tiptoed to the bathroom like a husband

…the bed I lowered to be closer to the ground

This work is tight, it shards off each sentence, each paragraph. It catches the oddness of things. Of objects. I think maybe every image has a bulb inside that glows and whenever we see or think of the object–violin, coat, mail, shoe–the bulb glows brighter.

11. Gary Young is not the founder of Young Living Essential Oils. He did found a press. I’d rather found a press than oils. I suppose you have to press something to get the oils, no? But it isn’t pages. If you drank the oil from pressed pages? I don’t know.

[A lot of weight loss herbal stuff is just straight-up speed]

This flash does what flash is allowed to do–poetry. It is an argument for art. It is an image, a narrative imagining, and I will say no more. I think spoilers are for milk left in cribs overnight.

12. Go ahead, read The Middle Distance.

13. Flare starts like this. It is an atmospheric piece of writing. I find it wonderful when writers can clutch how you feel when staring into flames and then unfold that idea into walls and bicycles. I suppose I mean to say this flash fiction is something that turns night into day into night into that moment before we fall into sleep and we thank your daily genius, Kathryn Scanlan.

[I have actually seen adult men bring acoustic guitars to bonfires. Even the sea groaned that day]

14. Thisbe Nissen uses the sentence, the connectors, the starts and halts of words and punctuation, to form a stuttering, shall we say muttering–death, death, death–sales pitch. Plots for Sale.


Ash settled on leaves. Do crematoriums have chimneys?

[There is no fucking way anyone of putting me in a box, period. FUCK BOXES.]

15. Andrew Michael Roberts was or is a Juniper Fellow? What does that mean? I don’t know, but it makes me think he knows Robin Hood and can cast spells by mixing bark, newt tears, chewing gum, and the tail feathers of a dead crow.

sparklehorsemotherfuck is the best word I have read in two weeks of intense reading. It is the best word in Quick Fiction 17, so far. I would like to name my car, my kid, my house, my life, sparklehorsemotherfuck.

16. J.A. Tyler has this head and out this head flows words, daily. It’s like a Pumpkin Walk or a geyser. There must be a lot of pressure inside him, words and sentences and wondrous ideas screaming at his ears, eyes, mouth, ass, penis, fingertips–trying to explode!!

[I have yet to see my use of exclamation marks as anything but shabby]

Dude can write, I’m saying.

“The Mountain Lion” is a metaphor here, and this work gets me thinking: Why does every community claim to have spotted a mountain lion? Even the local liquor store, right up the road from my house, the guy will pull out this crumpled, folded photo of a blurry thing in a vast field of soybeans– “See, a mountain lion!”

[Same guy once said to me, “You look like one of Obama’s boys.” What does that mean?]

Tyler knows we have this deep need to believe in all that might be–like the mythology of family.

17. Anthony Varallo riffs on the word, collect. This is the type of thing you think you could do, and you could, but it’s tough to do well.

Done very well here, and I now have a new assignment for this semester. Give each student one word and let them write a flash riff on that one word. Show them Varallo’s work as an example. Thank you, Anthony. I think I met you once at a museum, but maybe I was drunk and am wrong.

[Sometimes I go to museums expecting to see a Warhol and they won’t have the Warhol and I’ll think Where is the Warhol and then think, Why do you need to see something so ordinary as a Warhol, what is wrong with the gold coins and the bird and the painting with the bathtub and the toaster and the one where they guy painted his wife to look like a wall?]

18.Thomas Cooper shows us that flash is organic. The entire world is a flash.

Interview answer:

I was drawn to flash fiction, honestly, out of frustration and impatience. At the time, most of my longer stories had turned out crappy, and just about everyone rejected the few I considered decent. They wrote notes like, “Why is this so long? What’s your problem?” So I figured I’d spend more time concentrating on smaller things, if only to reign in some of my prolix tendencies.

What in the fuck is a “prolix tendency”? That sounds so badass. I mean that’s damn near close to sparklehorsemotherfuck.


How often do you get to eat a heart?

Add a knife.

I think you want to read the flash by now. So go buy the fucking magazine.

20. Who is Gabe Durham?

I guess a violently erotic reaction would be my top choice.

Gabe Durham, I owe you a beer. I consider “Intake Until You” one of the most glow flashes in this issue. Tight, tight. A camera flash caught in the chest of a live sparrow, I feel.

21. What in the hell is “Landwehrkanal”?

It is important to not Google just because you feel like Googling. It’s like cooking by open flame or opiates or holding a Sartre play in stereo. You should do it occasionally.


A fly and I got on an elevator

This is the type of opening sentence that will lead to hair-snakes or roulette tables or at least a woman leaping from a gondola while aflame. Another lesson for my students? You could begin a universe with that prompt. A fly and I got on an elevator.

23. “The Feather” is one of those flashes that use an object as its core. And Loory does a sweet job with the tone, how a single feather can be meaningless, or the center of the world.

I got a real Danill Kharms from this piece. And that is glow.

24. We end with the essence of flash fiction? What is it?

It was the way the sun hit the stones sprawled across your lawn.

Is that enough for you? It isn’t?

Then you, sir or madam, are a “new Star Trek poster” or “a stray hair on the passenger seat.”

I mean lost.





Lobster Video Game Sedaris Smallmouth Hobart decomP

Life is oddly. You dream about car accidents and dappled nachos. You rub the eyes from your sleep. Stumble into a clutter and hate yourself. For a moment. Bills and printer ink and some cartoon where blue frog-people scream green things. Hi son. It is Sunday and I need to trim the shrubbery–would you like to go bowling? Shoes have wheels now. You go bowling and go to get a bowling alley beer (little plastic cups) and tumble right into a Lobster Zone game. A game with live lobsters. A bowling alley game with live lobsters.

Really, What-the-fuck?

Here is what we know:

1. It costs two bucks to play. You can use your charge card.

2. You use a claw to snag the live lobster. Or: “Unlike any other crane machine, we use a pneumatic system that allows the claw to close beneath the water surface in the tank – not before the claw meets the water. Electrical systems in other machines run directly into the water, risking electrocution of the lobsters.”

3. Here is that damn DFW lobster essay.

4. You catch the lobster and they cook it right there, in this bowling alley type of place most likely known for fries and toasted cheeses and chicken fingers. Possibly they deep fat fry the lobster? I ponder. Little crinkly cups of beer. Four strikes, four spares. There is a lady in here looks like a pumpernickel. Hi lady, my back hurts a lot lately. Hi, she replies, I’m about to smoke a cigarette because I am a fan of The Smiths. On the TV a man pushes another man down. Ok, bye.

5. Here is a video of a successful catch in Las Vegas:

6. There’s something creepy and wrong about this idea and machine, but who am I to say? As a reward for teaching CTY all semester, The Johns Hopkins folks use to throw us all a big-ass seafood party in Rhode Island. Clam cakes, clam rolls, clam chowda (red and white), lobsters. I once ate six lobsters for dinner. Six. I’m not sure the appropriate amount of lobsters you should eat, but it is not six. Don’t do that. OK? Pain. Echoes of. I wouldn’t do it again. I’m actually not sure I would eat another lobster, but I might. I eat some seafood. No other meat, naturally, unless I myself kill the animal, but I digress.


New August decomP.

I glow The Mysteries by Alexandra Isacson:

She tried to keep herself from blurring into watercolors. Lucent, her blue-violet eyes fixed on a powdered Tarot.

“Yeah, I cut lines with that card,” he said.

Jennifer Moore with Vegas poem. Great title, momentum, flow. You caught a shard there, Jennifer, and you held it to the neon light and it became a prism. We thank you.

Ambivalence is a mumbling groom, focusing his gaze on the bridesmaids;

none of these women are fathomable. Leave the open bar, the pool
tables, the girls willing to do everything.


I ran 12 miles at an incline yesterday, but who gives a shit?

This dude ran a half marathon (13.1 miles) and drank a beer for every mile! Whoa. Why didn’t I think of this? Yes, he vomited, blacked-out, was nearly run down by traffic, but no pain, no malt liquor or whatever. He says:

Perhaps even more problematic are the goddamned do-gooders and paramedics onhand in case of medical emergencies. They will take your swerving, stumbling, and vomiting as signs of delirium or fatigue, and then get all interventionny and try to take away your beer. That can not happen.

This guy is no “goddamned do-gooder” and you got to like him.


Lopped a Sedaris book yesterday. Engulfed in Flames. That’s a yell/hell of a title (and skull on the cover) but the book doesn’t really come across as dark and desperate as its possible aim. Sedaris isn’t so glow at titles anyway. The New Yorker often changes the titles of his essays, from book to magazine (or the other way?). The excellent (and truly funny, as in awkward and angry) “Turbulence” appears as “Solution to Saturday’s Puzzle,” a limp and obvious title at best. “Turbulence” has more metaphorical punch, more Clear Winner, and doesn’t force itself on us like a Barbed Bird.

The book took a day to read. This while busy. There were dark and funny pieces, and there was fluff. As usual, the pieces read cleanly–Sedaris obviously edits hard (over-edits at times, some essays so intent on wrapping up in a neat little bow). Sedaris, at his current age, works best when he gets deeper into the bone, into the gristle–his reflections on a skeleton that continually says, “You are going to die.” A sort of Bartleby riff. The cigarette/addiction essay. Or even better when he addresses homosexual issues, and his obvious anger on the subject, a real, earned, valid anger. I wish we could see more of it. I actually wish he would go blue more; he does at readings. He really does. He is in the a-reading-is-different-than-a-book camp. He’s more a stand-up comedian at readings. More a careful writer in his books.

Sometimes Sedaris loses that sympathetic narrator he has always controlled. In earlier books, Sedaris makes fun of everyone, but always includes himself. That’s his trick. Sometimes, in Flames, he comes across as too wealthy, too cosmopolitan, too, well, what he probably is: successful. It’s a tough line to walk. People laugh at fat comedians, etc. People like a narrator who is a bit down, especially in mini-essays. But Sedaris knows this. This genre is Sedaris, so he adds health problems and ineptitude and pratfalls and social errors and whatever mix to make himself a sympathetic buffoon. A smart buffoon. Yes. And I’ll read the words of a smart buffoon.

Sometimes the pieces have a whiff of bullshit, and Sedaris now claims in interviews, “They are 9o something percent true.” If you read enough Sedaris, you’ll respect him for how much is NOT bullshit, but you’ll also see how transparent he is when trying to fake something, an inconceivable coincidence (probably while he’s trying to tie aforementioned bow) or a forced stretchy of lengthy, perfect dialogue.

In the end, you respect the man. He do glow. He’s a bit of a magpie genius. He lives everyday taking little notes, writing them up, editing, then we get these little essays. And he does it again and again. Mostly they are worth reading. Sometimes even truly funny, as in humor laced with roiling clouds, anger, frustration–the real stuff of life, and literature. Sometimes you go: how did he do that? None of this is easy. As we know.


New Hobart bringing it all tongue of cigarette, hacking cough.

I glow Kristine Ong Muslim.

We figure the leaves will find a way back into the house, where they take more than their share of furniture. The smell of ruin and the lack of rain outside has not permeated the house yet. That must be what draws them to us, draws them indoors where we multiply when faced by extinction.

You take a thing, it expands. You freeze a thing, inspect closely, it expands. One purpose of writing. To see what falls.

I glow Matt Mullins.

Mutiny is the last I remember.  being pitched over.  only to awaken here.   drowning in an Aeron chair.  typing my own ransom memo for the corporate pirates who pay me in somnambulistic days.  unsure how I was fished out and tanked.

The man shreds some sentences here in a fascinating way. As I told him over D golf, “You let the sentences heighten the claustrophobia of the situation. Good job.”


I went cross-training. What does that mean? I took my brother fishing. We drank weak beer and caught strong fish. My brother kept catching sucker fish. Nasty. Suckers fight like submerged Cheetos. You just drag them in…

I reeled in the giant sporting fish, the smallmouth bass. It fought like a parking lot. A screeching tire. RAINBOW, RAINBOW, RAINBOW!!!

Then I let the fish go.