Category Archives: Random

Velveeta Damn it!!

I am writing only about Velveeta for the remainder of 2011. Example:

Velveeta, 3 Snapshots

1.

Clouds. 7 Leaves plastered upon

a yellow wheel

barrow

lower back tattoo

stretched by hunger.

 

2.

Where do we put the beer?

Crisper emptied of plums

flung into ceiling fan.

Red crock-pot on Bobby’s head.

Hair drips like eels

lifted from a glazed sea

of RO*TEL.

 

3.

Whirling micro waves

swarm the air.

The apparition of a spoon.

Who double-dipped

their tranquility?

On the beads of the bowl

TV glitters.

*

Here is another at Juked.

I thank you glossily,

S

I shoot a sonnet with a rifle and chili and I don’t know

Made some venison chili. As usual, I just grab whatever and throw it in the pot. I saw this massive pepper at the store.  I’m not sure what type of pepper. Anyway, I brought it home and threw it into my chili. I punctured it seven times with a knife first, to let the heat and flavor seep into my chili. The chili was level 6, so I’m not sure if this process worked. This might be my last chili for a while. Spring is not for chili. Spring is for fish tacos and shrimp nachos and golden beer. Spring is for taking my kid canoeing and fishing. Spring is for running 26.2 miles. Spring is disc golf. Spring I might try to strangle a flower to life,  if I can, I’m thinking below my mailbox. No, I will go fishing. I don’t go around saying, “I’d rather be fishing.” I am not a green ball cap in a store in TN with wonderful potato wedges. You know why? Because I am out fishing and yes I curse too often around my son and sometimes instead of a rightful dinner I give him Cool Ranch Doritos and maybe a cup of blue yogurt but damn if that boy won’t have wonderful memories of fishing and the ability to catch fish and to read the dips, curves, eddies of a river and navigate a canoe and just realize for a second that we are actually the river and the river is us, our very blood and pooling synapses and that’s why it feels good, son, feels good to leave all the nonsense behind and get a cooler, two rods/reels, a bag of roasted peanuts, a big-ass Pepsi for you, a red canoe and kiss/wave/cough the crazy world goodbye to go fishing.

*

I did a YASOO 800 X 14 last evening.

4 X 6:00 mile pace.     4 X 5:56     4 X 5:52     Then one at 5:49, one at 5:27 mile pace.

The last one I was so exhausted and coughing a bit and I just didn’t know if I could finish the full 800 but then I remembered years ago Lance Armstrong said, “You can surprise yourself how the mind can overcome the body’s limits.”

(I used to dislike Lance because he was dating Sheryl Crow and I have a major crush on Sheryl Crow and didn’t want to have to imagine Lance pedaling all over her.)

That seems obvious or corny or whatever, but it is actually very true. So I just told my body, “Legs that feel like dead fish, lungs that whimper glass, you are going to stop soon, OK, you get to stop soon, but NOT RIGHT NOW.”

And I finished my last 800 and stumbled into the shower. I felt very tired but very alive and anyone reading this who has really pushed their body out there, out there into what I call The Crucible, knows what I am saying. Runners run because it makes you feel alive and real and actually spending a moment in your body NOT questioning, NOT questioning, wearing yourself like your skin is indeed yours and maybe things will be OK or glow for a little while.

Pretty solid, but I have been ill lately and the training has been lame-o like a duck. I need another long run before the marathon. I am am semi-fit but certainly need more mileage. The illness (a nagging cold) cut down on my mileage. We’ll see.

[Note: running at night is never smart. My metabolism was all sped up and my body hot for hours and I sit there in bed with tired legs and a very awake mind.]

*

Corium Magazine be crazy like talking soda. Lauren Becker did not fuck around! Thanks for asking me aboard, Lauren.

I have a prayer in the new Divine Dirt Quarterly. It is centered and I didn’t write it centered. I have never written a centered poem in my life, but maybe it’s just an editorial decision on their part or maybe they will change it or maybe it doesn’t really matter at all. I mean I got a mortgage and this little gutter on my house that sags weird like a broken rib and my dog is so stupid and never sits or comes back and here I am blabbing about some centered poem.

*

Over at HTML Blake got drunk and read a selection from Drunk Sonnets.

Drunk Sonnet blog here.

My interview of Daniel Bailey (Sonnet author) here.

Damn! I can’t get Blake’s sonnet video to embed. Have no idea why. I am an idiot.

Here, go to The Faster Times and watch it. It is worth a watch. Blake is trashed. Don’t drink like that, children.

Well, you know, I am a big fan of Blake and I am basically  a lemming so waited two days and knocked back a beer or seven and read another Drunk Sonnet, # 18. I then went outside and shot the sonnet with a tricked-out squirrel rifle, as is my way.

Enjoy. And remember, I am trained in both firearms and poetry, so don’t try this at home, kids.

S

Yasso Disc Review

Yesterday I did a Yasso that made my legs eat their father. 13 X 800.

4 X 6:00 mile pace     4 X 5:56 mile pace.    2 X 5:52 mile pace.    2 X 5:45 mile pace.    Last 800 at 5:30 mile pace.

I felt proud afterward. I actually gave myself a pat on the back. I physically patted my own back. This might be like going 3rd person. Like if I said, “Sean ran well today. Sean gave 110 percent out there.”

Reporter: What about the hotel room in Guam?

Sean: Sean thinks, It is what it is. I mean it’s a war out there and I apologize for comparing marathon training to war. Go freedom, Sean thinks.

Reporter: Ha, ha, ha. (Fake laugh to suck up to Sean.)

Problem is a workout like this rips the ham, makes the L foot like a Tokyo. So today I am hobbling. OLD. So was the YASSO useful if I now have to rest 2 days before my next intense workout? Are two moderate workouts in 3 days better than 2 wicked workouts in 4? I don’t know. We’ll see, maybe on marathon day.

*

Disc Golf Station said, “Hey Sean, if we send you a few disc for free will you review them?”

Sean said, “Sure, but it is snowy like metal lids and I am possibly suffering Seasonal Affective Disorder and the snow did I mention the snow sitting on the forehead of Muncie Indiana like a stack of photos of a ceramic toilet or something equally repulsive/cold.”

Discraft FLX Drone

This disc be overstable. Like 2.6 overstable. What does that mean? It means you could throw it forward, wait and whistle a bit, and it might boomerang all the way around and hit you in the ass. You need an arm like Madonna for this baby. Not bad for Muncie, Indiana. Why? Tacky grip for the sleet/rain. Head-winds. This disc will not go donut on you, no turnovers. This disc plays tight in the cold. This is real plastic. I get the feeling you could leave ESP FLX plastic at the bottom of a creek and fetch it out 50 years later and it still be flying like thundering clops of a barrel racer. It is a serious plastic. I suggest throwing this disc into gales. I suggest you have an oily, strong arm like two day old coffee. Might also be a good tech disc, a bender, when you need to shape your shot like mascara around a pine forest or a phone-booth. If you are new to D golf, or squirrel-armed, this disc is going to go 90 degree on you, I mean geometric. So there you have it, the Drone. Go throw now.

*

Fuck you February.

February

I hate February.

(It means mud-month [Solmonath])

I live in a little, plastic kettle, February.

I saw a colorful sign today: MOLDY ICE.

Hello, ice-cream face.

Leave me alone.

Hello, great pale ugly thing lying on its back.

Lions, tigers, wolves, foxes, and shit of various kinds–February.

(It means cabbage [Kale-monath])

There is huge flashing sign in front of the funeral home and it flashes DRIVE CAREFUL!! and it pisses me off, February.

Hi February. I am going to pencil in these eyebrows, then punch you in the face.

(Ronald Reagan was born in February. Same day as Axl Rose. Zsa Zsa Gabor. You get the idea. Fuck Reagan.)

The dog turd in the snow on the parking lot glinted.

None of the rules of February are made or could be made by me–and that is frustrating.

I would like to take a chauffeur-driven jeep and drive it right into the kneecaps of February, like mash February into a bus, or a low bus step, or a childbirth of low bus steps. I would like to see February out job-hunting, that type of misery.

There are the budget cuts.

Cuts?

You are now sharing an office with February.

A low mournful hoot.

My Subaru tumbles over and is wriggling its tires.

The snowplowed mountain of shit.

The palace where there is more abundance of shit than in Antarctica.

My debut upon the world’s stage occurred on February 26, 1845, in the State of Iowa.

Buffalo Bill (fuck him)

The pleasure that contains feathered shit, beasts of shit, herbal shits and flowered shits, all wrought in shit–February.

I have to sit here while February squeezes my left breast. This is demeaning.