Tag Archives: disc golf

The pity of it is we are free

Account of working in the Breadloaf Writing Retreat kitchen.

It kills me that people still ban Vonnegut, but Vonnegut is striking back!

I of course remember the first time I met Vonnegut, off near that GM plant in Fort Wayne, on that state land, well we were deer hunting,  a reduction hunt, shotgun only, and Vonnegut and I both clueless, hadn’t scouted besides a quick glimpse at a topo map and asking some lady Vonnegut knew at the plant, her name was Sheila and she had these very largy yet remarkably firm breasts and she just said, “I seen a big ol’ deer out there, size of a sandwich” and anyway Vonnegut goes and shoots a button buck, you know them teenager bucks, little buttons on top, dumb as boiled gravel, and Vonnegut just sort of gut-shoots it and it humps all up and then jumps over the fence, off into that GM land, clearly off-limits, and Vonnegut just unsnaps a little folding knife, maybe a Gerber or whatnot, off his belt and scurries up the fence and leaps off and onto that button buck and they’re all rolling and thrashing about and leaves flying and finally Vonnegut rares up and slits that deer’s throat! Damn, man. And then he just, I guess adrenaline and all, just heaves that deer right over the fence and climbs back up and over and Vonnegut all heavy heaving red-faced, all blood on his hands and arms and specks on his mustache whatnot and sort of panting and laughing and I go, “Damn, man, that was something” and he starts maybe laughing I don’t know and sticks his knife in the ground, wipes it clean on his pants leg, snaps it right back onto his belt, grabs the hind legs of the little button buck and says, “Yeh, it was something. How about giving me a hand here?”

And so we drug that deer out is what I remember and ate some of it over fire that night with cold cans of beer and a touch of hot sauce.


He enters a clearing with a small blue tent and a poodle tied to a picnic table.


Kraft sells off Velveeta, the sons-a-bitches. You dare doubt Velveeta!! I would like to introduce you, Kraft, to your brethren and their wise words. Your brothers are:

Variety Magazine, 1955. Here is their opinion on rock-n-roll:

It will be gone by June.

I also introduce you to another one of your mealy, doughy, half-baked brothers, Thomas Watson, chairman of IBM, 1943:

I think there is a world market for maybe five computers.

And so on…Oh, you will rue this day, Kraft. I will write documents so analytical, so bereft of emotion (seemingly), so rhetorically sound as to raise the hair on the backs of the necks of statues of grandmothers. I will raise an army against you…etc, etc. Hold up, my dog just ran out the door. And guess what? My dog does not react to verbal commands. Ha, ha! What a dog! What a jolly animal. Running among the jolly streets, the jolly screeching of tires, random curses, potential lawsuits, oh ha, ha, ha, living the dream of Man’s Best Friend…Listen: Velveeta is formless. Tabula rasa. A friend with cheese is a friend indeed. Something.


Yes, this book stumbles through itself, in search of itself, learning to bend and snap, discovering the depths and directions of its voice and at the end pops out this layered clump, like a rubberband ball with a pulse, that bounces around us and stretches thoughtshapes in and out and back again and we get all smiley, not really knowing what to say or think.


Hey, all you communist bastards, you fish-forgetters, you fruit fly fuckers who bang on Flash Fiction, check out these snow globes by Walter Martin and Palamo Munoz.

What’s my point? My point is take note. Click the link. The snow globes ARE flash fiction. Megadecahedron on your ass. Hey you: Stop eating pretentious lunches, like olives and shit, you flash haters, you Neanderthals of the long leg Daddy variety, you flashcists. Punks.

Oh, I bet you suck olives.

I bet you eat multiple varieties of olives.

Pretentious ass! (Lover of silver SUV with Jesus fish; long walks on the cooling bodies of superstars died early; wearer of black ski masks with mouths outlined in yellow; etc.)


I don’t know Casey Hannan’s work, but I am going to get to know it. This flash (over at wigleaf is one of the best I’ve seen over there, and I have seen plenty of glow over at the leaf. It catches a moment, then collects the prisms of the moment, the multiple angles of split light. Interior, exterior, the cigarette and the ash, the lips and lungs (and heart). See, flash is light, a flashlight. It illuminates, captures a beaming moment, lets you listen to the scurrying right outside the beam, in the dark.

You love wordplay, so you howl until it transforms into a scissored cough, like your breath is caught in a rock tumbler. I realize this will be your last cigarette ever. You bleed your coughs onto the shoulder of your t-shirt in big, tacky blotches, and you say, “This is it, Case, my only chance to do something like this before I die. I’m dyeing, God, how I’m dyeing this shirt right in front of you.”


My lunch was all European, all junque cosmopolitan, olives and blue cheese olives and hummus and brick-bread and almonds (king of the nuts), and a little Fat Tire, Fat Tire, a beer on the cusp, the little shimmering cusp, of obnoxiousness. I see one more semi truck plastered in FAT TIRE and I’m going to get off my feed, going to chuck a lug, going to pour grape juice marinade on the cuticles of my…something. OK, we had people by last night and I now eat leftovers. This lunch made me feel like a normal human being.  Or like the value of my house dropped yet another 10 grand or that Boeing launched a 787 Dreamliner


–I wanted you to actually hear what I’m saying.

–What was that?

–the wind picked up…

–There’s only one thing really wrong with him.



More and more often I don’t ‘understand’ Blake Butler’s blog.

One time I was in Chicago and this woman approached me and I was all feeling inside like “wow I like when women approach me” and she got really close, sort of like artist-in-the-anticipation-of-needs close or like swans in a floral arrangements close (anyway), and she said in this sort of haltingly with an accent voice: “Do. You. Know this. Blake Boootttleerr?”

And I said, “Blake Butler? Yeh I know him.”

And she said, “Can youse. Show him. To me.”

So I walked her over to see Blake Butler and we both stared at the back of his head, from a distance. And she said, “Tank. You.”


Steve Stringer has a wonderful touch over at Juked, with Seaplanes. It’s a little Carver and certainly a shake of Denis Johnson, but he avoids the derivative, with crisp scene-setting, with an occasional jarring transition, and an oft memorable line. Don’t know much about Stringer myself, but will keep my antennae up.

He says he shoplifted gospel cassettes, says he filched from the collection plate, says sometimes he prayed to basketball players instead of God. He says when he worked in the morgue he was coming off a morphine addiction. When no one was around, he’d peel back the fentanyl patches off the bodies, prick a hole in the patch with a pin, and lick the gel. He says he’s sorry.

He just sits there frozen and dry like astronaut food.


At decomP I enjoyed this by Robert Laughlin:

The parade moved on, but not the elephant that collapsed in the city’s busiest intersection. People in their stalled cars watched a city truck arrive. The city men planted a sign in the asphalt: ASIAN ELEPHANT/ELEPHAS MAXIMUS


Fog gets a big ol’ review here at Faster Times.

What? You want me to answer even more questions about Fog? That type of thing fascinates you, along with cockroaches and snorting Dexedrine off the top of church pews? Ok, then, I answer questions about Fog for NANO Fiction.

Here, I slap a canoe rack of my glow Outback:

Placing a canoe rack feels glow because I know I have done something. When I write, I am not sure I have done a damn thing. And it goes on and on and to thread one’s way unseen through the world must feel wonderful, so to speak…something.


I am now reading Today and Tomorrow by Ofelia Hunt.

Bill Murray’s face is on the cover, always a very good sign.

“R2D2 was a great guy and a fine actor.”

-Bill Murray


Would everyone please shut the fuck up about Shark Week?


Hill workouts. Are they effective?

1. East Africans have been traipsing up and down the steep slopes of the Great Rift Valley for millennia.

2. Hill muscles and sprint muscles are almost exactly the same.

3. While every other runner dreads hills, why not make them your specialty? Then you approach the hill and think, “I’ve got them now.”

4. Hills develops coordination, encouraging the proper use of arm action.

5. Hills are a grind. Every runner must grind. Must fuck grind, love grind, sweet milk of grind embrace grind. Know grind. Lick grind. Grind. I can’t even tell you how much of my running career has been built on grind, or as one coach told me way, way, way back in high school:

“Sean, you’re strength is your strength.”

Meaning I don’t stop. I grind.

6. Running hills make you better at…running hills.

Just did 9 minutes at 2% grade, 9 at 3%, 9 at 4%, 9 at 5%, 9 at 6%, 3 at 7%. I am now sweat-slicked and legs all undressed and winnowed Tree and sigh, sigh muscles and I need a beer.


I kind of dig this photo of Jesus.I ripped it from Vouched. Who knows where they ripped it from.


You people who hate flash are still here?You damn kite stranglers! You Shrunken Strunks & Whites. You baa, baa, baa haters. You postnasal lopper-gangers! You fountain pens filled with troll heavens. You mes! You memory hazers. You slap boxes! You TVs! You slow, slow cult. You Sheriffs! You tornado Sheriffs! You posh costumes of baleful asthma. You curds. Well.

Blizzard Ass

How is it going? Oh, fine, just dandy. I am a pink boom box of icecream truck muzak, caught in a loop. I need an axe and a bathroom door, etc. This is what my disc basket in the backyard looks like…

I understand winter like I understand death. I am a southerner at heart. Where are the bocce balls and the V & Ts? I must move my legs and heart, the gristly muscle. If I don’t move I will tumble into profound sad. My head will go knuckles gripping a wheelchair wheel. Resigned. So luckily I have a treadmill. Put in a nice tempo run today. I am training for the Nashville marathon in April, then I am officially running a race so difficult the conditions are repeated nowhere else in the planet we call Earth. Seriously. More details later.


I was thinking I might have the Seinfeld large wallet thing (script here) going on…but see I don’t want leather because of the cow thing and those hemp wallets are for stoners and they fall apart in 14 days and so I had to go with Kavu, a real company, an outdoors way, I mean not as flaky, a rugged thing. But it feels like I am carrying an unabridged thesaurus in my back pocket. It hurts my ass sometimes. Well, we all must sacrifice.

(quarter used for reference to size)


I had some wriitng stuff to talk about but think I put it all recently on HTML Giant. So go there, I guess. I told some people I know to go there recently and they said, “I am scared of that site!” I mean it intimidates them, the comments especially. I get that. Some people who comment on that site are scholars and way-readers and seriously know their shit. They are pretty aggressive at times, but I kind of enjoy the play. I certainly enjoy their minds. But you got to just wade in, is how I feel. I’m no scholar, not in the real sense, a funny thing to say for a prof, no? But I try. I’m a scholar of pedagogy more than writing, I suppose. I mean I want to be the best teacher I can be, that is serious. The writing is so mysterious. I learn every day. That is the good thing. I hope I can say that forever.

(Update: The more I think about this, the more I think I am wrong, about scholarship. Years of teaching CW, of reading CW texts, of watching others, this is a form of scholarship in a discipline. I suppose I mean a literary scholar, a true critic. Then again, I am not a literature prof, and remember that my undergraduate training was in nursing–I am also an RN. So. I suppose I mean I view a text from its basement, not from above. I try to see its wiring and whatnot, its craft, maybe to carry into the classroom. I am certainly one of those who have trouble just “reading” a book, because I’ve been teaching too long. I stop and take apart. I have heard movie people (in whatever job in the industry) do the same things with movies. They are watching the film, but one part of their mind if already predicting the structure, labeling the shot, etc.


Hey, William Carlos Williams–shove it!


Have been reading a ton. Now onto Lucy Corin book. Very good stuff, and Flash mixed in, what I like. Report later…

glad to be on a reading jag.


Makes me feel like a rolled down stocking. Or a cheekful of claw.

Staggering Llama so.

I ran 9 miles today. 8 steady then a Tabata Protocol. (This particular link says the Tabata P sounds like “tantric sex” and I think that might be a bit much. But ask Gary Snyder [gee thanks, Jack K].) Anyway, I’ve been doing my research and I think this workout is actually valid, but I don’t believe research so just add the Tabata Protocol to the end of my old-school (meaning it takes a while and fucking hurts) workouts.

Some runner said lazy is when you say you are tired when you are not truly tired. So I suggest you just add this to your workouts. Sounds weird, but you can. You’re not really that tired. Come on. Just add this on the end, like an acorn.

Anyway, I feel exhausted now. Legs all window pane, volts behind my right ear. Pitch-fork handle in my back. Case of the yawns. But, amazingly, my hamstring felt OK today. Usually it is tight as Chilean desert twine, or is it wine? Can wine be tight?

(This guy at my house who cleans Spackle off robots for a living): “Dude, this wine be tight. I mean I am feeling it like Madonna.”

(This woman at my house who stacks oranges): “Way tight. I mean watching-an-American-win-the-French-Open tight.”

(Me, reclined. I am wearing slippers made from Velveeta cheese): “Yeh, it’s Chilean. Chile is the new Australia. Australia is the new silver and black. Silver and black is the new pink. So I mean this wine is pink.”


Speaking of RUNNING.


The Fresh Air Fund is still looking for runners and sponsors to join the Fresh Air Fund-Racers team for the NYC Half-Marathon on August 16.

Are you in shape?

Can you help?

Do you like pain the way barefoot likes a field of wheat?

Link here: RUN KINDA FAR.


I am heading to the backwoods. They don’t have computers. Everyone is a squirrel. Squirrels don’t give a damn about computers.

drunk squirrel

Ha, ha, very funny image (if you are age 4)! Idiot. God. I look at my reflection in the mirror and retch.

Aside: I asked my grandfather once how to clean a new gun (a new gun is packed in certain oils and has instructions about cleaning and maintenance and safety and so on before you actually use the gun) and my GF looked at me like I was fucking stupid, or like I just pulled a purple bullfrog out my ear, and he grabbed the gun and loaded it and walked out to the red brick front porch and shot it in the night, straight up at this big-ass silver dollar moon, and handed the gun back to me and said, “There-you-go.”


A photo of my uncle and me, dancing. I think this was a Depeche Mode day.

dale n sean

(we all want to form our own little religions, don’t we?)

Personal Jesus….


Disc Golf is Basically Bad Ass.

Dinner be organic, yo. Harvested that deer. Grew that sweet corn in the rain gutters of my house. No, no, bought it from a smelly guy with a gray mullet. Dude smelled like a charred piano. He was on the side of the road in a Pinto, the exploding car. You hardly ever see gray-hair mullets. I liked it. Respect.



Today was one of those weird disc golf days where it all came together. First thing, the weather was all rainbow crystal gavel of hipster girl with NO2 tank and skinny glasses. She dances in circles and sells you two balloons for 5 dollars. She is so alive, so full of self/lightning you can’t believe the dude with her (guy is wearing a football jersey and has large head like an eggplant, loud voice like an eggplant, ball cap bent all cheese curl). Then she enters her white van and drives away, so enjoy her while she is in your world. Clouds in the shape of Ethel Merman’s head. Trees swayed, breeze breezed, ground grounded, all of that. I even saw a hawk pounce on a Mountain Dew can and crush it like zucchini bread. Our disc golf course has some bad-ass hawks. Wow. I felt high like an index. (Indexes used to be high, bear with me.)

Then I see a bunch of families on the course, a bunch of young kids, a mom, etc. This is why we (me, a grad student at BSU, a gracious course designer who took no fee) built the course.  Before disc golf the park was a haven of drug deals and gay sex (not that there is anything wrong with either, but maybe a public park isn’t the best venue?).


Can you see the kids? They are way in the back. They are small because they are kids. Kids are usually small. Anyway.

I put two new holes in the ground. The disc golf club hems and haws, while I just go out and put holes in the ground. I don’t ask permission. Know why? Because I have the mf’n keys to every basket. I am the Key Master. If you are ever the Key Master, even as a metaphor, don’t give it up lightly. It feels pretty good.

Hole 6 is sweet:

hole 6

Look at the new hole 6! You can go forehand or backhand, hyzer or anhyzer. Glossary here. If you don’t play disc golf you are asleep now. Fuck off then.

I also put in a new hole 17.

hole 17

I will get DIY on your ass. I will buy Quick-Crete and bring a level, real honest-2-God level. Check out that big L to R shot. You don’t even have that shot because you are a weak-ass and all your discs fall off to the left. Ha. Ha. F you (or go buy a stingray).

I also shot -5 today, my course record. I told you it was a good day. To each their own.


Coke. Dude, I love Coke.


Wack-Ass Kooky Linens and Towels Road Post, Loose. WARNING!

Warning: I am in a hotel in Seneca Nation.

Warning: A quick road-post. You know those can be whack. Loose as __________.

People un-become themselves on the road. Like when I am in an airport, any major airport with architecture and red balloon-like seagull razor-wing sculptures from the ceiling and piped-in music like a feather falling, all that, and I always get a stiff drink at the bar, and while drinking–in the spiraling blue blur of strangers, coming, going, coming by, going–all this LIFE in flux–I get this idea/wish/un-wish that I am a character in a novel of my own twisted devising–zombie versus spy versus romance versus existential Important work of the canon (boom!).

A person who does not feel detached in an airport is not a person.

I will not drink with thee, lady. Or with you, sir.

Square still, as a stranger in an airport? Now that is truly square.

I will not cackle with you, or play Sharpie-Jenga (each wooden brick a command/request), or even watch your little dog as your large niece is battling that awful man Fred.



Warning: If you, like most rational humans, think disc golf is fucking dumb, do not stumble further. I LOVE disc golf. And still, realize it is most likely fucking dumb.

To be honest, the only disc golfer I detest in my life was this braggard-ass dude in Mobile, AL, years ago. He had a disc printed up to look like an 8 ball. What? I mean it looked EXACTLY like an 8 ball. Ok. Then he threw it, and he sucked. It hit the ground like a radish, meant for earth, never flight (as in its purpose). And this guy with a $50 disc he paid to get dyed like an 8 ball. Wow. It reminded me of the ball-golfers with $1000 titanium drivers who shank it into the landscaped pond of Koi. The pharisees like urns, etc…blah.

Here is a picture of Ander Monson playing disc golf today. Actually today. It is so weird and dorky-ass as a pic I kind of actually like it. To me, it was all WestWorld. I mean I thought he was actually riding some form of horse. I texted him. I said, “Are you riding a horse?”

He said, “No.”

That was just perspective, and even the crisp, anesthetic dig-cam has not quite figured out perspective.

So surprises still happen, thank gods!!

I mean art. So.



Hey, what’s that Crystal Gavel magazine all about? I heard a relatively major publishing company texted a member of its editorial board. There was money mentioned. I heard a certain company might want to make the joke into a concept, an “idea,” with lawyers and beautiful people ( no one beautiful is involved now, only a few interesting people).  And that the “board member” kept that like a crystal secret for a long while. Like 16 days, by my count.

Who is the joke on now, MotherFraker?

But I digress.

I could go on further, but let’s keep this blog clean as a full-sink-basin-2-shave, a feline in the rucksack (for now).




I disc golf today. I played a course in Buffalo NY that was apparently sculpted by Dante. Are you kidding???

Como Lake Park.

Devised by the insane….

Here is hole, uh, 14.



1.) Even the tee sign is bullshit. It diagrams a fishing pier into the shot…(more later).

2.) Throw across a river, a vertical river (meaning banks go straight down into inky deep water-absolutely no chance of someone getting their disc back). (Aside: Most “water” disc courses I have played you can get your disc back. The water is shallow, or clear and most disc golf players play with bright discs, white or pink or whatever–u can see them underwater. Only an ass-nard would play with a dark disc, like navy blue, or worse black. Black discs can be lost against anything–green fields, under brown leaves, etc. It’s a matter of light, of contrast. But you can not predict the human mind. I met this dork once on a beginner course in Alaska [Birch Hill] and he actually played with every discs blue or purple or black, including a disc in the shape of an 8 ball.)

3.) The sign for the hole actually directs us to throw over a “fishing pier” and also to eat chicken fingers at McDonald’s before we start the round. Huh? I don’t eat at McDonald’s and chickens don’t even have fingers, not really. Also, I think to have a disc golf hole where you throw over a fishing pier, across a lake, through trees,  just as everyday normal play of the round MIGHT invite confrontation. Let’s see: disc golfers versus fisherman…hmm? Fillet knife versus water bottle? Catching your own dinner versus Mexican restaurant and a discussion of seasonal beer…?

What if the fishermen cast a lure full of hooks over our heads while we drove each hole, disc-golfers?

Is that copacetic?

4.) I have no number four (4) and I am tired. But I do have a photo of my drive over number 8.  I hope this photo proves everything I have had to say about this course…Could you work in these conditions?




Lastly. I just got this in the mail today…I love it!


Onto Boston.


Sean Lovelace Reviews EVER by Blake Butler.

I Need an Opening:

Professor sits in office. Reclines like a (fill in animal), feet up on a file cabinet. Socks only: one blue, one bluer. Professor thinks, “This is what I did with my intellect, my drive, my abilities and efforts–snagged a job where I can sit with my shoes off in an office and nobody gives me flak; in fact they might say, ‘Oh you creative folks,’ and expect me to sit with my shoes off, to let the artistic integrity breathe out my toes…”

Light knock. Tentative, a shoe scuffling. Professor thinks, “Undergrad.”

Undergrad peers into door. She sits, glances about office full of books, action figures and artifacts, hot sauces and hotter sauces, posters and paintings, heap after dangerous heap of shifting papers…

“Creative people make piles,” professor says dryly.

(Professor has used this one before for the state of his office. It usually works, and really what is an undergrad going to say?)

Then undergrad mumbles something about The Twilight Series, zombies, allergies to carpet fibers, about her dad wanting her to work as a bank teller; then finally, “Do you think I can write?

Yes. Always. Whenever you decide. Etc. If one thing: Do you love sentences?

Blake Butler loves sentences:

“..my veins an atlas spanned in tissue.”

“Strings of night might gleam of glass.”

“At my feet now in the bath the book had swollen several times–so large it filled the whole blank basin–it sponged around my knees.”

I say these give Lish and McCullers and McCarthy and all those McC-motherfuckers a run for their syntactical money. Strong medicine and music, a thumping heartbeat meter, a thought and non-thought (that weird interstitial space) that makes lines of words flow like rivers.

I Explicate EVER In Rural Tennessee Jargon:

Where I was raised we called this type of thing a slap-your-grandmother.

“This is how you clean a shotgun!” my grandfather said and he grabbed my gun and shot it into the air. Like that.

Cathead biscuits. Like hose pipe. Gravy. Gravy. Gravy.

Wild as a peach orchard hog.

My grandmother would say, “Lause.” Not sure what that means. But, Lause, Blake Butler, I do think you drop a mighty fine EVER on us here.

My uncle and I used to fish all day and night on a railroad trestle in the bottoms of Carroll County, TN, and one day–I don’t know how, child-like fascination, true fun, leading to sensory blindness–a train “snuck” up on us while on that trestle (a bridge, folks,over a swamp full of swamp and turtle and snake) and we had no living choice, but to lose poles, lose tackle boxes, lose lunchboxes, lose snake guns–LEAP into the river of swirling blackness below…later that evening we dried out over a low campfire and caught bluegill and cooked their tails crispy and ate them like potato chips, like no potato chips you have ever known, and we were grateful.

That’s EVER


I Walk into my Freezing Backyard Right this Moment (While it Snows) and Take Four Photographs to Represent my Feelings on EVER.


p 48: My head had several hundred heads.


p 68. She was there inside the wood.


p 92. Other times the glass showed water…


p 32. The door, when stubborn, made my teeth ache.


I Make up Blurbs About Ever

“I laughed. I cried. I just kept on crying. I cry a lot lately. I am going through one awful divorce.”

–Gustav Klimt

“You know the thing where you compare this book to three others? Well, fuck that. This book isn’t a book. This book is 1.) My ugly nose. 2.) The way I slept with Jackson Pollock. 3.) Juneau Alaska (the largest city in the U.S [land mass], yet can only be reached by boat or plane). You understand me? No? Who gives a damn. I am rich. Rich. The rich don’t need your understanding. We glimmer in golden gyros above you.”

–Peggy Guggenheim

“The author’s sister is a  fine wine I have tasted.”

–Charles Dickens


I Notice Page 57 of My Copy of EVER is Blemished by an Orange Stain. Why?


top right corner, what gives…?


I Decide EVER is One of My Hundreds of Disc Golf Discs. Which One?


Ever is a Starfire SL. Custom fly-dye motherfucker to the house. Fast, “curved obscure” (p. 90), “a sense of time passed.” (p.78). See, the new Star Plastic is grippy, resilient, and so are these words, my friends. Because EVER is a maze, a fucking head-throb labyrinth, but Butler gobbles up all the breadcrumbs along the way, he cuts your little red thread, the one you were going to follow back out the cave. Whoops, Butler just got your plastic wind-up flashlight and laughed at you for having a plastic wind-up flashlight (What’s next, a Snuggie?) and then said: “Ever thought of this?” before snapping off the handle and shoving it down your esophagus. “There was much they could break…” Butler writes on page 43, and damn if he doesn’t grab an ax, a pickax, a motherfucking “center of the earth of the earth” (p. 82) kind of destruction. Things Fall Apart. Things Fall Apart. And move…Like the Starfire, Ever has glide, that mysterious flow of words that will propel you down the tunnels, down the plumbing pipes, the doorways–into the walls. The walls of EVER: cold, gray, white and full, crumbling, crumbling within themselves, the null and void of “…the morning of no sun.” (p. 95)

Sometimes I felt pulled. Sometimes I felt pushed. But something about EVER moved me, forced me, brought me along, page to sentence to word. To word. A said, word.

I read these words, like a flung one.

I Create a Graph About EVER:


I Discuss My Opinion on the Book Cover of EVER.

I did not enjoy the cover. The cover made me feel I was in an office waiting on a doctor. I do not like to pay for waiting. There’s something wrong there. I feel vertical blinds from the cover. I wanted something to be in the act of falling. Or maybe some splash of blood cells on porcelain, stark like that. I got a 1970s from the cover.  A fern, dusty fern feeling, or something government. That is all I want to say about the cover at this time.


I Discuss My Opinion on the Size of EVER.

More and more, I find myself really enjoying books the size of EVER. Recent examples of similar sized titles I’ve read lately would be:

Jesus’ Son

(What type of fiction professor takes this long in life to read this landmark collection? A stupid, negligent one.)

The Art of War

(If you have not read Art of War, stop reading my blog. Go buy a cool leather book stachel; AWP is on the horizon! Leave me be.)

The Blue Guide to Indiana

(Martone had to settle a lawsuit over this one. Note the big-ass disclaimer on the cover of the book. Do you read Martone? You should. Martone is  like that blues musician that all other blues musicians nod about, know he has the chops. Whispered in backrooms, speak-easys, flop house water coolers of life.)

I just think this an optimum size for a book. You can fit it in your pocket. You can easily flip through it with bulky gloves while on a deer stand. You can get in a drunken fight and impulsively reach for the book to throw at your opponent and it won’t kill them, causing you to regret the morning vision through the metal bars. Also it costs less, usually. You can trade it for dog tranquilizers. You can avoid the onslaught of TV by holding the book directly in front of your eyeballs.

I Admit to the Readers Why My Copy of EVER was STAINED.


That’s no stain. That’s the hot saliva of God. Lunch with EVER. And satisfying. Go eat a copy.

You can buy it here.


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.)