Sasha Fletcher's Blog
October 16, 2013
do you guys remember when i wrote a story about the arabian sea
i did and you can read it here although maybe we have all got some thoughts on issu, which sometimes i have some thoughts on, but mostly my thoughts are about thelonious monk's alone in san francisco which who doesn't like sitting in a chair with a glass of rye or something and looking at the way the lights of the basketball courts make the trees into this yellowish green and the sky is this deep dark purple navy situation, and the moon, the fucking moon you guys, holy shit.
other thoughts include whether i am going to remember to capitalize these posts, or even use them, or what. we are all of us at a crossroads which i taped off the radio all the time because i'd always miss the first few bars. i remember once i wanted to make a mix tape and so i taped everything off the radio, and i would just wait until the song i wanted came on.
other thoughts include whether i am going to remember to capitalize these posts, or even use them, or what. we are all of us at a crossroads which i taped off the radio all the time because i'd always miss the first few bars. i remember once i wanted to make a mix tape and so i taped everything off the radio, and i would just wait until the song i wanted came on.
October 13, 2013
roughly 5 years time
In January of 2009 while getting ready for the last art show I have had, I was commuting from Philly to my parents house in Allentown to finish up some of the pieces before beginning the week-long process of installing the show and making sure the space created the same feeling that I wanted a book to have of everything adding up to something more, of each piece flashing in another, and so on the train I was writing in a notebook, and I came up with what would end up being the first draft of the first page of the greying ghost chapbook i ain't asked any pardon for anything i done. Yesterday I decided to dive back into this thing. It'll be fun. I'll do research. And by research I mean rewatch Deadwood until cocksucker is the only word I know and rewatch The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford until my eyes bleed and Dead Man until I float off into a canoe and El Topo until I'm buried in the dirt with wings for eyes and play Red Dead Redemption until I learn how to play video games and reread The Collected Works of Billy the Kid and probably also Bats Out of Hell and also for the first time The Drop Edge of Yonder until my mouth learns how to get a thing out properly using my fingers.
BUT. Here is the first page as of almost 5 years ago, and then here is the first page as of a day ago.
" bury my bible at my feet
she dreamed he died in a train crash.
she dreamed he died from horses pulling him in more than one direction.
she dreamed he died by hanging and by a firing squad all at once.
she dreamed of him in a cemetery, all alone, with the pleurisy, the rheumatic fever, the cholera, and a whore’s disease.
she dreamed they buried him with a bible at his feet, and the bible was so upset with him that it set itself on fire and burnt him to death before flying on up to heaven, leaving a bible sized hole in the ground, from which flames would emit eternal.
she dreamed of him as a small bit of fire that she could push up inside of herself, and there he would be, forever, a fire in her belly that nothing would ever extinguish, not ever, not even when she rolled over. "
" She dreamed he died in a train crash all crushed steel and frantic determination upended against the desert, which swallows what it will, flames reaching to the clouds which hang low like a failed hanging, like they are full up with the kind of rain that just won’t ever come, all mangled screams and blistered tears. The steel glinting like the stars; the stars who, like ghosts, are just a bunch of glimmering glinting jerks that don’t yet know they’ve died.
She dreamed of him as a rescued animal pulled from the wreckage of his life his arms splinted with sadness and his shoulders spreading and sprouting like wings to carry him towards some place in the distance that neither of them could see, but that was understood to be inevitable, its finality unquestionable, its arrival certain only in its eventuality. She dreamed of him over lakes full up with fish that didn’t float on the surface bloated with rot, she dreamed of arches of fractured light coloring the sky in ways she’d never before seen, of gunfire blossoming among the stars like a victory over death spelling out the ways in which, though our love has failed us, it is not less magnificent for exisiting.She dreamed he died from horses pulling him in more than one direction. Of limbs torn like party favors and dragged like a mood through the dust towards an idea of home that never made a lick of sense, like a signpost hung around your neck announcing your feelings to the general public, these announced feelings having little to do with your own genuine feelings, this is the sort of sense we are talking about, the kind assigned to our lives by other people. An idea received and placed in the gift pile, which is another word for the trashcan, as who out here can claim to have received a gift? Fits of pique grip us on our best days, she dreams, dreamily, in a hammock strung up like a dead man.She dreamed he died by a hanging and a firing squad all at once, with a band in the background, a band with marching violins marching towards him in ways he would find distasteful, with a conductor and a woman with a gilded glinting breast plate squealing in the kind of way he would just hate, but which, were he a Viking, or had he the ideas of a Viking, if he could just close his eyes and imagine himself with long blonde filthy hair and a bear braided with blood gripping in one hand an oversized axe and in the other a thing not even worth mentioning but let’s call it a set of lungs being swung for a purpose we cannot even glimpse, if he could do this then he might have a different feeling altogether, feelings about horned helms reaching for an unjust God who thirsts only for slaughter. The crowd eating popcorn and debating the merits of a portable telegraph machine while his legs (and here, she could not help but sigh a bit at those legs) danced the last dance he’d ever dance.She dreamed of his arms wrapping around her and at times of the way his cock had felt, of a jolt and a warmth, of things she would think more about if she gave a good god damn, but she does not, so don’t ask, and close the door when you leave. This house will not be here if you don’t know where to look. There are eggs on the table and the mailman is a liar.She dreamed of the kind of letter worth writing and it started Dear You and it ended I have loved you in a way that could keep a battalion of dead mean alive in the desert because pain is an engine and love is a train and you are a dead-end track with only one possible resolution and if I ever see you again I will kill you and it will be the saddest thing that has ever happened in the history of the world aside from those plays people wrote about love where love is an idea they get in their heads that leads only to death and has nothing to do with love it is mostly just temper tantrums and people who haven’t learned what words mean yet. This is not an idea though. This is love. And I know it because my heart is tattooed on your heart and your heart is tattooed on my heart and it hurts like hell to beat this way.She dreamed of him in a cemetery, all alone with his bones, with the moon keeping its distance from the likes of him, with the pleurisy, the rheumatic fever, the cholera, and a whore’s disease bequeathed to him by the long dead whores of the past who when they spit they spit indifference and dead cum and teeth and the kind of dream that scares you with its precision.She dreamed they buried him with a bible at his feet, and the bible was so upset with him that it set itself on fire and burnt him to death before flying on up to heaven, leaving a bible sized hole in the ground from which flames would spill forth forever and ever until everyone knew that this is what death will get you: tourism and inconvenience.She dreamed of him as a small bit of fire that she could push up inside of herself, and there he would be, forever, a fire in her belly that nothing would ever extinguish. Not once. Not never. "
the second page, by the way, remains the same:
" Do not get the idea that this is not, in its own way, an expression of love. "
BUT. Here is the first page as of almost 5 years ago, and then here is the first page as of a day ago.
" bury my bible at my feet
she dreamed he died in a train crash.
she dreamed he died from horses pulling him in more than one direction.
she dreamed he died by hanging and by a firing squad all at once.
she dreamed of him in a cemetery, all alone, with the pleurisy, the rheumatic fever, the cholera, and a whore’s disease.
she dreamed they buried him with a bible at his feet, and the bible was so upset with him that it set itself on fire and burnt him to death before flying on up to heaven, leaving a bible sized hole in the ground, from which flames would emit eternal.
she dreamed of him as a small bit of fire that she could push up inside of herself, and there he would be, forever, a fire in her belly that nothing would ever extinguish, not ever, not even when she rolled over. "
" She dreamed he died in a train crash all crushed steel and frantic determination upended against the desert, which swallows what it will, flames reaching to the clouds which hang low like a failed hanging, like they are full up with the kind of rain that just won’t ever come, all mangled screams and blistered tears. The steel glinting like the stars; the stars who, like ghosts, are just a bunch of glimmering glinting jerks that don’t yet know they’ve died.
She dreamed of him as a rescued animal pulled from the wreckage of his life his arms splinted with sadness and his shoulders spreading and sprouting like wings to carry him towards some place in the distance that neither of them could see, but that was understood to be inevitable, its finality unquestionable, its arrival certain only in its eventuality. She dreamed of him over lakes full up with fish that didn’t float on the surface bloated with rot, she dreamed of arches of fractured light coloring the sky in ways she’d never before seen, of gunfire blossoming among the stars like a victory over death spelling out the ways in which, though our love has failed us, it is not less magnificent for exisiting.She dreamed he died from horses pulling him in more than one direction. Of limbs torn like party favors and dragged like a mood through the dust towards an idea of home that never made a lick of sense, like a signpost hung around your neck announcing your feelings to the general public, these announced feelings having little to do with your own genuine feelings, this is the sort of sense we are talking about, the kind assigned to our lives by other people. An idea received and placed in the gift pile, which is another word for the trashcan, as who out here can claim to have received a gift? Fits of pique grip us on our best days, she dreams, dreamily, in a hammock strung up like a dead man.She dreamed he died by a hanging and a firing squad all at once, with a band in the background, a band with marching violins marching towards him in ways he would find distasteful, with a conductor and a woman with a gilded glinting breast plate squealing in the kind of way he would just hate, but which, were he a Viking, or had he the ideas of a Viking, if he could just close his eyes and imagine himself with long blonde filthy hair and a bear braided with blood gripping in one hand an oversized axe and in the other a thing not even worth mentioning but let’s call it a set of lungs being swung for a purpose we cannot even glimpse, if he could do this then he might have a different feeling altogether, feelings about horned helms reaching for an unjust God who thirsts only for slaughter. The crowd eating popcorn and debating the merits of a portable telegraph machine while his legs (and here, she could not help but sigh a bit at those legs) danced the last dance he’d ever dance.She dreamed of his arms wrapping around her and at times of the way his cock had felt, of a jolt and a warmth, of things she would think more about if she gave a good god damn, but she does not, so don’t ask, and close the door when you leave. This house will not be here if you don’t know where to look. There are eggs on the table and the mailman is a liar.She dreamed of the kind of letter worth writing and it started Dear You and it ended I have loved you in a way that could keep a battalion of dead mean alive in the desert because pain is an engine and love is a train and you are a dead-end track with only one possible resolution and if I ever see you again I will kill you and it will be the saddest thing that has ever happened in the history of the world aside from those plays people wrote about love where love is an idea they get in their heads that leads only to death and has nothing to do with love it is mostly just temper tantrums and people who haven’t learned what words mean yet. This is not an idea though. This is love. And I know it because my heart is tattooed on your heart and your heart is tattooed on my heart and it hurts like hell to beat this way.She dreamed of him in a cemetery, all alone with his bones, with the moon keeping its distance from the likes of him, with the pleurisy, the rheumatic fever, the cholera, and a whore’s disease bequeathed to him by the long dead whores of the past who when they spit they spit indifference and dead cum and teeth and the kind of dream that scares you with its precision.She dreamed they buried him with a bible at his feet, and the bible was so upset with him that it set itself on fire and burnt him to death before flying on up to heaven, leaving a bible sized hole in the ground from which flames would spill forth forever and ever until everyone knew that this is what death will get you: tourism and inconvenience.She dreamed of him as a small bit of fire that she could push up inside of herself, and there he would be, forever, a fire in her belly that nothing would ever extinguish. Not once. Not never. "
the second page, by the way, remains the same:
" Do not get the idea that this is not, in its own way, an expression of love. "
June 5, 2013
I USED TO HATE SUMMER BUT NOW IT'S PROBABLY PRETTY OK BECAUSE I GUESS GETTING OLDER MEANS YOU BECOME A SAD NOSTALGIC FUCK AND WHO CARES LET'S GET RIPPED ON MARGARITAS AND DO SOME SERIOUS BEACH READING AND THEN MAKE OUT UNTIL WE GET HEAT STROKE
OK so the thing about Rill Rill
is that Rill Rill is not Can You Get to That
it contains that truly transcendent riff that just rises up. I mean, the song wouldn't exist without that. Those bass thuds help! They do! But without that riff the song would not be that piece of gum your brain won't stop chewing, finding these pockets of flavor inserted by science to go on and on and on. That is the thing about Can You Get to That, is that it is magic, and it is about love, and ache, and disappointment, and it is a fucking dare. It is a challenge. Listen. I have a lot of love to give, and am a fucking pinnacle of tenderness. Can you get to that? Is this a place you are capable of ascending? And that's the thing about art. Is that you have to try. You have got to reach for that. And that riff. Fuck, that fucking riff. What Rill Rill does is it marries High School Voodoo to this fucking riff. Like if The Craft was more like that bit in Four Rooms, but even more High School, and even more voodoo. It's the sort of thing where you can imagine them building you an altar in their locker, but the alter is made out switchblades, because their heart is a switchblade. There's this menace but it's probably not even real and anyway it doesn't matter, because it's the summer.
Which makes no sense, because the summer is fucking hot. You sit around drenched in sweat you didn't earn, and then the humidity makes that sweat stick in layers and layers that build up like some awful armor, and then you get a sunburn, and maybe dehydrated. But here's the thing. When yr a kid, the summer is freedom. It's pools and sprinklers and hose fights and water ice and summer camp and all of that. It's endless potential. And that feeling never goes away. And that is what this is about I guess. It comes back. It always does. And everything looks better in summer. Maybe it's how all that sweat makes us glisten and gleam. Maybe it's that we're outside, and drinking margaritas, and having a good time. There's a glint. It means something. It's a form of magic we'll never escape, so just fucking deal with it. Grip it tight and don't let go til it's gone.
is that Rill Rill is not Can You Get to That
it contains that truly transcendent riff that just rises up. I mean, the song wouldn't exist without that. Those bass thuds help! They do! But without that riff the song would not be that piece of gum your brain won't stop chewing, finding these pockets of flavor inserted by science to go on and on and on. That is the thing about Can You Get to That, is that it is magic, and it is about love, and ache, and disappointment, and it is a fucking dare. It is a challenge. Listen. I have a lot of love to give, and am a fucking pinnacle of tenderness. Can you get to that? Is this a place you are capable of ascending? And that's the thing about art. Is that you have to try. You have got to reach for that. And that riff. Fuck, that fucking riff. What Rill Rill does is it marries High School Voodoo to this fucking riff. Like if The Craft was more like that bit in Four Rooms, but even more High School, and even more voodoo. It's the sort of thing where you can imagine them building you an altar in their locker, but the alter is made out switchblades, because their heart is a switchblade. There's this menace but it's probably not even real and anyway it doesn't matter, because it's the summer.
Which makes no sense, because the summer is fucking hot. You sit around drenched in sweat you didn't earn, and then the humidity makes that sweat stick in layers and layers that build up like some awful armor, and then you get a sunburn, and maybe dehydrated. But here's the thing. When yr a kid, the summer is freedom. It's pools and sprinklers and hose fights and water ice and summer camp and all of that. It's endless potential. And that feeling never goes away. And that is what this is about I guess. It comes back. It always does. And everything looks better in summer. Maybe it's how all that sweat makes us glisten and gleam. Maybe it's that we're outside, and drinking margaritas, and having a good time. There's a glint. It means something. It's a form of magic we'll never escape, so just fucking deal with it. Grip it tight and don't let go til it's gone.
May 2, 2013
HEY DO YOU LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY
http://www.lepoissonrouge.com/lpr_events/book-report-may-8th-2013/
FREEThe Book Report Reading
w/ J. Hope Stein , Maris Kreizman , Amy Lawless , hosts Leigh Stein , and Sasha FletcherWed., May 08, 2013 at 7:00 PM Gallery
About This EventMinimum Age:21+Doors Open:7:00 PMShow Time:7:00 PMDescription:This is a general admission event in The Gallery at LPR.ArtistsThe Book Report ReadingOnce upon a time you were in third grade and you had to give book reports and it was awesome. The Book Report promises to deliver exactly what it promises: reports on books by the people who’ve read them. Join Leigh Stein and Sasha Fletcher and assorted literate guests for an evening that will remind you of 3rd grade in the best possible way.J. Hope SteinJ. Hope Stein is the author of [Talking Doll] (Dancing Girl Press), [Mary] (Hyacinth Girl Press) and Corner Office (H_ngm_n Bks.) She is editor of Poetrycrush.com and author of eecattings.com.Maris KreizmanMaris Kreizman is the creator of Slaughterhouse 90210, a blog that combines her love of literature with her appreciation for crappy television. She’s worked in book publishing for 12 years.Amy LawlessAmy Lawless is the author of two books of poems: Noctis Licentia (Black Maze Books, 2008) and My Dead (Octopus Books, forthcoming). She was a 2011 New York Foundation for the Arts fellow in poetry. She lives in New York City and teaches creative writing at Rutgers University.hosts Leigh SteinLeigh Stein is the author of four chapbooks of poetry and one novel, The Fallback Plan, newly released from Melville House. You can listen to an excerpt of The Fallback Plan here.Sasha FletcherSasha Fletcher is the author of the novella WHEN ALL OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED MARCHING BANDS WILL FILL THE STREETS AND WE WILL NOT HEAR THEM BECAUSE WE WILL BE UPSTAIRS IN THE CLOUDS [ml press 2010] and a couple of poetry chapbooks.
FREEThe Book Report Reading w/ J. Hope Stein , Maris Kreizman , Amy Lawless , hosts Leigh Stein , and Sasha FletcherWed., May 08, 2013 at 7:00 PM Gallery
About This EventMinimum Age:21+Doors Open:7:00 PMShow Time:7:00 PMDescription:This is a general admission event in The Gallery at LPR.ArtistsThe Book Report ReadingOnce upon a time you were in third grade and you had to give book reports and it was awesome. The Book Report promises to deliver exactly what it promises: reports on books by the people who’ve read them. Join Leigh Stein and Sasha Fletcher and assorted literate guests for an evening that will remind you of 3rd grade in the best possible way.J. Hope SteinJ. Hope Stein is the author of [Talking Doll] (Dancing Girl Press), [Mary] (Hyacinth Girl Press) and Corner Office (H_ngm_n Bks.) She is editor of Poetrycrush.com and author of eecattings.com.Maris KreizmanMaris Kreizman is the creator of Slaughterhouse 90210, a blog that combines her love of literature with her appreciation for crappy television. She’s worked in book publishing for 12 years.Amy LawlessAmy Lawless is the author of two books of poems: Noctis Licentia (Black Maze Books, 2008) and My Dead (Octopus Books, forthcoming). She was a 2011 New York Foundation for the Arts fellow in poetry. She lives in New York City and teaches creative writing at Rutgers University.hosts Leigh SteinLeigh Stein is the author of four chapbooks of poetry and one novel, The Fallback Plan, newly released from Melville House. You can listen to an excerpt of The Fallback Plan here.Sasha FletcherSasha Fletcher is the author of the novella WHEN ALL OUR DAYS ARE NUMBERED MARCHING BANDS WILL FILL THE STREETS AND WE WILL NOT HEAR THEM BECAUSE WE WILL BE UPSTAIRS IN THE CLOUDS [ml press 2010] and a couple of poetry chapbooks.
March 15, 2013
A RELATING OF R. KELLY'S GEM, IGNITION (REMIX)
R. KELLY IS PREPARING TO DO A THING THAT HE USUALLY DOES NOT DO AND I HOPE YOU ARE INDEED READY FOR IT BECAUSE WHAT IT IS IT IS A PREVIEW OF THE REMIX TO THE SONG CALLED IGNTION
HE IS NOT TRYING TO BE RUDE, THAT IS NOT A THING KELLS WOULD DO Y'ALL, HE IS HERE TRYING TO FEEL A PRETTY GIRL, NOT IN TERMS OF COPPING A FEEL, WE ARE NOT TALKING COPS Y'ALL, WE ARE TALKING HERE THE SUBSTANTIAL EMOTIONAL CONNECTION BROUGHT ON BY A MUTUAL RECOGNITION OF EITHER LUST OR RESPECT, AND I HOPE THAT WE CAN ALL AGREE TO DEAL W/ THIS LIKE ADULTS
KELLS WANTS YOU TO KNOW THAT GIRL WHEN YOU DO THE THINGS THAT YOU DO IT REMINDS HIM OF THIS LEXUS COUPE HE OWNS, WHICH HE IS INDEED AWFUL PARTIAL TO. AND COULD THIS BE WHY HE IS UP IN YOUR GRILLE? WHICH IS BOTH THE MOUTH OF AN AUTOMOBILE, AND OF A FACE, THE FRONT OF YOUR FACE, FROM WHICH SPOUT THOSE WORDS THAT MAKE ME WANT TO KISS YOU, HARD, ON THE MOUTH OR GRILLE, WHICH KELLS IS INDEED LETTING YOU KNOW THAT HE IS ALL UP IN, OR AT LEAST THAT THERE IS THIS DESIRE IN HIM TO SOON BE ALL UP IN YOUR GRILLE, KISSIN ON IT, LOVIN ON IT, CARESSING THE WORDS NOT YET SAID THAT RESIDE THERE, IN YOUR MOUTH, WITH HIS OWN WORDS YET UNSAID, TWINING THEMSELVES LIKE A TWIX BAR, BECAUSE TWIX IS SEXY AS HELL Y'ALL. IT TRULY POSSIBLY IS. AND KELLS BELIEVES THAT YOU AND COACH TAYLOR HAVE A LOT IN COMMON, SPECIFICALLY IN TERMS OF YR COMMANDING PRESENCES AND ABILITY TO GIVE DIRECTION, TO REINFORCE ONES SELF-IMAGE, TO STRIVE NOT TO BE AN ASS, BUT TO BE A FUCKING ADULT, TO BE A THING OF BEAUTY, OF TRANSCENDENCE, TO JUST TRY FOR MORE, TO PLAY THE FUCKING FIELD Y'ALL
AND ALLOW ME TO CONSTRUCT FOR US A BRIDGE UNTO THE CHORUS. GIRL, IF YOU COULD GIVE ME THE SOUND, LIKE WE ARE TALKING HERE ABOUT THE TOOT TOOT OF AN ENGINE, OF A HORN, OF A SIGNAL OF SOME SORT, SOMETHING THAT SAYS HERE I AM, I AM HERE, PAY ATTENTION, AND THEN I, I WOULD GIVE YOU THAT BEEP BEEP, I WOULD SHINE MY BRIGHTS ON YOU GIRL, AND SAY I AM HERE, I AM READY, WOULD YOU RUN YOUR HANDS THROUGH MY HAIR?, FOR THEY ARE INDEED REAL NICE HANDS, AND HERE WE ARE, BOUNCING AROUND, WHILE ON THE RADIO THE RADIO IS SAYING TO US "I DON'T KNOW IF YOU WERE READY FOR THE CHORUS BUT REGARDLESS HERE IT IS, AND WHAT IT IS IS THAT WHAT WE ARE LISTENING TO IS THE REMIX TO IGNITION, AND IT IS HOT AND FRESH OUT THE KITCHEN, BECAUSE KELLS COOKED THIS SONG UP JUST FOR YOU GIRL, AND IT IS FRESH AND IT IS WARM AND IT IS EXACTLY WHAT YOU NEED TO FEEL ACCEPTED AND LOVED AND A PART OF SOMETHING FAR GREATER THAN WE ALL INDIVIDUALLY COULD AMOUNT TO JUST LIKE ALL THINGS HOT AND FRESH OUT THE KITCHEN, BUT THIS KITCHEN, IT IS NOT FOR YOUR TUM TUM, OH NO GIRL, IT IS FOR YOUR SOUL. AND GIRL, O! GIRL, IF YOU COULD JUST ROLL THAT BODY OF YOURS ONCE MORE FOR ALL OF US IT WOULD CAUSE EVERY MAN IN HERE TO REACH FOR THE MAGIC LAMP IN HIS POCKET AND USE UP WHAT IS IN ALL LIKELIHOOD HIS THIRD OF THREE WISHES, AND HERE WE ARE. WE ARE ALL HERE AND WE ARE SIPPING ON COKE AND RUM AND WE ARE LIKE SO WHAT WE ARE LIKE JUST LISTEN WE ARE LIKE SO WAHT IF I AM DRUNK? IT IS FRIDAY AT 451 PM AND IT IS JUST ABOUT THE FREAKING WEEKEND, AND BABY, WHAT WE ARE ABOUT TO DO IS HAVE US SOME FUN, WE ARE GOING TO REPEAT THE WORD BOUNCE OVER AND OVER AGAIN AS WE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE BOUNCE INTO THE NEXT MOTHERFUCKING VERSE WHICH GOES ON TO SAY:
THAT MUCH LIKE ANGELA LANSBURY, ONCE YOUR CLOTHES ARE ON THE FLOOR SOME MOTHERFUCKING REVELATIONS ARE DISCOVERED REGARDING THE FINENESS OF YOUR BODY, WE ARE TALKING SERIOUS SLEUTHING IN A FUCKING METAPHYSICAL PLANE, THERE IS A SIGN ON THE DOOR REQUESTING PRIVACY, BECAUSE WHAT THIS IS IS IT IS INTIMACY OF THE HIGHEST INTIMACY, BUT THIS SIGN IS IN NO WAY EFFECTIVE AT BLOCKING SOUND, AND THEY CAN HEAR YOU AS YOU CALL OUT FOR MORE, BECAUSE I AM DOING MY BEST HERE, BECAUSE THAT'S ALL TWO PEOPLE CAN REALLY DO FOR EACH OTHER, IS THEIR BEST, BECAUSE WE ARE JUST HUMANS HERE, LOOKING FOR SOMETHING MORE THAN ONE OF US ALONE CAN PROVIDE. AND GIRL KELLS IS HERE AND HE IS FEELING WHAT YOU ARE FEELING, BECAUSE THERE IS NO NEED FOR GENIES OR WITCHCRAFT HERE GIRL, WHAT THIS IS IS IT IS A SINCERE AND HUMAN CONNECTION, SHIT IS REAL HERE, IT IS AS REAL AS REAL CAN GET, AS KELLS PREPARES TO TAKE HIS KEY AND PLACE SAID KEY INTO THE IGNTION AND THEN, WHAT HAPPENS THEN, IS SHIT GETS IGNITED, AND OUR ENGINES, AS SPRINGSTEEN'S BEFORE US, ARE STRAPPED TO A HOTROD OF EMOTION.
IN ADDITION: THE CHAMPAGNE WE ARE POPPING IN THIS STRETCH LINCOLN NAVIGATOR SUV LIMOUSINE HYBRID WAS CRISTAL IF YOU WERE WONDERING JAY MCINERNY, AND SUDDENLY HERE WE ARE! WE ARE AT THE PARTY! AND THE FOOD! THE FOOD IS EVERYWHERE! IF KELLS DID NOT KNOW ANY BETTER HE WOULD SAY UNTO YOU CHILD THIS PARTY IS CATERED. YOU SHOULD KNOW THAT TO OUR LEFT IS LOCATED WHAT IS KNOWN AS "FELLA'S" AND TO OUR RIGHT, WELL, TO OUR RIGHT IS WHAT COULD BE CALLED "HUNNIES" AND DEAR READER, WHEN WE BRING THESE TWO GROUPS TOGETHER, WELL, WE HAVE GOT WHAT IS AFFECTIONATELY KNOW AS A FUCKING PARTY. AND WE LOVE A FUCKING PARTY. BUT LISTEN, BECAUSE WE ARE GOING TO THE SHOW AND THE SHOW WILL BE FANTASTIC BECAUSE THE SHOW IS FEATURING R. KELLY HIMSELF, TO BRING US TRULY INTO THE WEEKEND, AND AFTER THE SHOW WE ARE GOING TO THE AFTER PARTY, AND AFTER THAT PARTY WE ARE HEADING TO THE HOTEL LOBBY, I KNOW THE DOORMAN, HE DOES NOT MIND A PARTY HELD IMPROMPTU-STYLE IN THE HOTEL LOBBY, BUT 'ROUND ABOUT FOUR HE WILL CLEAR US THE FUCK OUT, AT WHICH POINT THOSE KNOWN AS FELLAS AND THOSE KNOWN AS HUNNIES WILL FIND AN APPROPRIATE PARTNER WITH WHICH TO GO INTO A ROOM AND ATTEMPT TO STRIP THEMSELVES BARE FOR JUDGMENT, FOR SOME SORT OF REAL GENUINE CONNECTION, THE KIND OF THING WE ARE ALL SEARCHING FOR LIKE DESPERATE ANIMALS IN THE NIGHT, BUT IT IS OK, BECAUSE OUR LONELINESS IS NOT SPECIAL, IT IS NOT UNIQUE, IT IS SOMETHING WE ALL SHARE, AND IT WILL PASS, IT WILL, IT TRULY WILL IS WHAT KELLS IS SAYING, AND SO WHAT IF WE ARE DRUNK BECAUSE IT IS THE FREAKING WEEKEND BABY, AND WE ARE ABOUT TO HAVE US SOME FUN, IF BY FUN YOU MEAN WE WILL LIVE, WE WILL BE ALIVE, AND WE WILL ACKNOWLEDGE THIS LIFE, AND THIS LOVE OF IT WE ALL DEEP DOWN SHARE, AND WE ARE HERE, WE ARE WAITING, WE WAIT, WE WILL ALWAYS BE HERE IN THIS HOTEL, AT THIS PARTY, IN OUR HEARTS AND OUR DREAMS, THIS IS NOT A TIME FOR WITCHCRAFT. THIS IS A TIME FOR LOVE. R. KELLY JUST WANTS YOU TO KNOW LOVE. WHAT IS SO WRONG WITH THAT? THE ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION IS NOTHING IF YOU WERE WONDERING. GO FORTH. INTO THE WEEKEND. IT WAITS FOR US. IT WAITS. IT IS FOGGING UP THE WINDOWS AS WE BLAST THE RADIO AND IN THE BACK OF THE TRUCK THERE IS AN ACTION OF BOUNCING, OF BOUNCING UP AND OF BOUNCING DOWN, STROKING 'ROUND AND 'ROUND, AS THE REMIX TO IGNITION PLAYS, AND YOU AND I, WE ARE JUST THUGGIN' IT OUT, FOR TONIGHT, FOR FOREVER, FOR THE MOMENT, FOR AS LONG AS IT TAKES.
YET ANOTHER BOOK REPORT
OH HEY GUYS IT'S ME LOOK AT THAT I AM POSTING ANOTHER THING A MONTH LATER THE FUN JUST NEVER STOPS HERE AT AN ICE COLD COCA COLA DOT BLOGSPOT DOT COM.
February 12, 2013
MORE BOOK REPORTS
so here is the book report on jane eyre
and here is the one on wuthering heights
at some point i will post in this about the idea for the footnotes i came up with.
and here is the one on wuthering heights
at some point i will post in this about the idea for the footnotes i came up with.
December 14, 2012
November 5, 2012
well whoa
So this poem just got published over at The Good Men Project. They liked it so much they posted it at 8pm last night instead of this morning, and it's already gotten over 1500 hits. I don't really know what that means, other than to say that I don't think a single blog post on this thing has gotten more than 45 hits maybe, but then again, I neglect this blog thing immensely, so there is also that. But I am pretty sure that that is a lot of people looking at it. That is over 3 times as many people reading that as have bought my book. So there's that. And Ken Sparling wrote something really nice in the comments section. His novel DAD SAYS HE SAW YOU AT THE MALL [which mud luscious is reprinting] was a huge thing for. It really impacted how I think about language, about the way language can communicate feelings, and about domesticity, which is a topic or idea that I keep writing about all the time. You should probably buy that book, because just whoa. Also, maybe buy mine! If you haven't. Just saying. It's a pretty ok book. The 2 people who reviewed it on Amazon seem to have really loved it. 2 out of 2 readers say 5 STARS WOULD READ AGAIN. So there's that!
Ok I am going to go eat it is super late to eat dinner but I am going to do it anyway because I am just that kind of guy.
Ok I am going to go eat it is super late to eat dinner but I am going to do it anyway because I am just that kind of guy.
