Mozel Sanders Dinner

My friend says its Biblical
when I say “I gave less, but
its all I have, so it means more”
Is it biblical? – The Eucharist.

Sure. The family tradition
passed on from father to son.
But in Fellowship Hall I eat
a sandwich and am not sure

if there is any meat to it
Not just an unleaven bread
with some sad-sogged cran
sauce, the whole wheat

stuck between my teeth like
my uncles racism, or the pilgrims
coughing into quilts, or Judas
giving his gold to the priest.


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Extended Ennui

It is midday. I am still lying in bed. I twist the curtain and black sheet so the lying sky is all that I see for several hours. Within this frame I hear an old timey plane. The propeller; I cannot see it. And so now the loading and unloading of semi-interested work thunders across Lynhurst from the industrial park.  It creates a force field over my house, like a heavy depression in the clouds, or a net cast.

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A red fox, known always moving, stripes in the bushes and slips over the steps to sit in front of me. It stares thin and narrow cleaning its black paws. Swift lash of tongue. She lowers her head to the ground and pauses for an exaggerated moment taking two breathes before turning and vanishing into the bushes.  And now, as I bask in the heat of a red autumn wash, I hear a faint call warping through the trees – the integral yelp of an empty stomach.

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Man Carrying Sofa – Tony Hoagland

Whatever happened to Cindy Morrison, that nice young lesbian?
I heard she moved to the city and got serious.
Traded in her work boots for high heels and a power suit.
Got a healthcare plan and an attorney girlfriend.

Myself, I don’t want to change.
It’s January and I’m still dating my checks November.
I don’t want to step through the doorway of the year.
I’m afraid of something falling off behind me.
I’m afraid my own past will start forgetting me.

Now the sunsets are like cranberry sauce
poured over the yellow hills, and yes,
that beauty is so strong it hurts –
it hurts because it isn’t personal.

But we look anyway, we sit upon our stoops
and stare, — fierce,
like we were tossing down a shot of vodka, straight,
and afterwards, we feel purified and sad and rather Russian.

When David was in town last week,
I made a big show to him of how unhappy I was
because I wanted him to go back and tell Susan
that I was suffering without her –

but then he left and I discovered
I really was miserable
– which made me feel better about myself –
because, after all, I don’t want to go through time untouched.

What a great journey this is,
this ordinary life of ants and sandwich wrappers,
of x-rated sunsets and drive-through funerals.

And this particular complex pain inside your chest;
this damaged longing
like a heavy piece of furniture inside you;
you carry it, it burdens you, it drags you down –
then you stop, and rest on top of it.


from What Narcissism Means to Me

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Here Is Some Heft

Summer is nice. That said,

I’ve been thinking a lot. I’ve been meta-thinking a lot. I’ve been pretty meta. <- It took me 3 times to write that sentence. Metal. I am also pretty metal.

The alarms are cyrin’ out for their big-bird mommy, the dirty cotton in the sky, the big deal that blind people in Indiana really don’t see that often, but we often feel the need to say

hey, we’re in the bible belt. I mean tornado alley. But at the same time I do not. That is how this works. Thats why sometimes people don’t get poetry in other languages. I am a bat. pitcher. tent. Things that are penises.

People who are dicks: Fuckin, fuckin, that reverend or guy, or jim jones, that dude-where is he, I dunno.  People who are Dick Wadz: friends.  (Question: Is this dick-ish?: I sold my iPhone/case/charger, wrote the guy/girl an email explaining that I’m shipping said iPhone/case/charger in a Motorola box. Guy/girl writes back: “hi the phone why the come moterla box  i bought aplie iphone the have to come the same box ok.” And I’ve decided to not respond, and send the damn phone like I said.) I actually just finished erasing the hell out of my phone. And took a trip to bummersville. :\

A POEM THAT HA ah, I just took a two hour break to watch the wind go “wippady-doo I’m a big smelly fart”


I am no other among slumber,

turning into the cool attraction

from eyelids stinging low-exposure

hallucinations. A de-humidifier for

the basement, where was found between

ceiling panels the arachnid ghost skeleton.

Glowing open, alive with its shed air.

Down the walls I dream free

from house centipede necking

In the running blue and still warm

antique vapors. Turn into my pores.

Soused and with a waking cramp

I am paralysis until midday. Weighing a profile

or fetal shadow soaked into the sheets.

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Here is what I am doing at 7:45am

1Putting time stamps on fucking everything I’m writing this morning

2Thinking of all the ideas I’ve had for blog posts

3Looking around my room for motivation (where is it?!)

4Listening to Bon Iver, and hating it. Not in the mooooood.

5But not changing it, because I respect that I like these songs on occasion.

Is that what is wrong with this generation. Of course,

I mean the time stamps. and what is it with postal stamps?

Whose idea was it to tax conversation?  If I were you I would

get it all back, sell it. Because I can’t even pay rent. Because I’m lazy?

Can you read this blog post from a source that you haven’t somehow paid for?

Is this redundant? because we can stop reading.  Of course,

the mood may strike you dull and mugged like the past 20-something hours

but if there’s one thing we can all agree on

its that 1. I am no good at math and 2.

I know good music when I’ve listened to it.

666 Saturday May 14, 2011 7:59:301234567891000000000000000000(so on and onward)

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Read a LETTER FROM THE PAST and feel reassured about something,

anything, heck


If you feel

that is.

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