I can’t concentrate. On anything. Work. Reading. Even this post. A few draft posts linger in the backlog. I’ll Instagram the process of writing this post before actually hitting publish. There’s a lot on my mind. Most of it, I haven’t the vaguest clue. I started reading Darkness Visible by William Styron because I loved …
Things bore me. I pick up a book—an interesting book with lots of fucking at the beginning—put it down, and start another with less fucking and less descriptions of the female form. I begin a short story—or a post, or a poem—just to save the draft and forget about it. This listless ennui disheartens its …
Sometimes I forget other people have feelings. Sometimes that they’re even human. I awoke to the sound this morning. My world shook and I was ripped from my dream. I’m consumed by whatever madness lives within me. The pressures of just smiling weighing me down. I look in the mirror and see the edges cracking. …
JT asked if I was reading at the Beat poetry reading. I shook my head. “No,” I said. “Why not?” “It wasn’t my group. I wasn’t invited.” Last year, I made a snide remark about an anti-bullying poetry reading that excluded prose readers. I compared it to sitting at the loser’s table in the proverbial …
Has it been 13 years since The Marshall Mathers LP found its way into my collection? A 17-year-old, skinny high school student whose music collection was limited to the disenfranchised post grunge albums and industrial rabble-rousers proclaiming god was dead. I heard about Eminem—hi, my name is cheekacheeka Slim Shady—but rap was for assholes with …
I hate, no, I loathe, no, despise. Yeah. Despise. I despise No-Shave November. And it’s not for the pity reason that I cannot—genetically or professionally—grow a beard, but all the posts declaring that real men don’t need pre-selected month to grow a beard. They’ll post Internet memes and photos of their lion’s mane made up …
Chapin City Blues 