MY BODY IS READY

Today we're taking our first uneasy steps into Tumblr territory.
Is Livejournal too high brow for you?
Maybe a little too masculine?
Well we have Tumblr here just for you, retard.
Anyway this blog actually came as a request--
because I'M FAMOUS ENOUGH TO GET REQUESTS FUCK YOU and here it is.
This is a return to one of my old favorites: poetry blogs.
Did you miss poetry blogs?
Aaaaah me neither.

I wanted to write something about her but
she’s so small then I thought men don’t measure things
by their absence,
she seems to have seen all 27 cracked and ordinary years of me
still laughs at my dumb jokes about old movies
three mocking birds worth of laughs while I pay for our booze
like I have many times before,
they said fuck you to all the saints with high heels and now she
touches my leg lightly and smiles at me like no one does, 

HOLY
SHIT BRO
WHAT THE FUCK
ARE YOU DOING
Poetry isn't actually sentences with random page breaks contrary to one of the first jokes I told about poetry on here.

for now I will just try to make her
laugh,
because graveyards are full of the boys who went for the
high heels and liquor, so rarely do they have
tombstones next to anyone important,
because graveyards are also full of boys like me,
I will die someday too,

amen,
plastic jesus candle lying upside down in my neighbor’s window,
hear my prayer,
“don’t let me
fuck this one up…”
He’s heard it before, He’s quite unimpressed, the
sun has melted his face into only hints and He has never been
lit, which explains everything
if you think about it 

So this poem makes sense if I think about it.
So you're a pretentious hipster faggot and this is all garbage.
Got it, asshole.

Sometimes I sit alone in the break room chugging red bull and listening to the Wrath Of Khan score wondering if I’m ever going to buy a decent razor so i stop giving myself terrible razor burn when I do remember to shave.

Gotta get up at 5:30 tomorrow, speaking of.
God I love my fucking shitty job.

Thai food, the Aquitaine, the Hyde Out, Willie Williams, the Revenger’s Tragedy, whiskey, and getting lives on track. Ups and downs. Life, you know?
Okay, I’ll write something cooler, settle down, jeesh. This was for me. SO I CAN LOOK BACK. I DO THAT SOMETIMES, JERKS.

HOLY FUCK BRO IS THAT A COHERENT THOUGHT OR THE RANTINGS OF A FUCKING TWEAKER? 

• Sally: What are you doing?
• Me: Waiting for a text.
• Sally: You do that? I thought the oh so edgy writersmith was above such things. He was never the active contact.
• Me: I'M TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF SALLY.
• Sally: I DON'T THINK A NEW LEAF MATTERS IF YOU CUT THE WHOLE DAMN TREE DOWN
• Me: I NEEDED THE WOOD BECAUSE I KNEW YOU WERE GONNA GET ON THE CROSS
• Sally: Damnit, Daniel.

Is it possible to hate these two people more than I do right this fucking second?
Because I don't think it is.
This is the 9/11 of blogs.

 Had a weird John Hughes moment in the Mission today; went down to go see the show at the Dark Room with Juan (oh that Juan) and was walking down the street and saw this very pretty girl who was extraordinarily familiar, who then asked me “Do I know you?” and then we talked about Roald Dahl’s adult fiction (gotta find a copy of his Hamlet) and now I’m looking forward to buying her a drink and talking books. Also, really, I wonder where I know her from — if I do in fact know her. It’s a small city. And I’ve got the soul (or at least wardrobe) of a detective. 

The soul of an asshole.
I can't imagine how you dress. I bet you own at least one fedora in which case you should be violently scourged with razor wire.

when you slammed the door in my face, I laughed, because I couldn’t scream, or yell, or beg. when you slammed the door in my face the air pushed me back a bit, and I teetered on the top step. I’m clumsy, and if I had fallen backwards and broken my neck and ended up crippled or dead, would you have wept? not in that moment, I’m sure. the bitterest satisfaction is only empty in retrospect. in the moment it fills you, like a good meal, like great sex, like religion or a long movie.

Like great sex
or religion
or a long movie
You know what three things I didn't expect to see tied together?
Well a lot of things but those three things especially.

I tried to explain she was a moment of weakness. it wasn’t hers — women are savage, and paranoid, but so rarely weak, and in that moment I touched her, and other things, and it was without meaning. meaningless but loaded with consequence. like all small actions, it became something greater, and worse, a free-floating emotional and social maelstrom. 

Coooooooool.
So you cheated--
You know I get this but I'm having a hell of a time giving a fuck because this is so pretentious and hipster I feel like I shouldn't be getting this as much as I do.

she was a great laugher, and a great smile, and a great body, and pretty — yes, she was all those things. but not like you. your laugh made me call you from thousands of miles away.

"baby it ain't be like that"
HOW IS IT
I CAN ACCOMPLISH IN ONE SENTENCE

WHAT TAKES YOU PARAGRAPHS
 your smile stood below mine in the mirror in the morning when you made fun of me. your body, well. I don’t have the time to describe. art. form and void. 

So she's got a great smile
and she's really fucking hot--

 when I touched her, she laughed. when you slammed the door in my face, I laughed. people do crazy things. people are fundamentally crazy, or perhaps we’re just sane and pretending.

But is she
half as hot as Anna Tsuchiya?
The answer, of course, is no.
So really whatever, bitch. Peace out.
FUCK HER. YOU THINK I GIVE A DAMN ABOUT A BITCH I AIN'T A SUCKA.

but I loved you, like fire and songs, because that is how I love. until I do crazy things. I won’t ever change, not until I die. 

Anna Tsuchiya
I even saw that fucking movie you were in where you were a hooker
what the fuck was that anyway?

the memory of her laughter is all I can recall about her, what became of the rest of her I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know. I loved you all along, but she was beautiful too, in the way that all women are — exotic and painful and unlocking, always becoming more complicated and wonderful.

What?
Listen, bro, she's just a pop star.
She's not even the hottest Japanese pop star so let's keep our shit together.
Or the sluttiest. Just putting that out there.

I knew when I touched her, I hurt you, and I hurt myself. perhaps that is why she loved it. perhaps that is why she laughed. now you are gone, and bigger than me, and I am still a boy who knows nothing, who plays with his toys and stares upwards not knowing just what to wonder. 
and you will crack the sky with your dreams, darling. 

Darling.
I think Anna Tsuchiya should probably send me an email or hell I'd accept a text of her thanks.
Because I think after watching her movie I'm about the most dedicated fan ever.
All right you've got a sexy voice do I really need to watch a whole movie featuring this?

• Me: I gotta get outta my hotel room. It's too small and creepy and it's making me stir-crazy and mean and weird.
• Zach: I hear the real estate in Damascus is good.

 I hear your face would make a good home for my fist, Zach.
Is anyone named "Zach" (with an 'h') not a complete twat?
Here's a picture of him reading a book and drinking Jack Daniel's with iTunes on in the background.
COOL.
COOL.
COOL.
LET ME POST ABOUT HOW I GOT REALLY BUZZED ON KAMIKAZES AND SAW THE ROOM IN A HIPSTER THEATER BECAUSE THAT'LL BE AN INTERESTING POST FOR PEOPLE TO READ ABOUT.
Dipshit.

Fuck a good life — I just want the story, you know? You die alone anyway. It doesn’t matter if you die holding someone’s hand, there’s no guarantees with the clearing at the end of the path. The story is what matters. I don’t care of I have to live a ridiculous cartoon hyper-allusion of a miserable life to get one good story. You don’t sign up for the writing gig and you don’t get to go AWOL. Journalism, poetry, telling dick jokes on twitter; go, go, go kid go! Write that ridiculous love song! Blog something about someone you don’t know! Burn it all down on the way and sit alone in a small room. 

And yet every single one of the best authors say "my life was complete shit so let me tell you this story so my life will be slightly less shit". They don't go seeking it out.
Like what, Dante just decided "yeah to tell a good story I should get myself arrested"
or what, Milton said "yeah I think I'll almost get executed as a traitor so I'll have enough material to write Paradise Lost."
That's not really how this shit works, idiot.

Last night was the thrilling experience of watching some first timers take some low-grade acid and dance, get topless, while I (also dropped) and graphically and repeatedly described the Coen Brothers spit-roasting Frances McDormand (for almost forty five minutes) and we laughed about fax machines, tried to get Siri to admit she hates Zooey, and made fun of each other’s weird mannerisms and lay about on the floor trying to figure out how the fan worked.

THEN WE WERE THE ONLY PEOPLE IN THE THEATER SO WE DECIDED TO FUCKING MAKE SHADOW PUPPETS ON THE SCREEN--
IT WAS FUCKING HILARIOUS YOU GUYS JESUS CHRIST.
God this guy is an asshole.
Here's a picture (that just just a bunch of words, inexplicably) that says "any time a scene is two characters talking about a third the scene is shit" which is actually pretty true.
Except half of Pulp Fiction is that kinda shit and it's one of the best movies ever so whatever.

girl,
with your exquisite cataclysms calming mendacious impertinent folk medleys,
I have built 27 years and 37 teeth worth of poems and
sad songs for you,
I have witnessed the tragic splintering power in the voice
of broken windows, 

MAD LIBS: THE POEM

Most of the girls at the fashion store across the street are leggy Deschanel analogues (and therefore barely noticeable) or surly looking heavily made up Asian girls in hipster glasses (also something this city has overdosed on)

I propose that you cannot overdose on the latter. 

Everyone’s miserable sometimes.
Let me back up. You’re probably in love with someone right now; you, the abstract reader and you the specific — whether it’s known or not. Human beings are mechanically or biologically programmed to love, to facilitate stronger bonds and therefore stronger children.

I am?

There’s no answers anymore. That’s part of getting older. You like the bands you like and you like the certain friends’ facebook statuses and some mornings you wake up and almost don’t go to work, and sometimes you get drunk and dance with a stranger and sometimes you stay at home and watch an episode of something utterly forgettable that completely entrances you. But you don’t have answers.

I have all the answers.
All you have to do is ask me and I can give you them.
Anyway I gotta be up soon for bullshit and salad on the shelf.
Bye then.