You’re right. Yes. I know. OK. OK. Jesus.
I haven’t slogged in a while. But there are reasons.
I keep filling out forms. They slot me more forms. I fill it out, and there’s another form. Forms. Forms. Forms. Teeth of forms. Armpits of forms. Musty barn jackets of forms. You put the jacket on and someone slots you a musty barn jacket and says put it on. You put another jacket on, sort of bulky now, and someone slots you a musty barn jacket and says put it on and you put the jacket on, sort of hot and bulky and hot now, and someone slots you….Ah, balderdash. This is all I would like to say at this time about forms.
[speckled Canada goose]
I am injured. My left Achilles heel is fucked. It is a brick, on fire. Here, hold this flaming brick. Now I can’t run the Purge of Knees. How long have I been training for it, looking forward to, imagining the possibility of flying up Mount Lemmon?
A long fucking time. Now I can’t. I can’t realize my goals and my left Achilles is a flaming brick. It’s like someone is treating my life like a little rock. Or they gave me this prize, this cool roses-of-gold prize, then took it away and said, “Psyche! Your life is just a little, bitty rock.”
[i could have been a weird itch of a man, but now…]
Do you know what a runner does when they can’t run? they don’t blog, folks. They spiral into depression is what they do. They don’t blog. You have to have some sense of human spark to blog. You can’t be down on that bottom grocery shelf with the dusty candles and the Kosher dills and that crumpled box of baking soda and the fucking dead cricket. You can’t be an embroidered lamb mitten found behind the refrigerator once you finally move your refrigerator (you had it 27 years and now, now it breaks! right before the party?!) and behind the refrigerator dust-balls big as your forehead and a steak knife and a book of matches and some pink pill (hey now!) and an embroidered lamb mitten from some kid, who knows what kid, some happy, distracted kid probably a sad adult now, probably sang like a fish under this very roof before you lived in the house, most likely.
[collaborate with myself]
ICE. IBUPROFEN. BEER. ACE BANDAGE. NEW SHOES? BEER. REST. FUCK ME.
Did you say, rest? A few minutes ago I ran a 5:42 mile to Lady Gaga.
Thought my modem was blar but it was my router. Two weeks of being too busy to deal. Forms. Can’t use the internet at home. Now what? Shoot my bow I guess or sweep the floor or go fishing with Boy or bet on sports or wax my bow or wax myself (uh, no) or watch some TV show about the Titanic…
Did you know the Titanic came within 4 feet of hitting a huge ship on the very first seconds of its maiden voyage? I didn’t. I do now.
2,227 people on board.
Lifeboats for only 1,178 people.
Why in the hell would you want to recreate the Titanic voyage and then go and park above the sunk ship and stare down into the water, you sick douche bag tourists.
Comcast customer service woman # 1: Way too smart, professional, witty to be working her job. I kept wondering what she looked like. I mean I was attracted to a customer service professional over the phone. Weird. Anyway, we got disconnected and she was no actual help.
Comcast customer service woman # 2: OK, I was sort of a little gin parabola and I shouted at this woman. I don’t feel good about that. I want to be a better person. I apologize. She was no actual help.
Comcast customer service man # 1: This dude went on some insane rant about how all the kids today are being bullied at schools and that everyone needs to be armed all the time. He said kids need guns and to go outside more often. He was no actual help.
Air Station router dude: We talked so long that I got ear sweat. He seemed cool. Finally he said, “Well, we tried everything, so I think you’re screwed. Go buy a new router.”
He helped. I bought a new router. I have internet now.
4. someone in my family, not sure who, maybe my wife or maybe my kid, my dog, not sure, i need to pay attention more, but sometimes I don’t listen and start thinking about Boy George or something, and anyway, somebody had this in their fortune cookie:
FOR TRUE LOVE? SEND REAL ROSES PRESERVED IN 24kt GOLD!
So that threw me off for two days, thinking on that fortune.
5. the new HTML GIANT.
Looks pretty rad, no?
6. all the cool shit…what cool shit?
Ok, I went to a musical, in a big-ass classroom. That was odd. It was The Circus in Winter, and based on Cathy Day’s book, The Circus in Winter.
I get to work with Cathy Day and that makes me glow.
Also I really dig this book. I am reading it right now and learning a lot. I like to learn while I read.
I glowed the musical, too.
Best part of the musical-in-a-giant-classroom was this young lady would blow a trumpet in your face every time they mentioned the elephant. Scared me once. Then twice. Then I got used to a trumpet in closed quarters.
I went to a reading. Four readers.
1. Some student I have never heard of. I can’t remember what he read. I’m not even sure I was there.
Shanna had the sniffles. I thought maybe she was on cocaine but she claimed a cold.
Here’s a glow article Shanna wrote about poet-bloggers.
You know Chicken Bucket, right?
Today I turn thirteen and quit the 4-H club for good.
I smoke way too much pot for that shit.
Besides, Mama lost the rabbit and both legs
from the hip down in Vegas.
What am I supposed to do? Pretend to have a rabbit?
Bring an empty cage to the fair and say,
His name’s REO Speedwagon and he weighs eight pounds ?
My teacher, Mr. Ortiz says, I’ll miss you, Cassie,
then he gives me a dime of free crank and we have sex.
I do up the crank with Mama and her boyfriend, Rick.
She throws me the keys to her wheelchair and says,
Baby, go get us a chicken bucket.
So I go and get us a chicken bucket.
On the way back to the trailer, I stop at Hardy’s liquor store.
I don’t want to look like a dork
carrying a chicken bucket into the store—
and even though Mama always says
Never leave chicken where someone could steal it—
I wrap my jacket around it and hide it
under the wheelchair in the parking lot.
I’ve got a fake ID says my name’s Sherry and I’m 22,
so I pick up a gallon of Montezuma Tequila,
a box of Whip-Its and four pornos.
Mama says, That Jerry Butler’s got a real wide dick.
But the whole time I’m in line, I’m thinking,
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
Please God let the chicken bucket be OK.
The guy behind me’s wearing a T-shirt
that says, Mustache Rides 10¢.
So I say, All I got’s a nickel.
He says, You’re cute,
so we go out to his van and have sex.
His dick’s OK, but I’ve seen wider.
We drink most of the tequila and I ask him,
Want a Whip-It?
He says, Fuck no—that shit rots your brain.
And when he says that, I feel kind of stupid
doing another one. But then I remember
what mama always told me:
Baby be your own person.
Well fuck yes.
So I do another Whip-It,
all by myself and it is great.
Suddenly it hits me—
Oh shit! the chicken bucket!
Sure enough, it’s gone.
Mama’s going to kill me.
Those motherfuckers even took my jacket.
I can’t buy a new chicken bucket
because I spent all the money at Hardy’s.
So I go back to the trailer, crouch outside
behind a bush, do all the Whip-Its,
puke on myself, roll in the dirt,
and throw open the screen door like a big empty wind.
Mama! Some Mexicans jumped me!
They got the chicken bucket,
plus the rest of the money!
I look around the trailer.
Someone’s taken all my old stuffed animals
and Barbies and torn them to pieces.
Fluff and arms and heads are all over the place.
I say someone did it,
but the only person around is Rick.
Mama is nowhere to be seen.
He cracks open another beer and says,
What chicken bucket?
Well, that was a long a time ago.
Rick and I got married
and we live in a trailer in Boron.
We don’t live in a trailer park though—
in fact there’s not another house around
for miles. But the baby keeps me
company. Rick says I’m becoming
quite a woman, and he’s going to let Mama know that
if we ever see her again.
4. Peter Davis.
I’ve seen Peter Davis many times now, and I keep glowing his Poetry Poetry Poetry poems.
Read them. Read the damn poems! You will feel like that moment, that moment right after statehood.
Oh go disc golf on your flaming brick of a heel.
Here’s a blog I wrote about my recent Michigan D golf trip, but, really, who cares?
Much more interesting is this gentleman’s write-up of one of the courses, Cass Benton:
People, people, people. The term Casshole only scratches the surface. Deuchebag circus kind of covers it. From over-privileged kiddie punks to obnoxious adults to vagabond rapist-looking weirdos who seem to wander from time to time, there’ s a little of everything. Because this is where I started playing, I thought every course was like this, thank goodness that’s not the case. Plus, there’s always big groups of 10+ who sometimes lack common courtesy to let you play through. Luckily the course layout can allow you to skip around them with enough hustle.
I sort of love the term Douche Bag Circus…
Katie Hartsock has:
1. a badass name.
2. a glow poem at Diagram, with whiskey cake recipe.
3. Another poem here.
Thank you for the words, Katie. Your words pull knees to chest and dunk like animals. Glow.