One Hundred and Forty-Sixth Entry

Why hello there. I've been neglecting you, little blog. I've had work and play and mid-terms and blogging and movies and smooches and arguments and, most of all, a top secret project. But I'm back, and hopefully we'll continue to see a lot of each other.

Those of you who might be interested in seeing this guy read, come on down to the Four-Faced Liar on this Saturday at 2:30. I'll be reading with Dan Magers, Alex Smith and Nathan Austin. It's going to be a lot of fun.

Here's my poem:

CHANT II

Screeing of born universe, belt-chrome signifying “what a waste” – sprouting limbs, twenty Athenas of television color test bars, yes, old addresses replete with shadow-pasts, ghosts liberaling around peeking in closets made for limbless shut-ins from the third world – beginning of life on Discovery Channel – “fuck protesters” is built into the façade on Brooklyn wall viewable by train, glass fogs in reaction to moist sponge bodies – game developed, incorrect gravity, character falls in hole of the program – epileptic shutter-speed in unlit haunted house room, sweat in plastic visibility greatly decreased – limbless protesters ask passerby to kick and spit on them, placards gently hung about necks – suction reforms face, rich blood taste from injury in mouth – cold while grass sticks to shuddering mass, eyes cataracted into pointlessness, sound from mouth open to re-adaptation, directors sniveling behind chairs and cameras.