MotD Breakfast

There is a new bit of microfiction by Jon Catron at magazine of the Dead. You can read it, or ignore the hell out of it, right here.

While searching around for more poetry by the mighty Howie Good, I stumbled across a ‘zine called Ditch. It’s a Canadian poetry journal. The thing is quite good, and deserves a read. Go check it out when you have a moment.

More to come

How people Get Here

WordPress lets me see what searches led people to this blog. Most days there’s nothing odd. Yesterday, for example, the top searches were :

nathan tyree short story
html giant
online poetry

Today, however, the top search was:

girl gets fuck with arm stub

I must say, WOW! Never have I been so proud

How I Write

Someone keeps stealing my blood. I have less and less each day. That’s not what I want to write about, though. The thing I want to write about is writing (how fucking dull is that, huh?). This is my system:

I turn on my laptop and look through some old porn. Eventually, I open up word and stare at the ocean of white for several minutes. Then I turn on the TV and flip through the stations. Nothing is on, so I stare at the blank white for a while longer. I get up to pour a drink, get to the kitchen and realize that I’ve forgotten what I went to the kitchen for, turn around get all the way back to the living room and remember that I am sober. Back to the kitchen, fix a drink, walk back to my spot, see the white and wonder why the fuck I bother.

Three or four drinks later I start to type. At first without really knowing what the hell I’m writing about. Eventually something starts to take shape. Then, I get a rhythm and the words flow- for a while.

Then I get too drunk to type, try to remember to save what I was working on, and turn off the computer.

I wonder if Bukowski did it this way.

Other stuff:

The Legendary, a zine I like (and that had the good taste to publish me a while back) has been reviewed at HTML Giant: right fucking here.

The snow came and went.

One Night Stanzas

I have a new poem called Joseph K at One Night Stanzas. You have to scroll down a ways to find it.

The Fucker Inside

A World Without Me is coming along at pace. So far, the writing is coming easily, but I don’t expect that to last. It never does. I’m enjoying it so far though. I do worry that it may be too heavy with allusions. So far it refers or leans on (often obliquely) Cotard; Searle; Camus; Joyce; and a host of other literary, philosophical and medical concepts. I may have to deal with this in the editing.

Elsewhere, I have reviewed S.A. Griffin’s poetry collection, The Fucker Inside, over at Magazine of the Dead. It’s a good book. Please read the review and please buy the book. Small presses need all the support they can get.

In other news:

. . .

Stuff I’m Enjoying

This guy’s blog is quite interesting.

ditto this .

Cheese.

Rambling like a mad man on mescaline. Maybe living in a Chinese room.

I’m not feeling very anything right now. It’s like maybe I’m a character in a comic novel. Not a crazy comic novel, but a weird, dark comic novel like Dead Babies or maybe something incomprehensible like Finnegan’s Wake. Despite Descartes, I sometimes question my own existence. I am filled with nothing, rusty water and despair. There may be too much blood in my whisky stream.

I want to paint rabbit ears on my cat.

I’m very proud of being useless.

I am past the point of believing that I have value.

Like Henry Chinaski, I know that my obit will contain the words “minor poet” even if I don’t get lost in the woods. At night I sit alone and shuffle poker chips with my left hand. The right one trembles and scatters the chips. I listen to Coltrane sing about a love supreme and wish that I could get past regret. Nevermind. Regret is all that I have.

Makers Mark, Valium, and Xanax make a perfect cocktail. I sliced my palm and let the blood drip into my drink and watched the crimson diffuse through the amber making spider webs of life. I drank it down, consuming myself. Maybe that’s a metaphor for something, but I don’t know what.

I wonder if it is possible to be certain that you are the same person when you wake up that you were when you went to sleep.

Nothing says I love you like an Amber alert.

I bring a girl home from the bar and after we fuck on the couch I make her watch as I burn myself with cigarettes until she can’t take it any longer and leaves without even putting her shirt on. When she’s gone, I kind of miss her, but at the same time the thought that her panties are getting all crusty while she is on the street hailing a cab topless makes me smile.

Someday the planet will be cleansed of humans and all of our shit will be wiped away by rain and wind and things will get back to normal. I wont be able to watch American Idol, but then I never did anyway.

If I stood at the north pole, I could watch the sun rise in the south and feel absurd.

We are all dead men on leave.

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Other stuff:

The new thing that I mentioned before (the thing involving Cotard’s Delusions and the Chinese room, and such) is going to be called A World Without Me. I like the title because it fits, and because it is a double entendre and because it sounds like a Roald Dahl title (think of Someone Like You) and because it sounds sad.

I’m reading a lot of medical journals right now.