I am Lionel Ritchie’s Greatest Hits

Sam Pink and Martin Wall have a great new journal. It’s called Twitter 666. I am lucky enough to be a contributor. There you will find me tweeting as a Lionel Ritchie CD.

Today Timothy Gager’s chapbook These Poems Are Not Pink Clouds came in the mail. I am very excited about reading this book.

Hearts and Livers

Blake Butler has some interesting things to say about “heart in writing” at HTML Giant. It’s worth a read and a thought.

Madam xTX keeps blowing my mind.

I don’t know why Sam Pink is insane.

Then there is this:

Her Own Lagoon

by Nathan Tyree

Her shoulders are hunched in a way that suggests some sort of psychological pain beyond imagination. The plate of spaghetti in front of her is untouched and she fails completely to look at me as she speaks. Her eyes have the look of someone starring out across a large body of water, but there is no water near our table. She picked this restaurant. I don’t care for it at all. My lasagna sucks.

She tells me that Luke has been cheating on her with her fat friend Stella. Stella’s main draw is that she will fuck anyone at any time. I’ve done her once or twice, but there’s no way I’m going to tell Anna that right now. Mostly I nod and make comforting noises. I’m wondering how nice I have to be for this to end up with us having meaningless sex.

Anna shakes too much parmesan cheese onto her spaghetti and takes the first furtive bite. She chews for about ten years and swallows in a manner that makes me think of sheep. Her eyes suggest a lagoon where mysterious birds come to feed on fish that no man has ever tasted. She’s leaving Luke. I take this as a good sign.

Toward the end of the meal I ask if she wants to come to my apartment for a while. She doesn’t seem to hear, but just stares past me into the distance. I can see the reflection of water in her eyes, but there is no water nearby.

Moby Dick

I am the Moby Dick of my living room
I guess that makes my wife Ishmael
That fucking cat is Captain Ahab

……………………………………………………………………………………….

In other, more annoying news:

For some reason my email account is fucked. I cannot log in. For the moment, if you are trying to contact me, please send emails to:

mroverby08@yahoo.com as that address seems to still work.

If you read this, please pass it along to anyone who might want it. Since I cannot get in the account, I can’t get my my contacts to email them from the alternate address.

I have all of these subs out and now I fear I wont get to read the rejections.

UPDATE: I now have a gmail account: nathanctyree@gmail.com

Email is fucked

For some reason my email account is fucked. I cannot log in. For the moment, if you are trying to contact me, please send emails to:

mroverby08@yahoo.com as that address seems to still work.

If you read this, please pass it along to anyone who might want it. Since I cannot get in the account, I get my my contacts to email them from the alternate address.

I have all of these subs out and now I fear I wont get to read the rejections.

‘Tis the very witching hour

H.J. rolled over and rubbed his palms against his eyes which were swollen and red and matted half shut. His brain felt like it was about to break free from his skull and run around the room killing every living thing it could find. He couldn’t be certain, but it seemed incredibly likely to H.J. that something rather unsavory had died in his mouth, been miraculously resurrected and died again. He tried to remember to remind himself to never drink again. He was trying to lift his head for the first time of the morning, or afternoon, or whatever the fuck it was when he realized that there was someone else in his tiny dorm room bed with him. He pried his eyes open and tried to look at her.

She was not quite beautiful, maybe a little chubby, but fairly tasty. It wished that he could remember whatever it was that he had done to her the night before. The sheet was covering the lower half of her body. He took a minute to feel one of her ample breasts. It felt good against his palm and he felt his cock starting to get hard. H.J. looked downward and considered reaching below the sheet. Since she was passed out he thought for a moment that it might not be the right thing to do. Then he decided that since they had obviously fucked the night before it should be okay. He slid his hand beneath the sheet and felt her crotch. He only meant to have a quick feel, but once he felt the heat coming off of her he couldn’t help rubbing her a bit. She moaned and opened her legs a little wider without waking. H.J. inserted first one ginger, then two inside her.

Her eyes opened. She looked a little confused, but then she reached an arm around him and pulled his face to hers. She started kissing him and a minute later he was inside of her. About the time they rolled over so that she could get on top his phone started ringing. He considered answering it, but decided that making her come was more important than whatever the caller had to say. She was grinding against him hard and he was trying to picture painful things to avoid finishing before she got there. He tried that scene in Casino where the guy’s eye popped out. Then he toyed with the cadaver that his friend Eddy, a pre-med student, had taken him to see. Finally he settled on Senator Robert Byrd. She looked deeply into his eyes.

“Say my name, “ she moaned.

H.J. started to panic. He wanted to give her what she needed, but had no idea what this girl’s name was. He didn’t remember meeting her or bringing her home. He tried to make an unintelligible noise and grabbed her ass hard with both hands. That seemed to work because her entire body shook and she let out a wail. Then he let himself go. He exploded inside her.

The girl wanted to cuddle. Slid off the edge of the bed and lit a cigarette. Her hand reached up to brush the back of his shoulder. H.J. made a non-committal grunt and inhaled deeply. He was trying to decide if he should usher her out the door or take another run at her when he remembered that someone had called. He grabbed his cell phone from night stand and looked at it. It had been his mother and she had left him a voice mail. He decided that it could wait until after he had rested and had another go at the girl whose name he needed to figure out if he was going to get to come inside her again.

It was an hour later and he still didn’t know her name, but had somehow managed to wedge himself between her legs for a second time that morning. H.J. picked up the phone and dialed the number to retrieve his voice mail. After he heard the message, the news that his father had died, he looked at the girl lying sweaty and out of breath in his bed, and said:

“Get the fuck out.”

She looked hurt. Her eyes, wide and strangely beautiful, started to well with tears. He instantly felt badly about it and said “I’m sorry. That was my mother on the phone. My dad is dead and I have to go.” Then he leaned in and kissed her. “I’ll call you when I get back.” They both knew that it was a lie.

He watched her climb from the bed and start to get dressed. When she bent to pick up her underpants from the floor he watched her ass and decided that perhaps he could wait a little longer pack. As she was stepping into her panties he grabbed her from behind and turned her toward him. His hand was between her legs, his fingers sliding easily inside of her. The semen he had deposited there served as a perfect lubricant and he quickly had her on her back. This time he made no attempt to envision unpleasant things. He just got what he needed as quickly as possible and then moved her out the door.

H.J. packed a few things quickly and then headed downstairs. He threw his duffle bag into the back seat of the old Honda and started the five hour drive back to the place of his birth.

The radio had very little of interest to offer him. The AM dial was nothing but vapid talking heads droning about issues that they didn’t even begin to understand. FM offered only bad seventies rock and the pap of top forty nonsense so he clicked the radio off and let himself begin to think.

He was named after his father. Henry Junior, but he had had always preferred the initialization H.J. to his actual name. Despite the similarity in nomenclature they had never been what any rational observer would call close. In fact, they had not a single thing in common. H.J’s dad was a fucking criminal, for the love of god. He was a drug dealer. He had never wanted a life like that. Since he was a small child he had known that college was in his future. He had entered school planning on a law degree and that plan had not wavered. In the third year of college he had changed his declaration to add a philosophy minor to his political science major. Philosophy had consumed him in the last two semesters and he almost considered giving up pre-law to move entirely into the realm of thought. In the end, though, that was not in the cards.

He had been at school for three years and that was exactly the amount of time that it had been since he had seen any of his family. That disconnect seemed perfectly fine to him. He had nothing to share with those people. He just hoped that he could get through the funeral as quickly and painlessly as possible.

Fuck, he thought. This was the worst of luck. He was going to miss a test in his ethics class and even worse; this ordeal would likely take several days.

Now could I drink hot blood

The old man was well on his way to becoming a moveable feast for a certain species of politic worm but was not exactly what one would think of room temperature when his wife hopped gruntingly into bed with Claude. Good old Claude; dependable, well mannered, wise Claude. Claude had been Henry’s best friend and closest ally, something like a counselor. In addition to that, Claude was Henry’s little brother. Had there been jealousy? Had Claude coveted his brother’s wife, his family, his double wide mobile home (four bedrooms, three bathrooms, a family room with a gas burning faux fireplace and the biggest damn kitchen anyone in the trailer park had ever seen), or growing empire built upon the desiccated bones and soft chalk teeth of an ever growing number of meth ravaged bodies? Of that who could say. All that was certain was that Claude sure as hell seemed to have been in one fuck of a hurry to insert himself into Henry’s house, Henry’s job and Henry’s wife. At that purpose he had achieved the desired end admirably.

“What’s wrong, baby?” Georgia was propped on one elbow, the sheet creased just below her large sagging breasts. Her shape was not bad for a woman of her particular age and each discrete inch of her body was slicked with a sheen of viscous sweat. As she spoke she shifted her weight to obscure the fact that she was fishing under the sheets for her balled up panties. A second shift hid the movement of using those self same panties to wipe the dripping come from her crotch. She was starting to worry at his mood. He would withdraw into his own world immediately after they fucked, starring across the empty space for several minutes then standing up and wandering aimlessly around the house. At the moment he was just at the edge of that weird mood. Georgia decided to try again. “Baby, is everything okay?”

He did not answer. In place of an answer he gave an ugly grunt and lifted himself from the bed. He moved to the bathroom and stood gripping his penis before the toilet. It took him some time to get a decent flow started. Once it finally began, though, it came out in a torrent. Claude shook his cock a few times and then made his way back to the bed. He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled a cigarette from the pack on the night stand and lit it with his brass Zippo.

He let his head fall into his hands and started to speak. “Baby, I feel like it’s all gonna go to shit.”

She looked up at him with wide eyes and tried to think of something to say.

Elephant beards

I’m halfway through The Essential Numbers. Every page is beautiful. Angry. Difficult. Revelationary. Mad.

I love everyone.

I hate everyone.

There are a few that get neither.

Elephant Summer has begun.