No Colony

So the No Colony Pushcart collage story thing is happening. 65 crazy people are going to work together on a story that will be published in No Colony and nominated for a Pushcart. Honestly, the PC nomination isn’t that big a deal to me, but the idea of building this story by passing it through so many hands seems fascinating and fun. Some of the contributors will be:

David Erlewine
Christopher Higgs
Ryan Call
Brandi Wells
Gene Morgan
Shy Scanlon
David Peak
Molly Gaudry
Kevin Sampsell
Roxane Gay
Jonny Kelly
Jackie Corley
J.A. Tyler
Caleb J. Ross
Nathan Tyree
Jon Catron
Brad Billey

And many many many more

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Now it’s beer

No Colony isn’t joking. $650 buys publication and a Push cart nomination. You don’t need that much. 65 peeps are gonna share at 10 buckaroonies each. I’m in. Read about it at HTML Giant and think about subverting the system.

I won $150 in 15 minutes today playing poker. I love poker and I love winning. My set of 9s made me very happy.

I have been drinking since I woke up. Started with Scotch, moved to bourbon now it’s beer

Fuck all of that

I camp in the
tree outside your window and shave with broken glass so that you wont hear the ants eating their way out through my skin. I want to apologize to my blood. It isn’t the blood’s fault that it keeps me alive. In fact, if my blood had any choice in the matter I am certain that it would flee my body and go live in a Golden Retriever on a farm somewhere. Through the window I watch you undress. Your body is too small for your size and I want to gut you, hollow you out and live inside your hollowed out body. Someday I will give up on this. For now I will watch you sleep and think about dismantling your eyes.
Listen to Elliot
Smith and think about how stars die alone in the vacuum of space. They must get terribly sad . Imagine their pleas to no one and find that you are well on your way to believing in nothing. Western literature has primed you for nihilism. Mort de Credit . You strip naked and walk along a wire made of walrus entrails and use an umbrella to balance. Below you is a flaming lake of dying stars.

I decamp from
your tree and move to Tupelo where the news tells of a rhinoceros escaped from the zoo terrifying the poorer residents of the town’s outskirts communities where they live in mud huts and shotgun shacks. To feel clean, even, straight, I shave my head and get a tattoo that says “There is No Magic” across my forearm. The tattoo artist has a lisp and almost misspells my ink. I want to gut him and hollow him out and live inside his body drinking cheap whisky all day. Instead I look for a job sweeping up after eyeless men in a bar downtown. It is my job to maintain the dank. It’s a decorating choice.

You will find
yourself looking out your window, naked and not hollowed out, searching your tree for my shape, which is your shape with more meat, and wishing that I was still there. Fuck you, though. I’ve moved on. I collect snakes and carnival glass and green stamps and dream of a day when I will be able to forget your broken, bruised, small frame. On the street a man with squid tentacles in place of his face asks me for a dollar to buy a drink and I give him the razor blades from my pocket. Every night, alone in my apartment drinking Four Roses I call the Eff Bee Eye and confess to being the Zodiac killer. This despite the fact that Zodiac started killing four years before I was born and despite the fact that I have never seen San Francisco. They want to believe me.

Everyone needs something
to believe in. Even dying stars must think of something greater than themselves as they collapse into singularity. They can take solace in knowing that their mass will curve space-time and draw a colloquy of matter to its end. The crows understand this instinctively.

I deserve a little more.

I am trash, but
even trash needs to be wanted or loved. We discard it to the politic worm and the men who will siphon methane to power factories that make the machineries of death. Like the stars, your used cup from Starbucks deserves the belief that it serves a higher purpose. Maybe enough Starbucks cups could warp space-time and pull us all into oblivion.

Maybe we would
mistake all those discarded cups for God.

After
the Fall
Fear is
always followed by desire
Waves rushing and get right with the planet
what a freaking mess
Blood everywhere
survival of
sorts
we could live on rough sloped mountains
girded by forest and the lies of mockingbirds
If that runs
out I’ve got the credit cards

Blood and semen

I have a real desire to burn myself. Fire is what I need. When my skin blisters I’ll get turned on.

Semen is hard to clean up. So is blood.

Gift card erections

This blog gives me big erections.

No Colony is selling a Pushcart Nomination.

I have 100$ worth of Applebees’ giftcards which I will sell for 82$. Email me.

My dad gave me a liter of Scotch. He’s supporting my alcoholism.

I find this quite interesting.

More about that No Colony Push Cart at HTML Giant.

minizoo

Protect Insurance Companies PSA from Will Ferrell

Smart ass fish

I’m finishing up editing / proofing Thirst for Fire.

I worked a 24 hour shift at work. My soul is bleeding.

I got an email from Ned Vizzini. I met him some time ago when I was reading at the KGB bar. Ned’s a very cool dude and it was good to hear from him.

I just finished reading Fences by Ben Brooks and Lovesick by Howie Good. I have several reviews to write.

I hate smart mouth fish. Talapia is the worst.