Okay, stop thinking about the ball and listen. These questions you’re asking: Is the Bald Man on the outsides of this here fence, and we are in? Or: Is it us? Are we the ones who are out?
It’s all the same, Squirt.
The truth is there would not even be a Bald Man there, outside us, if there were not at the same time, and already, a Bald Man here, inside us. And were there not a Bald Man in our heads, there would be no Bald Man out beyond that gate and on that grass yonder.
What is outside is in. What is inside is out.
Nothing external matters save that is shows you to your’n own self.
Your relationship with the Bald Man, in all its conflicts and complications, face licks, chest sits, and angry scoldings, dog hunting, rope pulls, and ball throwing, is only there to help you understand your’n own self better.
A photopoem by Kaiya.
Okay, I reckon’ you might could
have the pee stream
get to that Echinacea yonder.
But I’ve seen your goofy ass try
to hit my spots and your
aim is for shit, Bubba.
I have skirted the blotted shadows of a scarcely
skirted madness, circled the sodded
walls of a boarded-up
sadness, come out spotted, stained, shaken
wet, only to stick my head into the maddening hiss of
a whirling weedwacker line because I
felt only the urge to do it &
nothing else—blind, led as galaxy
pulling sun, in turn pulling planets, in turn
holding each of us to our tenets
words are nothing, and still
there is nothing
I have forgotten
every sentence I have ever
assembled and yet I’ve somehow
remembered how it felt to have culled it
but I only feel when I wag
or touch, when I bray
or cuff, when I fly or
fuck, the primitive
skull empty of thought
I know you think you’ve
rolled in a stink like
but this foulness here
will knock back your
Leave you unmoored.
I have forgotten my name.
And how to navigate a conversation.
I have lost all accountability for
my anal glands.
This is the Texas Book Tour for This Is Not a Confession. June 4th through June 7th. Three cities. 450 Miles. The first stop was Austin at Book People. The only thing that could've made this better for me is if somehow Willie Nelson's name could've been on the marquee...
This past weekend was full of dem readings.
First off, on Saturday, the THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION tour (Rothko and I) loaded the BIG SIGN into the truck and drove to Philadelphia.
This is a book party for THIS IS NOT A CONFESSION.
I’ve always considered the process of writing to be mostly a solitary creative endeavor. And, if I’m being honest, that’s one of the things that has always made it appealing to me: the idea that a particular piece—an essay, a poem, a beer “pros and cons” list, a love letter to Emma Stone—can be my vision, and mine alone, from start to finish. There are, of course, other art forms like that, too. Photography, another thing I do a fair amount of, is sometimes that way, at least the type of photography I do. There are some other forms of photography which are more about collaboration and teamwork. But man, I tend to shy away from those forms. Fashion shoots. Working with human models. Christ. That seems stressful. I much prefer dogs. Or if I’m feeling particularly antisocial or misanthropic, just give me some inanimate objects and a good fixed focal-length lens.
But here’s a surprising thing I’ve learned in making my first book. Here is a confession, if you like, about making This Is Not a Confession…
My book, This is Not A Confession, published by Awst Press will drop in a little over fourteen weeks. April 22rd, to be exact. And as we get closer to that date, I’ve been wanting to tell you something. Okay, I don’t really want to tell you this. (And my publisher probably doesn’t want me to tell you this, either.) But here it is, anyway: You may not want to recommend my book to your easily-offended Aunt Marsha, your church pastor, or anybody else who you deem sensitive to graphic sexual content.