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.
the season of green is unfurling, and
we’ve eagerly yearned to be circling
eternally, whirling forever
in search of the
vermin, & only abjuring
when discerning and earning the spins
it’s not absurdity, because we know that we’re
sure to be, I mean we’ve certainly learned that we
aren’t pure or mature so the
word is we got to be
Everything I know is everything I’ve always known:
Shadows are only shadows to those
who’ve seen stars, who aren’t
locked away in caves, tied with chains, caught behind bars.
But even stars are not necessarily what they are
today, but now only light from white dwarfs
yesterday, because nothing
red or hot can survive this inflation, this
long ago explosion and dilation.
I could never drink enough to warm this
mistimed chill, could not fill
consistent malicious spiritlessness, and still
our universe, everything, once tight with absence, an
impossibly dense vastness, all knowledge, the very
last sense, will burn
off into a nothing
to which we’ll inexorably return, and
meanwhile, I will go about losing the things to say in
trying to find the ways to say them, and
will go about forgetting the thing I am in trying to
remember the ways I was then.
Even when everything is covered in white, and
up is down, and left is right, and
being over is through, I won’t
ever feel right when
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.