Piano Manatee Ball Championship

Fuck You, Billy Joel

Last time you were in the kind of bar you

sing about, it was still classy, and fun,

and you were there with your wife

and the drinks were free
and don’t try to tell me about lonely,

I will invent it for you
brand new and bloody

right before I break your fucking fingers.

6/30! Jesus Didn't Die for You to be a Beggar!

If you can't get down with redemption-- If you can't get down
with resurrection, if you can't heal with an egg or crack for
children's paint---


then tell me about the way fjords burn under pagan rituals.
tell me about the aurora borealis scattering sky to everyone
in gaping wonder.
Give me a shaking excuse for why your aunt just wants to
point and laugh, why your uncle shouts "praise jesus" every
eight minutes. We don't need church fans out on the street,
we don't need reinterpretation systems for our favorite
music, we don't need a swab down for job interviews,
though it probably won't hurt--

--a day is just when you are off
work and you trust the boss
the pastor
the savior
the entrepeneur
hand greasy with coupons,
opportunities. Parents always nudging.
may recognize
beer/
or shots/
or nothing

and a crammed up road, tell me about the
persons shaking their fist out the side of their
vehicle, blocking my bus

burning my skin,
but the warmth

keeping me from cussing them out
once
again.

This still

exists. that is all. late night is not conducive.

My Year in Lists Part 3

Things I have found during a recent sweep/straightening of the corners of my bedroom, near the end of 2010/beginning 2011:

4 Stacks of American Education Services, Citibank and American Student Loan Services letters of varying relevance, addressed to the old Stanwood address.

2 of the same, but addressed to my current address in Seattle.

3 broadsides of "Genus, Species and Flavour"

7 chapbooks: readers copies of the first three, a misprint of "TWWCHNT: New Revised Standard" and three Ourosboros.

A handwrittend Shane Guthrie piece about condos (yes!)

A stack of photos from the first three months at Ty Beck.

A cd jewel case to Goodness' 1995 self-titled debut album.

3 different scraps of paper with unexplaned british phone numbers.

about 7 different copies of "When Saying Mean Things About Strangers."

Phone numbers from two different ex-girlfriends, acquired prior to our dating.

about 17 differnt crumpled up bank statements from the last two years.

Postcards from three different New York art galleries.

Chapters 1-26 of a book my Dad wrote and lent me, separately stapled and all out of order (read, enjoyed, feedback pending)

a stack of unopened letters from DSHS.

w-2a from Richard Hugo House, Vera Project and North Seattle Community College.

5 drafts of Vera Project's Powersharing Statement Language.

Notes from an interview with Trevor, intern at Vera Project, about the DJ/electronic scene in Seattle (barely legible)

A burned copy of Mastodon's "Leviathan" album (scratched)

Three unfinished Mix CDs, titles scribbled out.

9 different hastily-scribbled setlists for past poetry readings.

9,384 dust bunnies (not very bunny like)

A photo of the one time Phil Woodward came to IOI in 1999, staring at Shane in disbelief.

1 flyer for dianetics.

1 Visitor information card from St James Catholic Church (visited once)

Handwritten lyrics to "It's a Laugh" by Hall and Oates

A copy of "Big Machine" by Victor Lavalle (read, enjoyed)

A copy of "Financial Lives of the Poets" by Jess Walters (unread, probably will sell)

The last flattering photo taken of me, taken July '11 at Bimbo's cantina with Leigh, Emily, Alex and Bryan; I was looking away from the camera and sort of almost smiling. It's all downhill from there.

One (-is the loneliest?) (-21 Guns?)(-more time?)

{jake tucker, who makes promises he cannot keep, has, in the utmost hypocrisy, bugged ME to write something. yes. JAKE bugged ME. we won't speak of recent events, we will simply move forward with grace and style}

Mixtape Piece # 1 out of 734

Female voice through the speakers on a tuesday afternoon,
over sharp, loping guitars, a narrative style to kill for
laced with snarky affection

and I, sitting on my bed,
trying to eek out something on my
sketchpad, I think

"man, if a girl ever put this on a mix for me
well, that would be the day--"

then I remembered
I didn't make this mix, you did.
as the song ended
i realised this is possibly
as good as it gets.

These are the stories you won't tell the kids we never have

"Someone's bound to take offense, but you know, fuck 'em."--Ioan.


I'm pretty sure that could have been the theme of the night for everyone. The whole banner-tearing, sex-pistols singing, couple-swapping, crowd-surfing, public-snogging, tearful-confronting, goth-dancing, shot-taking, hey!-you're 86ed bit of it. And I got to watch.

Me and Punk John are shooting each other knowing looks across a Jess/John living room as crowded as I've ever seen it. Hi, thought I knew you, guess I did, but not as well as I could have.

In other news, apparently I have a thing for girls who still live with their ex-boyfriends with whom they are very good friends.