Thursday, February 17, 2005

Must tiptoe around house due to cranky sleepless roommate. My carpal tunnel narcoleptic booty-driven self must needs to piss on the page, desires to fill it till it overflows and capsizes, ever do that in a canoe or kayak in a leech-filled lake with shivering scrawny twits who tell you you're special and that you need a reason to be cool, the fuckers now fat married done with pot and probably healthier than you, sucking the cocoa butter scent off sorority chicks and the pulse retards off the stairmaster baby slimming on selzer fraid of canines and wiccan hollows that effervesce with bald bird-like road unrolled yet yolked nautilus-style to the verse indeterminate. Too old to give in, a beginning groan gears for plinth found on Monday burp birds and American oat crows in the master's earwig float and a stand demands at his wish and his stand began. The three old friends wouldn’t hear father on road during the month went three meet and the rinse wigged begins to swill timber and unhinge middle falcon villains since the whispered coaxing will spoil a burgeoning phantom career here

no better time to rant than now.

dehydrated, perched on my milkcrate deskchair eating cheap yogurt for dinner because I haven't gotten paid yet and anyway who has time or energy to cook? or wander in search of decent vegetables? I have 5 more student papers to read and write comments on and I know this sentences sucks but it's my blog and I can cry and say fucking sucks and end a sentence on is. If I want to so fuck you. If you dont want to read it then go look at some cock sex.

I have learned one thing from teaching: the students who talk in class are the worst writers, and it's the quiet ones who are imaginative. Joy. No surprise, really, but joy all the same. I find myself making fun of students as I write my comments. Like, one girl wrote "till" meaning "until" but I wrote "as in till the corn, pa?" Fucker asked fer it.

I have this quiet one who is writing this kickass paper on the language of creation and misogyny, I wonder if she's a dyke but doesn't yet know it.

Now G has hurt her neck too, copycat. I can't even be original in my pain. Oink. I'm so miserable and pathetic. I skipped class to finish these papers and I'm still not done. I feel like hell, breaking out and growing a fine grad-student-butt sitting all day, ruining my eyes, And the fucking rain and closed computer labs and cute coeds wearing yellow boxers that say in bold black letters the name of this school across the butt.

But I'm not bitter and horny, no, I love my meagre salary because I'll do anything for my students and to kiss ass at school, like get there early and bring in all this extra work I write in my spare time. I sit in the Natural History room and bask in the light of the iridescent Brontosaurus and enormous gorilla and think of Bonobo monkeys as I let my brain and hand flow with the pen.

I wanna smoke. Or ram my head into some fluttering red silk. Two years ago I was a Matador for Halloween, pink fishnet socks and tiny jacket with epaulets and cape taunting the ladies. Last year where was I. Oh yeah, stuck on the A train between Jay and High in Brooklyn, it had run over someone. We all had to evacuate from the first car, which just reached the next station. And everyone on the platform was in Halloween gear, bloody surgeons and nurses, lots of them, and this was a month after 9/11, so that made it all the more hideous and surreal. I was late to superfictobio. What a fucking lame excuse. But after I went to nevernever in Jack & Peter's garden where I roasted something evidently delicious and charred on an open fire, yep, in Alphabet City Manhattan. Damn I miss the crazy energy there.

Maybe I'll never write fiction. Then again Denis Johnson wrote poetry before he wrote fiction.

I'm uninspired, that's what. I'm not in love, nor am I attracted to anything but myself. I smell good. I may have bad breath but I won't know, all I can taste is sour yogurt. My cat's even rejecting me. There are no pears for me to pick. My basil's dying. I need new boots, preferably cowboy boots. I'll never find any clothes here. I won't have a car in a few months. Someone is treating me weirdly and I don't know whether to spend the time telling her how I feel or if I should just move on. I am crying just thinking about it. Why am I so miserable? I need a glass of wine. I'll steal some of G's. It's all gone. I'm settling with a bud and will take a bath. The only pleasant thing I can summon to mind is the green shooting from my single paperwhite bulb.


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