[i will wear thirty two shades of eyeliner & gentrify your avant garde poetry]

Thursday, December 28, 2006


I take my sister to the airport. Charles Bronson, Gene Hackman, and Helen Hunt are the ticketing agents. Bronson steals my sister's luggage. Bronson says, "Possessions." Hackman says, "Are." Hunt says, "Mine." My sister begins to cry for her lost kitten. Hackman stabs Bronson in the neck. "Run!" yells Helen Hunt.

Wednesday, December 27, 2006

hair tonic

I am a four hundred year old clam. I am sought after. A thousand Charles Bronson's shatter my shell and grind my shell and sell my shell grindings as hair tonic to thousands of rubes on QVC.


I am in a pet store, near the fish. Each tank bubbles. Each fish looks like Charles Bronson. I feed the Bronson-fish. I hold my tire-iron. I swing my tire-iron. I smash the tanks with my tire-iron. The Bronson-fish slide across the tile floor, little Bronson lips opening and closing, little Bronson moustaches all soggy and long. It is warm. I steal a book from the bookstore. I run. Giant Bronson-fish chase me and tackle me and handcuff me. I am shoved into the back of a squad-car. There is a sound like laughing.

Monday, December 25, 2006

babble babble nothing time

Charles Bronson slaps me and says, "Merry mother-fuckin' Christmas." I drive my car slowly backwards over the Evergreen Point Floating Bridge. It is night. I am surrounded by a million people and those million people hold a million flashlights and shine their million flashlights at me and my beat-up jalopy. Charles Bronson says, "It is five times aluminum barrel treatment Rip Torn." I am Rip Torn. I am wonderboy. I steal a flashlight. I shine the flashlight. I say, "Poetry babble babble nothing time!" I say, "TV is ninety-nine million monstral portion potato man!"

Thursday, December 21, 2006


I am riding a scooter in Australia. I am a kangaroo. I eat myself. I am imploded and inside out.

Wednesday, December 20, 2006

little landmines

I am in the bathroom. There is a light. I think it is Thursday. I remember that it is Wednesday. Charles Bronson says, "Don't worry kid. All things are timely." I don't know what he means. Charles Bronson says, "Poems are like little land mines with broken triggers." I throw my razor at the wall. I am in Paris. I am in a bathroom in Paris. The mirror is black. I drive my motorcycle to the sea. I drive into the sea. Beneath the water, Charles Bronson says, "The sky is very close."

reading assignments

new apocryphal text!

Sunday, December 17, 2006


I am in a small, steam-filled room. Over a speaker, I can hear Charles Bronson talking to Gene Hackman. Bronson says, "My moustache my moustache my moustache and can feel my ass anywhere." Hackman replies, "You will eat the wooden otter." I feel confused and confused about being confused and tired.

Saturday, December 09, 2006


charles bronson comes to me in a dream & says, "you must destroy american writing"

charles bronson says, "american writing is terrible & academic & the worst waste of time"

charles bronson says, "allen ginsberg dreamed walt whitman or william blake or something and he got famous by dreaming famous writers"

charles bronson says, "that was stupid"

charles bronson says, "i am not a dream you are a dream and writing is a stupid bourgeois waste of time"

charles bronson says, "you should earn money instead, sell beads or something"

charles bronson says, "poetry should be senseless & you should be senseless & you should go to the grocery store"

charles bronson says, "poetry is boring and stupid and people should watch tv instead"

charles bronson says, "anyone who makes money off poetry is ethically equal to a rapist"

charles bronson says, "intellectual property is a stupid idea perpetrated by the dumb & the hairy"

charles bronson says, "poetry should only be written by computers and robots"

charles bronson says, "all poets are terrible human beings"

charles bronson says, "poetry must become un-poetry"

Friday, December 08, 2006

a little revision a little more

It was a rejection. A form email. Barely polite. I thought the words, 'Dirk York calmy deleted the New Yorker rejection email and leaned back.' I leaned back in my chair. I can't stop narrating. I no longer narrate aloud. This is an important step. I thought the words, 'Dirk York ignored the sadness that penetrated his already saddened brain and carefully focused on the immediate and necessary problem: a voicemail, a voicemail cut short.' Actually, it was e-mail I was thinking about, an e-mail that had started out as a voicemail, and was transformed into an e-mail by a software program and then e-mailed to me. 'Dirk York decided to re-read the voice/e-mail.' I click a button on my mouse.

[vmail transcript start]d,
i saw A at the mark. she. i don't know. i tried to say something. she needs[vmail transcript end]

'Dirk York shook his head and surveyed his office.' I need to vacuum. I need to windex the window and tidy up a bit but I can't tidy up now. How could anyone have seen A anywhere? A disappeared almost ten years ago, just before we all graduated from college. 'Dirk York paced the length of his office like a...' I think I was going to narrate the words, 'like a caged lion' but that is a terrible cliche and I'd hate myself later.

Wednesday, December 06, 2006

dirk discovered, ch 1, paragraph 1

It was a form email. A rejection. I thought the words, 'Dirk York calmy deleted the New Yorker rejection email and leaned back.' I leaned back in my chair. I can't stop myself from narrating. I no longer narrate aloud. This is an important step. I thought the words, 'Dirk York ignored the sadness that penetrated his already saddened brain and carefully focused on the immediate and necessary problem: a voicemail, a voicemail cut short.'

Tuesday, December 05, 2006


in the comment field, pls make a list of clues dirk shld discover in 'dirk discovered'. best clues will be included in novel!

novel notes

the novel:

genre: hard-boiled mystery

-hero will have sad literary aspirations & a strange obsession w/ charles bronson/hollywood action heroes in general

-hero's name is dirk (maybe)

-whenever dirk meets a new character, the new character will comment on his name in a humorous way, but uniquely humorous

-to be written in first person (for ease of writing)

-to be written in present tense (immediacy)

-overuse of flashback to be an annoying trademark

-tentatively titled 'dirk discovered'

***if anyone can think of anything else that should be an overall characteristic of this project let me know


I'm writing a novel in a cafe in Kelso, Washington. I try to drink coffee but the coffee tastes like ice cream, bitter ice cream, and I spit the bitter ice cream coffee out onto the floor of the cafe. There are ten thousand girls in the cafe. They stare at me and shake their heads when I spit, so I ignore them by watching my computer screen and typing my novel. I type the words, 'There is no difference between a violent massacre and a gift of kittens.' I type the words, 'The hero of this novel must be a microwave.' I see microwaves waving through the air. Charles Bronson sits across from me and closes my laptop. He says, "I am a certified doctor."

Monday, December 04, 2006


I am the headlining star in a title-less Hollywood action blockbuster that co-stars Charles Bronson and Jodie Foster. Jodie Foster is the quarterback of a local high school football team and Charles Bronson and I have to save her when a gang of thuggish mutant bunny-rabbits kidnaps her before the all-state championships. I am watching this movie in a movie theater. I say, "Time out." I stop the movie and give myself acting instructions then watch myself act with Charles Bronson and Jodie Foster. I review myself while watching myself in the movie and publish the article in the Oregonian. I give my performance one star. I call it the pity star. I make a pity star out of cardboard and mail it to myself with a letter imploring me to end my action carreer. I recieve the letter and the pity star in the mail and it makes me sad and I cry and quit acting and go on a retreat to Canada where I retire and become a movie critic.

Sunday, December 03, 2006

dirty dozen

I am Charles Bronson. I am leading the Dirty Dozen on a clandestine mission in Omaha, Nebraska. Our fatigues are muddy and tight. The sky is a brown shirt. We are surrounded by rusted trees. I set my rifle down. I am not Charles Bronson. I watch Charles Bronson set his rifle down. He says, "Strip." The Dirty Dozen strips. He motions forward. I am Charles Bronson I motion forward. The Dirty Dozen charges between trees toward a row of robot warriors. I remove a notebook from my back pocket. I write all this down. I sketch a picture of the robot warriors slaughtering the Dirty Dozen. I draw a picture of Charles Bronson sketching pictures of robot warriors. Charles Bronson says, "I am a camera." I say, "I am a camera." We charge into the map-room. We destroy the 'big board.'

Saturday, December 02, 2006

"badass movie hero chicken bucket"

Charles Bronson is in KFC. He is eating a drumstick. I sit across from Charles Bronson. I reach for a drumstick from Charles Bronson's chicken bucket. Charles Bronson moves his index finger like a pendulum and clucks his tongue. Charles Bronson says, "My chicken bucket." I say, "An evolution toward sharing." Charles Bronson says, "Badass movie hero chicken bucket." I place my hands palm-down on the formica table. I feel the plastic seat on my buttocks. My buttocks become the plastic seat. I am tile. I see feet. I am with Charles Bronson outside 7-11. Charles Bronson sips from his slurpy. I reach for Charles Bronson's slurpy-straw. Charles Bronson moves his index finger like a pendulum and clucks his tongue. Charles Bronson says, "Badass movie hero slurpy-straw." Everything makes a buzzing sound. I walk carefully through the buzzing sound.

Friday, December 01, 2006


I am sitting on the floor of a combination shopping mall office building. I am surrounded by elderly men. The elderly men talk quietly. The elderly men adjust their eye-glasses, then slowly walk through cubicle walls, from one store to another, their shopping bags dragging behind. My business suit changes from black to red to white to black. I am on a football field, on the 32-yard line, midfield. The stadium is full of silent elderly men. Nothing moves. One elderly man says, "Manatee calibration for alphabetical filing John symposium." I dive into the swimming pool and swim to the bottom, where I find a telephone. The telephone beeps.