Kate/Katie David/Dave
Why shouldn’t a book repress with its pages?
Every body is very old.
What is literal about the word ‘penis’? What do you think of when you read the word ‘penis’? If you are man? If you are a woman? Every body. For years I found it hard to imagine that my male friends also had dicks. Masturbation isn’t simulation.
“Ejaculaton is a waste of valuable resources.” Does this statement attack the female? Does this statement attack the male? Does this statement attack? Does this statement?
Some people find it hard to believe when people aren’t willing to concede that sex is sex. That in not thinking this, it is by some avoidance, some superiority, some hiding. The necessity of defecating is much more quietly acquiesced. No one questions the morality of the operation of negotiating the shitter’s ass with the shitting hole, though sometimes just as much skin is placed. And a longer lingering of air. Some of my friends find it surprising I can’t smell come. My urine the last few weeks has smelled like food. Ratios of water. Cookbooks.
Male and female rats have been shown to find it more difficult to sleep when the smell of a previously housed male rat lingers in the cage.
Sad. Dead guys and alive guys on a brightly colored graph.
Suppose an object is not required to reckon sociologically with every object it contains. Suppose it contains. Suppose even the objects that are the most accessible to placing in dotted-line-connected camps.
Fucking camps! [“See how he meant that two ways at once?”]
“Did your urethra write that?” [I wish it had.] “Which kind?”
Certain books are culled, not called.
Reading is a self-indulgent act. Blinking is a self-indulgent act, too. When books aren’t self-indulgent they aren’t there.
The politics of sitting.
Today I learned that the phrase “telefono” means Repeated blows to the ears rupturing the tympanic membranes.
When the first consideration is of a switch outside the object, the considerer has not listened. “How do I fit into this?” “All of this is…”
“These are my concerns.” “This is how I can make a [ ] via consideration.” “This is this.”
“Same/same.”
A Dissection of ‘the High Five’ in the Works of These Works Written By Those Body Formats under Pressure
What Meats Are or Are Not Avoided In the Production of My Favorite Tacos
“My Art of Your Art” “Art is”
“My Vote for the next new president”
The plane of organization is constantly working away at the plane of consistency, always trying to plug the lines of flight, stop or interrupt the movements of deterritorialization, weigh them down, restratify them, reconstitute forms and subjects in a dimension of depth.
Googling ‘penis book’ results mostly in porn. ‘Vagina book’ is much more widely varied, but contains instructions, jokes, costumes, less porn.
Trees get grown. Water in the food. Why shouldn’t a
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The Rule of Threes is Bullshit

1. The Kansas City Public Library’s parking garage. Library patrons voted on which titles got used in the facade. Reminds me of Frank Gehry’s Binocular Building in Venice, Ca. Don’t you think it’d be nice to live inside a cartoon? We could draw ourselves into any scene; and every building could double as an object of desire. If your house could be any book, what would it be?
2. For all of the dorky grammarians out there. (I include myself in that group.) Learn Your Damn Homophones.
3. Last night I watched a great Swedish movie called Let the Right One In. It’s likely the most poetic vampire movie you’ll ever watch.
httpv://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ICp4g9p_rgo
4. (because the Rule of Three[s] is bullshit) A tiny lil poem from Mary Ruefle, in her book Indeed I Was Pleased with the World. I love it, and I’m very interested in the tense changes.
Bring me a coffee mug from a house
where no one has died. Bring me
an eggbeater, the scissors,
and a very ripe plum.
I am going to make you a toy.
When you play with it,
in my heart I open my sad eyes
and stare.
i am Writer checklist
1.) Skinny eyeglasses (unusual hue?)
2.) Satchel
3.) Fell for a compliment back when
4.) Ponytail inappropriate to age (and hair heft, ply, puissance)
5.) Earth tones (or all white?)
6.) Access to drugs, but not the great ones
7.) Took a strong found sentence, added two words, twisted, called it your own
8.) Subaru in lot. Or bike. Or shoes with just a hint of yellow
9.) Feels a small, repetitive animal jumping around inside stomach/thorax.
Am I missing something? I will stop at 9, since 9 is a holy number (in certain sections of hell).
The Chupacabra Strikes Again (Or, A Letter from My Self on NYE)

(Sam, The World’s Ugliest Dog, chupacabra stand-in)
Dear Self,
It’s 10:30 on New Year’s Eve. You won’t make it until midnight. You’re tired and achy and your head’s swimming. You feel like throwing up.
The moon’s bright, and clouds sling tracks across the sky.
You’ve been thinking tonight, which is ever-dangerous, about why you sit down to write every day. Why do you do this thing that has very little return in the free market? That few people will ever read? That some will hate?
Self, you are too sincere, not nearly ironic enough. You are way too un-cool: hipster-with-a-fannypack-for-a-purse-uncool. Self, I know what you’re thinking—you’ve got books strewn around you on New Year’s Eve, you look drunk—but you’re thinking about urgency, the deep and monstrously incoherent need to believe in something against a backdrop of post-postmodern self-conscious irony, gluttony, and emotional vacancy.
Self, I’ve been reading over your shoulder. You think you do it because READ MORE >
Don’t write about this please…
Holidays are fun. By fun, I mean unpleasant.
I always find it funny that especially during the holidays, people remind (ask) me not to recount what’s happened in a book. Sure, I get it: my first two books (the only ones in print) have autobiographical elements, so of course, people would be “worried” I may write about them.
But when it comes down to it, isn’t this more than a little egotistical? People are worried that by virtue of me being around them, I’ll naturally find them or their lives so compelling that I’d want to chronicle it in a future book.
I recently had this conversation with Shane Jones about all this. We talked about how everyone (by which we both meant family) thinks they can find themselves in our characters. So I ask you this:
- How often do you really steal from real life?
- Do you worry about other writers putting you in their stories? (I’ve heard horror stories about this!)
- Where is the line drawn between fiction & fiction?
It’s funny because I had this quasi-embarrassing situation arise between myself & another writer a while back & my first response was: “Please don’t write about this!” Why is this the most natural reaction? I’m totally guilty of my own criticism…
COOL STUFF
– Jackie Corley’s Word Riot Press, which published Midnight Picnic by me, just announced that they’re going to be publishing collections of short stories by the excellent Paula Bomer, former HTMLGIANT contributor and good friend of mine (here’s a short story by Paula called “A Galloping Infection”) and the excellent Mike Young, editor of NOO Journal and also a good friend of mine (here’s a short story by Mike called “Ten Gallon Bucket of Fries”).
– New story by I. Fontana at Spork.
– I was walking through the grass today and saw a black snake as long as my arm but as thin as a pencil go slithering right in front of me.
– A huge pink-eyed white cat was yowling under my window at dawn.
– Did you read Outliers by Malcolm Gladwell? I read it on a plane. It made me think I can never be successful.
– I can’t wait to read The Pregnant Widow by Martin Amis. (Great title.) I get the feeling most of my literary peers don’t like Amis much.
Moyamensing Prison by Charles Bukowski
we shot craps in the exercise yard while the
dummies played ball with a torn-up shirt
wound into a ball
once or twice a day we had to break it up
under a tommy gun from the tower—
some blank-faced screw pointing it at
us, but,
Toppling the Vinyl Castle (Rule of Threes #3)
Or, what I did over Christmas Weekend.
1. Liked a photo called “Sawhorse Buddha” from an upcoming series by Josh Grigsby:
2. Read A poem from Lana Turner Journal called “Market Forces Are Brighter Than The Sun” by Cathy Park Hong, which is crunchy and smudgy and full of errant exclamation points.
3. Read Less Than Zero and felt wonderfully wretched afterward. This excerpt encapsulates the book for me:
While reading the paper at twilight by the pool, I see a story about how a local man tried to bury himself alive in his backyard because it was “so hot, too hot.” I read the article a second time and then put the paper down and watch my sisters. They’re still wearing their bikinis and sunglasses and they lie beneath the darkening sky and play a game in which they pretend to be dead. They ask me to judge which one of them can look dead the longest; the one who wins get to push the other one into the pool. I watch them and listen to the tape that’s playing on the Walkman I’m wearing. The Go-Go’s are singing “I wanna be worlds away/I know things will be okay when I get worlds away.” Whoever made the tape then let the record skip and I close my eyes and hear them start to sing “Vacation” and when I open my eyes, my sisters are floating face down in the pool, wondering who can look drowned the longest.
Plus One:
Watched The Lakers get spanked by the Cavs. This made my Christmas, especially when they got whiny and pouty about it. Phil Jackson, I love you, but you can be a spoiled brat.
Weird stuff inside holy places

If you live in a city, chances are you can walk into a gallery or museum and see something extremely weird on the floor. Pedestals are like easels, cloaked in antiquity — it’s not brilliant unless it’s on the floor. I used visit art galleries on Saturdays, a sorta tryst with culture as a full-time bureaucrat, shamefully bowing my head at the severe, stunningly attractive “receptionists” (dunno what to call them, those hot chicks sitting at the front) as I licked through the resume of whoever got his or her MFA. If there’s a tinge of resentment in my voice, I’m sorry, I’ve just put down too many Artforum essays completely confused about not what I just read, but why. If you need a “post-” to label it and a PhD to describe it, it don’t got that swing.
TIME DESTROYS ALL THINGS
I tried to write a Christmas message in the sand this afternoon, but within twenty seconds…




