Posts Tagged ‘ham’

Without ham or hope

Monday, 18 February 2008

Show me a poet and I’ll show you a shit. –A. J. Liebling

Five after midnight, 77 degree Florida winter. I’d finished manually saluting a beautiful fat woman in a norpographic video and the computer was off.

Now the machine is on again. Something won’t let go and from what little is known It’s not Great Art.

One of my previous mini-poems haunts me with its poor quality. I should destroy it, wipe it off the blog. I was insane with grief when I wrote it, tugging in desperation on the jacket of the ghost of Richard Brautigan, a writer I love whose work couldn’t outlive the infamy of his suicide.


I Feel Horrible. She Doesn’t

I feel horrible. She doesn’t
love me and I wander around
the house like a sewing machine
that’s just finished sewing
a turd to a garbage can lid.

My head aches like a pressurized cabin.

I keep forgetting to breathe which is good: breathing is a filthy habit.

Things will get worse before they get worser. Heh.

Whatever It is that started this idiotic post is now gone. It slunk out of here with no profound insights and I can yawn again, tired as tar. It’s almost 0100.

The highlight of the evening was jacking off to the norp vid of the sexy fat woman. It always is on these disgusting warm nights without ham or hope.

Porn and Ham Versus the Siren Song of Suicide

Friday, 11 January 2008

If you’re the ‘Emperor Of The Universe’ (per another post) why can’t you exact CHANGE on this motherfuckin’ planet, nigga? And by CHANGE I mean you, me, M. Todd, S. Gary, Hip, WBM III, Capt. Morgan, etc., would be celebrated as this moment’s best authors and we would be welcomed with open arms by the hottest bitches we can imagine (and we have imaginations, by god) and millions upon millions would buy our novels, poetry volumes, t-shirts, key rings, bumper stickers, etc., and we’d be nigga rich and living like we should be living instead of working shithole jobs for shithole pay.

— Digital aka Dirty Howie

Hadn’t yet had a chance to add I’ve been downgraded to “Emperor of Only This Room I’m In”.

The practical answer to your question is that I have nothing worth selling, no novel or stories and poems don’t sell anyway. Now you could take the best from AHA and make a book out of that, with all of us pitching in on both costs and content, maybe a third of it new. The technology is now in place to self-publish high-quality books, as few as 25 or even five. A Delaware friend of mine published his own book of poetry that way. It (isn’t very good, but) looks like anything you might find in a bookstore.

The second practical answer is, if you want to publish something to get rich, your best shot is to write a romance novel (second best shot: cook book). I don’t know that most people hate their lives, but even the happy ones want to get away from themselves via the fantasies and escapism of linear storytelling. Even Donald Trump must occasionally watch movies or TV to take a break from himself–tho why would he bother when he’s a living cartoon who can blink anything he wants into existence–but he does.

I’m too disgusted to write seriously (or for long) because, “It’s all been said before, and better”, also not an original thought. There’s a better way to bliss: doing nothing at all while suffering. You have your alk and drugs, Todd has music, alk, drugs. Gary has food, alk, a pension and insanity. I have porn and ham. It would be so easy to just give up. It’s damned tempting. The way we live makes suicide the sanest choice.