Posts Tagged ‘richard brautigan’

A brief spike in traffic

Wednesday, 14 February 2018

For 3 days running I had over 100 views to the site, akin to a miracle.  I’m not that interesting, so it must’ve all been for recent Jeopardy! contestant Rachel Lindgren.

It’s my duty to warn you thirsty nerds AGAIN that smart women are not a solution to anything and being a sapiosexual is a road to nowhere.  If she’s smart while you’re enamored (subtract 25 IQ points for each boob and asscheek) you’re in QUADRUPLE the danger of being manipulated.  Not that I overly give a shit what happens to you, you’re probably better off than me.

I believe this blog is now 10 or 11 years old, which means little because I rarely posted after 2009, was it?  It has brought me neither joy nor grief, certainly no money or gavina.  I don’t read my own shit so I’ve forgotten most of it, except to remember impassioned movie reviews about Batman (pointless) or politics (far more pointless) and cussing out my wage slave job while doing nothing to improve my lot in life.

Two things happened in the last 5 years which changed the entire arc of my  inclinations, I got out of the shit job and I “discovered” whores.  Also, my father died  at 73 of natural causes, if you count lung cancer as natural.

The whores saved my life.  Once I was getting laid fairly regularly all the Mysteries of Womanhood evaporated, which was bittersweet, but poetry is either written out of your system or it burns you from the inside out like drinking bleach.  Poetry IS drinking bleach, usually for the reader. 

The women’s humanity made me less of a misogynist, and it even seemed a few of them enjoyed the ride beyond getting paid.  (I haven’t been laid in over a year due to health problems so that’s on pause.)

I’m closer to 50 than 40 now.  I’m not better than I was in 2006, but like to think I’ve learned much the last 10 or 11 years.  I wouldn’t trade my scant “life’s work” of writing for falling in love.   

Here are the final lines from a long ago poem.

I know it’s coming, death or a balloon.

The slitted eyes of a petted cat.

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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.

Brautigan:

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.

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