28 days until the end of the world …

there is a today that looks like the future and feels like our parenthetical not quite pitiful pathetic but paranormal or possible past we’re all forgiven for nothing and forgetful of ourselves this isnt a tomorrow you can touch and you know that the end is never not written in a language we understand like the dreams with clear handwriting and nothing unending ever makes sense.

withanother(blank?)starelikejumpingoffbrokenbedpostsandetchingfirstnames

i squint your eyes pinch the tips of forever telling no one everything and my hurtful goodbyes

stop me if you’ve heard this one before

just talking out loud for a moment, i guess … bare with me, if you will

Allison Glenn is curating a gallery show this March 31st and has pretty much ordered me to have some work up, and i’m hitting a bit of a wall when it comes to deciding what to choose to show.

in honor of a phone call

i dreamed
it was you
& it
came true

-> the scribbling

33 days until the end of the world

we’re waiting in rest areas fishing formulaic fortune from the back of every pick-up truck or simply starving for affection on picnic tables & paranoid of everything we are the famous of the world undiscovered & unaware we love our losses but prefer to love only love & leave the dreaming for mousepads & our office stationary like that glorious hour of yard time stretching for the sun or the moon the rain & all things left to call our own

a minor plugging

here is something i feel obligated to pass on, simply because his work continues to excite me …

Corey Hovanec is a member of the .waitinglinetheory. collective and submits work to the website on a somewhat sporadic basis. he’s recently added three new pieces that reminded me how much i really love his work.

generally im relatively loathesome to poetry as a whole, but Corey is one of few that for one reason or another really speaks to me; which is such a lame way of explaining it, but you get the point right?

anyway, i dont feel comfortable giving an in-depth analysis of Corey’s poetic voice, etc, etc … but i think that there is a lot to be found in what he writes, especially for those who i tend to refer to as the Great Forgotten Youth, or some such nonsense, and maybe a few of dis.func’s readership would benefit from a nod in his direction …

and i suspect Corey would benefit from having as many readers as possible hanging on his every word


so without any further ado, today’s appropriate stolen quote is from the man himself, and with proper citation this time

i loved the make believe
when it wasn’t me
who suffered

……
by Corey Hovanec
from: op-ed no.2 (Grosse Pointe Woods)

twentyfive to five

& then again with all things the same well the place never changes but a new season new weather another terrible trial for wintery warriors im nothing w/o you but can stand only alone thats our problem isnt it in this culture of corrupted rich cowards we’ve sent our heroes a hallmark card laced w/ cryptic canary yellow yearnings in the belly of another eight-headed monster and all the faces turned inward like that sculpture somewhere you know where when theres grass hills and shade early years summer days i remember kissing & the sky trees the only prying eyes these juxtapositions may just set off the air-bag in this rental im hiding in or hiding from like the tune in my ears or the ache in my hands or the barrels filling up the tears building pressure so much right now in my eyes

i realize this time its the snow on the ground covering the green greener grass & that river’s so beautiful though im sure theres rocks at the bottom & still think the rocks are the bottom are the base is this making sense do i need to start over start again try again is this making sense bc ive only got this one key to the hotel room but could get another all we need is to ask

-> the scribbling

my secret hiding place

a few photos taken on my recent trip to grand rapids … i like them, even if i think i’ve taken a couple of these photos hundreds of times

to properly ruin the mystery for everyone who doesn’t already know, these photos were taken at a rail yard that i work at occasionally … this site is an infinite source of beauty everyday i’m there, and i miss it already.

two letters on my mind

what is a typed word that rings like a dead phone line left hanging on the answering machine hangups and suitcases renamed as baggage at the doorway are we left to suppose the forgotten mornings are more than forgotten well whats more than forgotten is that to be remembered or even more forgotten like forecasts and last names and all the changing addresses and mismanaged stop-lights with their eternal last second decisions we turn back or dont turn when we turn around and see the blackness and a future looming ahead or in all different directions is this the plan is this the best years of our lives that movie reminds me of things id left for no one to find but you found them and placed things in such spectacular order like an alphabet soup and all the vowels are missing ive seen a write up of that process and that sound that keeps digging into the scars in my ears ive never sent for the butler but i can always afford the room service if you know what i mean

you can never admin enough

well, igor and i have officially created our fated audioblog. and per igor’s sickly request we made it on Myspace. yeah yeah i know… get over yrself.

here’s our, um, press release as sent out by .waiting line theory.

our likening to memory

we wanted nothing more than nothing no more give us something to want something to love besides each other because we cant hold on to another less wicked wishful world our nights melt into the days we left murmuring to sleeping lovers & silver lined lepers like rush-hour accidents or missing spare tires im hawkishly gawking at roadside damsels diminishing selfish desires & always forgetting my past or my path we keep taking the wrong exit examining too much wondering who’s left & who left us standing or cowering on couches torn of any will to ever again reach out its a sin we cant mend ourselves as well as our bodies can we love to leave love dangling from a moment we’d never return to & the way we all know each other through the pain we keep inflicting

there’s only one truth we must learn there’s moments we cant return to but whats more important is the moment we will never return from

there’s not a cloud in the sky & the clocks keep twisting my shifty eye watering from this pre-autumn air im seated in the ruins of an ancient train graveyard the nights move too fast & dreams never come (here)

-> the scribbling

the hooligans are coming

Songbird

maybe its only us nerds that have been waiting around with baited breath for this, but finally Finally! the very preliminary release of Songbird is upon us!

can’t sleep (alone)

i feel the need to mention that these were taken with a borrowed digital camera, and that this is new to me. i think i only mention it because, well, its quite obvious that these photos are not the same style/mood as those previous and i’m not entirely sure how that’s settling with me just yet.

these photos make me feel like i see a cold hard world out there, while my others, i hope, generally feel warmer. the second impression is more apt and although i like the new style im not sure i like that its my style …

titles are for suckers

the burden is as follows:
holding this poem to the sky
i realize
all the world can see its gravity,
lay their wretched
unforgiving eyes upon me
their wavering
dutiless teeth grin outward at me
& say
so sympathetically,
     oh isn’t that clever.

-> the scribbling

this is who we are

shellfish

never rested as requested or how the world tears us from itself i link paragraph lines like haircolor ignoring wordy warcraft warnings & welcoming weathered wonderment

-> the scribbling

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