first person narrative

i must be setting myself up for some kind of cruel karma rugburn ready to bury myself in everything i never forgave me for the thing to remember is that not believing in god’s infinite wrath means youve just got to do it yrself & theres no need for poetics or primitive grammatic maneuvering the only worthwhile metaphor is in regards to the way we last stood at the base of a few steps leading up to nowhere particularly relevant but i was not facing up the steps in fact quite the opposite maybe thats important & maybe thats making too much of things like setting or detail in set design & instant gratification through all the interruptions & meaningless conversations as always im left trying desperately failing to pull myself from yr eyes

-> the scribbling

by chris on April 28th, 2006 @ 9:53 am
scraps from the archives | 2 comments

the phone call i want to make

we are a weakening of ourselves & our insides like stakes through the heart or a more or less internalized withdrawal of the senses isnt this a justified immortal italicized misspelling & window dressing magic markers as mismagnified taste treats on the back side of stop signs

by chris on April 25th, 2006 @ 11:27 pm
too often, poor grammar | No comments

a few look at the sky

by chris on April 23rd, 2006 @ 2:05 am
i spy w/ my little eye | No comments

(momentary) or, advice on how to win a pulitzer

im a name without a face we play games with straining dates on graves we state innate hatred for our grip on fate

 

     [ …or… ]
 

im ah

     name

without     [spelledlike:]a

face

weplaygAMEswith st-t-t-T-T-t-training

dates on graves (&gravenimages.)
     we
state innate (h)atred for   (h)our

grip
on fate

     [ …or… ]
 

iman ame wit hou t afa cewe(e)p lay ga me(’)s withst rain ingda te son gRAVEswest ate in n(8)ate hat red foro urgr iponfat     e

 

     [ …or… ]
 

[with pauses as i hear them (at least most of the time, ormaybenot):]

imanamewithoutaface
weplaygameswithstrainingdatesongraveswestateinnate
hatredforourgriponfate

     [ …or… ]
 

<proper>
I stand before you, and simply, a name without a face,
As we play games with faith and straining dates,
On graves oh forever late, we state innate
Hatred for our futile greaving grip on fate.
</proper>

by chris on April 20th, 2006 @ 10:05 am
too often, poor grammar | 1 comment

for audrey hepburn and the women that love her

where weightless wondering or blundering blushing brings tears or pinched lip smiles while searching for bathing suits or card key passes i forget abt drinking i keep repeating everything until nothing or nothings left to sink in i write source code on train cars fill my pockets with portable derailers pulling dirt from unknown corners or shadowless windy afternoons

nothing sinks in like a sunrise or interrupts like diner food what was i dreaming this morning how many of us hit snooze again or i worship dainty fingers almost as much as everything abt you two sips of coke & a fluffy pillow know more than i ever could when its roll call or ringing phones open windows & unshaved legs i guess i cant help pony tails & unforgiving out of town restaurant bills or what abt that sign at the door step or which newspaper stand needs to be filled not screaming at the top of yr lungs not phased by a sunset & neon signs not a jukebox on autopilot not the waitress refilling ketchup bottles im only washing up after myself & order dessert when theres reason to stick around but tonight its gotten so dark & the corn stalks are creeping so high or this swing wont go high enough so much empty space in this room & yet the couch is just too small smelling kerosene for years in every finished basement or waterbed jumping timelines & burned bridges im always indiana jones to yr audrey hepburn im only washing up after myself bc even you dont know when youll be back tonight

this is again silence to the sunset & which direction will i drive home tonight towards potted plants & cornered tv sets settling softly for trick shots with too much english indoor pools & wandering maid service or yelling momma down empty halls

the cheesiest line i ever wrote is going to be this one: its so easy to miss someone and so often so hard to find them.

-> the scribbling

by chris on April 18th, 2006 @ 9:01 pm
scraps from the archives | No comments

y.es (not an answer)

our hearts and minds
left(notquiteright) amongst the drip drip    drip
fresh out bedroom windows

thisearlyspring

      we believe in ourselves, dowe?                 yes and  thenagain

maybeonlymaybe is ananswer
for the Lost and(/or) the lipservice generation

     how do you stand up(orout?) to nothing and no one{?}

the way
winter
straddles the newyear as if trying 2B
both beginning&end

dont it know(:)

there can be only one beginningand(&)end &(and) youaintITasshole! we
scream pointing fingers and
                        outstretchedskinnyarms
                                into the never now fading light

( )

hungover like our collective wasted years

notnotnotNOT

unlike gravel spills and trainyard memories
(thatfucking!amtrak i told you the wrong side to look out)

then,,,
standingonthis other wrong side across streets andbeliefs and
tryYyingtofocus
onsomeother darkened house notone withthiskey burningallholes
inmypockets (mypreciousitcries or wasthatme?)

or im a window into the future and we’re all streaks
or paper towels not quite greaving
(or) gripping pixie dust like rust on used hondas
or some silver thing i never got to know

i scribble DeadEnd on my forehead and yr all so illiterate.

by chris on April 12th, 2006 @ 8:53 am
too often, poor grammar | No comments

wind is blowing south at 8mph

we don’t know our name or sing like lame ducks over glorious hills and squirrel tails bounding up tree trunks like a missing manhole cover forging forever like four-legged dogs jealous of the new day traffic lane im another unforgiven fortune teller with a crystal ball only my nephew can see into and he’s got the ball and chain not talking to no one and thats oh kay, you say.

by chris on April 10th, 2006 @ 2:39 pm
too often, poor grammar | No comments

after the night owls

sometimes i dont know how to start so ill sit silent twiddling fingers over & over putting on the pencap taking it off a sentence starts & ends w/ each motion i cant keep a straight thought let alone a straight face i walk uneven across drunken matted down snow seeing nothing through these future fogged glasses were all too dissimilar holding hands under interstate overpasses sexy & swindling digging our toes in the asphalt i think theres nothing less forgiving than a familiar exit ramp or a dusty back road in some state youve never been in a rented car you cant maneuver under a mignight rain yr drunken mind cant pierce through u-turns on unlit curves what are those headlights up there ive got no patience for the uplifting & ill always waste yr time worrying abt time gone or remaining

-> the scribbling

by chris on April 8th, 2006 @ 2:41 pm
scraps from the archives | No comments

fighting the t-word (plural)

thoughts of late sound like nothing or rather anything & everything we’re running at or from or back&forth between all extremes thoughts of late like opposites attract so the city i loathe and loathed & not wished on my enemies now feels like a possible path not wanting the not wanting or the give-up im only an escapist if thats how my dust cloud & those two cold pillows remember me

with all the options & landscaping in this parking lot laid so clearly in front somehow whats missing is the key like all ive ever wanted was a fortune cookie note to say it just right to convince me & sweep me off my feet so baby just forge one & slip it in w/ that chinese food i hate to eat & maybe you already know its only the disappointment of those notes & lucky numbers yet to spell yr phone number or birthday or six slash twenty slash oh shit i forget was it zero two yeah thats it

but the south side never felt south enough for my tastes & these days i miss so much sun & wind in my eyes like im just not trying to be vague enough i want to write a play abt yr hand in my pocket & that laundry sidewalk smell im the silences between words wishing to be kidnapped & laid at yr door in some country no one knows or maybe there were two more seats open on that plane they made a tv show of i’ll be the bernard to your curly haired black lady whos name i cant think of well now we’re getting somewhere

i forgot to tell you how i missed my first exit leaving last time buzzing on coffee and cigarettes abt four in the first twenty minutes desperately clinging to the hope that i wasnt me bc there was no hope that maybe the passenger seat wasnt so empty.

someday youll get yr wish & someday i’ll hold you to yr promise

-> the scribbling

by chris on April 5th, 2006 @ 6:37 pm
too often, poor grammar | No comments

detroit urban craft fair is on!

the Handmade Detroit kids are at it again, this time with a long awaited anouncement that they are taking applications for space at the much-anticipated Detroit Urban Craft Fair.

i’m super excited abt this event, not because i’ll have stuff for sale there (i probably wont) but simply because these kids are doing so much for Detroit DIY and it makes me so happy to see their love and support for the local peeps

and i expect it to be so much fun that day …

here’s some of the info for all you lazy ones out there:

Applications are open for the Detroit Urban Craft Fair! Deadline is May 15. Apply today!

Come check out the spankin’ new web site for general fair information, vendor answers, contacts and many more ways to get involved with us!

Detroit Urban Craft Fair
August 5, 2006
Majestic Theatre, Detroit
www.detroiturbancraftfair.com

go check out the announcement on their blog
 and then be sure to visit the gorgeous DUCF website and fill out an application
(seriously, who’s doing your web design? that site is beautiful)

…

No I cannot forget where it is that I come from
I cannot forget the people who love me
Yeah, I can be myself here in this small town
And people let me be just what I want to be

by chris on April 3rd, 2006 @ 12:36 pm
not much in particular | 3 comments

im a sucker for _________

lets try to write a love song that no one’ll understand & i’ll promise to name it after my lighter or the pocket i keep my cigarettes in & better still we can mask it all in the faint glances i thought i caught & couldnt handle its been so windy today & so much driving this world we love we’re the shared motives & memories or we’re just an idea in the back of a throat of a twinkling pain behind the eyes of this collapsing universe this city circus & clown hair i saw you there we’re withholding another representing reckoning w/ mismanaged meandering im predicting shyness & fiddling w/ wine glasses leaning into conversations & eavesdropping across stickers or buttons im withholding wariness & neanderthal references nearing a white dress & parasol i know you know, right?
lets all be the human condition dreaming of a human condition & hearing conservation theres more words here than youve read so instead i’ll wear my color & flash navel gazing gang size gang signs slicing through crowds of strangers & delinquents yr the color between standards & portraits & maybe im just a stalker running high on caffeine & light blue nicotine isnt that what its supposed to mean?

-> the scribbling

by chris on April 1st, 2006 @ 1:11 am
too often, poor grammar | No comments

 

disutility function