ok, let’s see … what can i do while getting drunk, besides being a dick on the internet?

I saw you between petroleum streams
at a wilderness gas stop, between cameltoe.
You were trying to connect with someone,
shouting, into this brick in your hand.

No fuzzy answers — not even a dialtone would speak to you.

I ran immediately, olympically, to you
Fédération Internationale de Football Association’ly.
I said: “Here, this is how you hold it.
Hold it properly, baby. That is the goal.”

Then though you got into your car talking to your bf, at least I had entire deserts to stroll.

For clarification, this was written late 6/2010, about the time the “iphones can’t be held” fear was spreading around.


"My pieces comprise, entirely, works of fiction. Some pieces are shorts, others tend to get a little longer. Some are straightforward and may be read evenly, while others can tend to be amorphous. You see, sometimes the writer does his piece completely lucid, sitting straight up and staring intently into it as his fingers simply glide across the keys. Other times his eyes are opaque with tears from imaginary emotions. Sentences, nay, words, barely come out as he stabs at each letter with one trembling finger, like how your mom types. Then there are the times a piece of work is scrawled from a leaking pen on a notepad in a bar after several whiskeys, as the writer gleefully tries to get everything down before the bouncers come over to throw him out for laughing like a crazy person to himself all night. The writer cannot say what is good, or what is bad. He can only write. It does not do for one to rank a piece of his work above others, just as it does not do for one to deign to strive to be published. That must be left to others, to come and ask the writer if they may publish his work, and that all of the work would be copyright (c) him 2000-2009, if they were to do so.

Some of the pieces may even seem far too real -- as though he's actually blogging about his real life, his personal thoughts. You know -- because it is a blog, some people may think that may be the case. Well it ain't, damn you, it ain't."

The man in the tracksuit shrugged over the counter. "Thanks for the info, Hemingway," he said, "but I just wanted to know where the damn ATM is."



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