i’m putting out a new chapbook called “addendum”.
i originally was just going to sell it on tour but it has new poems different from “hershey bar pie” so i figured why not
email your info and paypal $5 to email@example.com for your own personalized copy
Smash Gordon is a baseball player who listens to free jazz. He holds the highest award in free jazz listening contests. When he goes up to bat and hits the ball a big saxophone rings out over the stadium and the entire audience says, man, look, there goes Smash Gordon again with his free jazz baseball swing.
The year is 2072, everything is screwed up.
(things already got screwed up in 2017 but then got more screwed up around 2069)
Smash Gordon takes a look in his mirror and pats himself on his space eye patch. Lost that one space baseball game finals of 2064 he says to his son, whose name is Nord Norton. He holds his space razor to his new space face (in the future you can get your face replaced with a new space face) and shaves his space beard. Nord Norton eats his regular ole’ Earth apple and asks his dad about before 2069, when everything go re-screwed up.
Well son I don’t have much to tell you. Ever since the year of 2069, when everything got re-screwed up, my memory has been a little fuzzy. See, things aren’t screwed up now; they’re how they are supposed to be. Anyone that says things got re-screwed up in 2069 is obviously speaking from the perspective of a past non-space dude brain.
Makes since, says Nord Norton as he looks out of the window.
You mean sense, says Smash Gordon. I can see on my space interpreter that in your head you spelled it, “since” when the correct usage is, “sense.”
Oops, says Nord Norton.
Nord Norton wonders how his dad can use his space interpreter that way. Nord Norton can only use it to know when food is done in the space microwave or understand spaceman speak, which is necessary since he lives in New Jersey, which is still on Earth, but might as well be in space, even though the state of New Jersey has been repurposed and named the Baseball Colony.
I can know those things because I am your dad, says Smash Gordon as he puts on a free jazz record.
this july turns toward october again with the rain
how it flows deep on the pavement
into the vacancy sign on the “rodeo inn”
into the vacancy sign on the “plaza motel”
how the red lipstick lights of the cellphone towers
reverberate through this air as if
they were sound
how it follows the music box wound spring coil pattern
of a porcelain ballerina spinning around an axis
as this earth does- how the earth is a ballerina or a music box
and its song plays continuously
rare photo of me with a beer and balloon
ah yes the house catches fire, a big cloud of laughter fills up the neighborhood, the safe is fireproof so it’s all good, we keep the money in there
Evelyn texted me. She’s drunk on a beach in Mexico using the hotel wifi that somehow extends down to the beach. End goal in life: be drunk on a beach in Mexico in a hut even though I hate the beach, preferably not having disposable income but not having to really worry about money, eat food that I make myself, cold beer somehow, boat off into the sunset. Evelyn is coming home soon, says she misses this place. That’s cool, I say. It’s a bad response. I’m sitting in my living room on the couch; I often see comments on the internet talking about how now one actually uses their living room, statements along the lines of, “I do more living in my room and kitchen than my living room.” I feel weird when I read those comments; I do a lot of living in my living room. I get another text message from Evelyn; she says she wants to get “absolutely trashed” with me when she gets home, says she’ll pay five whole dollars to do that with me. Okay, I say. I realize how bad I am at texting. My roommate opens the fridge and declares the milk is bad. Damn.
my friend and i played cards in
a mobile home in east texas woods
soon after i realized my hands were cauterized
he disappeared right up into his bright red bicycle deck
and now he is burning following
the stupid good god mindbend beating he got from
and now he rides down
in his cardboard room on wheels beating
himself in head along
hard to hold the cards with the burned hands
(i would know)
especially when you’re at
the same size as them
so he just grabs the steering hopes
to move along with it
and creates humanity and all that good stuff
sorry for the shitty name
my friend put death grips on my spotify playlist
in this song there is a bass noise that swells back up on beat and
now there are other bass noises
last night i was in houston
and as i was leaving the streets were empty,
all the streets normally full of cars
now there is a treble noise i would describe as
but it is nothing like a police car
i feel obligated to be myself by everyone and it is scary and threatening
because i don’t know what myself is
i said “it is” previously because i cannot remember the “it’s” “its” distinction
now a new death grips song is on
i think they are sampling a genre called “beach rock”
what is beach rock, really
i hate beach rock for the most part
When the Maoist revolutionary arrived at the cafe he and his girlfriend were the only ones there. There was mood lighting. The mood lighting was mostly blue. There were blue curtains and blue tablecloths. There was a fish tank but the light in the fish tank was green. This cafe is trying to trick me into believing that water is green, the Maoist revolutionary thought. He was uncomfortable with the mood lighting.
He and his girlfriend sat down at a table and a waiter came from what seemed to be nowhere to learn the drinks they wanted. The Maoist revolutionary wanted a Coke. His girlfriend wanted water. When the waiter left the Maoist revolutionary’s girlfriend told the Maoist revolutionary he should not drink as much soda and drink more water. The Maoist revolutionary passively said that he should drink less soda but right now was not the right time to drink water because the blue mood lighting and green fish tank were making him uncomfortable and drinking soda while around something that made him uncomfortable would make him associate drinking soda with being uncomfortable and therefore he would drink more water, later.
More people entered the cafe and he noticed that the streetlamps outside had turned on but the sun was still mostly above the horizon.
“That’s not how association works. I’m thinking of becoming a computer hacker,” said his girlfriend.
“Everyone is a computer hacker.”
“I want a tattoo that says ‘computer hacker.’”
“If you get the tattoo you won’t have to learn how to hack computers because everyone will believe your tattoo because it is a tattoo,” said the Maoist revolutionary. “Tattoos are like encyclopedias, they are permanent and real, because they are tattoos, just like encyclopedias.”
hunter s. thompson’s ghost came to me last night
he punched me in the face and told me to get my act together
today i went to class and the professor said “bullshit” at least three times
i went home and took a nap
and hunter s. thompson’s ghost was there again
in my dream, i mean
he punched me in the face again but
didn’t say anything