This Place (Still A Place) Just Not My Place

This site is falling into the darkness soon.

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I love you. Let’s make pretty anger together.

Casket the Year Please

This year was a year. That much we all know. For myself it held a bucket of bad things, health issues keeping me pushed below a feeling of personal comfort and of course writing a novella by hand (yeah, where this goes everybody knows) to only lose all of my work.

Next year will be another year but I have lofty hopes of so many good things to come. Re-releases from Safety Third, as well as a new release. I’m also writing again. My growing health drops have kept my body and mind far away from words but as we grow closer to the past tense for this summation of months I find myself refueled to create.

In no order, items of this year that generally revolve around consumption.

- I never thought that there would be a year that David Lynch would be a pinnacle point to two of my favorite albums I heard; of course, his eerie solo debut Crazy Clown Time, but also his production on Chrysta Bell’s This Train album.

- Matt Bell & Michael Kimball both wrote about life and death and made me cry in public as I read.

- A famed metal guitarist called me “straight gangsta” as I had pulled out blunts for a smoke out.

- Everything Housefire published on their site made me swoon.

- Yeah it came out last year but The Bad Wife by Julie Christmas still gives me quivers as she howls about fucking everything.

- Great season of Bored to Death, Breaking Bad, and Doctor Who. Huzzah for the eyes and ears.

- Unleashing the off-the-cuff debut poetry collection of Tom Cheshire. Memories of the book release reading still blanket me with joyness.

- Mel Bosworth & Scott McClanahan wrote books I read three times. They be that great.

- I pulled 14 muscles screaming during a reading.

- Atlanta’s Wizard Smoke & Lyonnais both put out albums that I enjoy much more than albums that were made for oogles of more money. (Speaking of Wizard Smoke I loved writing this article)

- Future of the Left returned goddammit, and that matters.

- Patton Oswalt’s book of essays Zombie Spaceship Wasteland got panned by a lot of people. I was not one of them.

- Rico Slade Will Fucking Kill You by Brandley Sands. Best to read before you commit crimes.

- House of Holes by Nicholson Baker should not be read in public. You will want to molest things and people.

- Tom Waits and Battles made albums that I am still listening to.

- The Book of Freaks by Jamie Iredell, reading is mandatory.

- Normally Special by xTx. I’m still speechless about it.

There’s more. but who can take a whole year when we shove it down so fast; a great meal stuffing ourselves and we can’t remember where it began. We just know that the next course is coming and it can’t get here soon enough.

The Fire Dances To A Rhythm We Can’t Feel

Atlanta Is Burning…next year.

Tonight We Ready Our Voices

Creative Loafing asked me what to expect tonight at Tom Cheshire & Friends, a night of words and music. The answer is of course anything.

Blake Rainey, a man known for his guitar work in All Night Drug Prowling Wolves, will be opening.

Dave Daniels takes the stage next. I haven’t met the man but I heard he’s Leonard Cohen dipped in a bucket of Woody Allen. I’m sold.

Bill Taft will might tell a story, he might sing a song, he might yell through both of those options.

From there I read.

Jamie Iredell will no doubt have his delightful prose and poetry ready for action. My hope is for a few selections from his newest release, Book of Freaks.

After that the Pulitzer Prize nominated Charles McNair will read. The last I spoke with McNair he said that he would be previewing his upcoming novel.

After that Tom Cheshire will bring songs and poems, joined by friends, this will be his last time on the Star Bar stage for some time as he hops a train to New York city in under thirty days. Tonight we show him off, and hopefully we won’t too much of a haze to scramble through for memories of tonight.

Ribcages…

This new David Peak piece makes me want to be a better man and a horrible disaster — the kind that are sung in songs to make kids go to school — all at once.

Destroyer

“you are nothing/without my affection/you wilt/we are fucked/like a nuclear war release.”

Like a musical kinship to a pathogen Dillinger Escape Plan has stood gazing into their own destruction, and they’ve laughed — much like how they combust into smiles live — wanting to push everything they’ve had further. No remorse in the wake.

I’ve always had a fondness for the band, actually toss that out the window. I feel something more towards the band. maybe it’s the fact I witnessed a circle jerk in a back room one of the first times I saw the band. A cluster of twenty somethings sporting clothes too big and matching stretched ears all in position. Pulling, stroking, laughing, and coming as the songs played in the next room. Their lust cataloged to feel a friend’s shoulder touch their skin as their pelvic muscles thrusted in one motion. As a machine creating a mess no one would have cleaned up.

One of the band’s most striking songs ‘Sunshine The Werewolf‘ has now been explained by frontman Greg Puciato. Enjoy the band or not the decaying nature of the song deserves respect in terms of writing.

The idea came after an article was sent to Greg. “It was a perverse and disgusting article about a strange and extreme subculture of people who would deliberately “give” and “receive” HIV in order to romantically share an eventually fatal disease(queen sized coffin built for two). The lyrics were fiction, and written from the perspective of the “giver”, who then turned out to have tricked the smitten “receiver” into thinking their love was forever before instead moving on to someone else(there’ll be another just like you…you’re not the only one, etc), sadistically leaving the receiver feeling tricked and scorned…the receiver eventually repeating the cycle as a giver. HIV vampires basically. A metaphor for people passing abuse forward in relationships.”

A Trunk of Revenge and I Worship Bleed Marks

The words have been mended and reformatted.

After hours of staring at this laptop the new layouts for xTx‘s He Is Talking To The Fat Lady & Frank Hinton‘s I Don’t Respect Female Expression chapbooks are closer to their re-release date.

When is that? A date will be hushed out over the web soon, as well as a fantastic contest — and possibly a picture of me throwing furniture off a roof while the drugs talk for me.

Both chapbooks have new pieces included.

A man on the corner away from me filled up plastic bags, probably freezer bags by their size, with gasoline. He paid, throwing his bags of fire into a box in his trunk.

He’s going somewhere to end something. May his car not turn to regrettable flames before he gets there.

A Deborturous Reading Ahead

There will be words. There will be music. There should be moments of disarray and fragmented time lost in the hangover haze of the day after. This can be guaranteed as much as the free entry at the door.

Say you’ll come. Tell a friend. Steal something on your way there.

House of Holes

When I first discovered porn the magazines designed to hide from religious touting parents never quite excited me. Don’t get me wrong I was no warrior of purity denying the fleshly desires that come with age, there was just no incitement, or imagination, to a woman of airbrush and silicone. These women looked as vapid and pointless as the pages they were on.

It wasn’t until the dawn of the internet at home did I find my stroke aid — literary porn. Yes it was a thing and my quick web research revealed that it still is a thing. Now “literary” might be the wrong word used for my adolescent helper, properly it should have been called Word Jizz as the writing itself was quite terrible but what these linked pages gave was stories and context to the filth and sexual fury. Premises were much like the porn videos of the day, people just falling into sex.

“Oh look. I have a pizza and I just tripped into five vaginas.”

You get the idea.

Nicholson Baker’s House of Holes brought me back to that word, only the literature here is fully enact and throbbing for more (I won’t apologize for that). But there is more to the House of Holes –as a novel and a hidden world– than spreading and growing members under the influence of the secreting desires; there’s actually a heart and purpose to it all.

On their first choice guest of the House of Holes view the probable hidden dimension as a place of fuck sports, getting all their wishes fulfilled in multiple climaxes, but it’s after the bodies separate and the sweat, lotions, and genitals settle down and dry off that it’s no longer a sport; it’s a functioning path to understand not only yourself but what you want.

Each character is given choices; some invite pain and loss (a hand, a head, the nut sack), because there is a cost to play in the House of Holes and it’s pricey, and it’s best to behave. I believe in you’re ever in a place that might be made of magic it’s best not to fuck around. Feel free to tell children that because that’s real life wisdom.

In many cases what these colliding people need is a good fuck but there is nothing predictable about Nicholson Baker’s sex world, in fact what this novel may bring is a clear understanding that using the work cock might be played out. It’s time to move on to better words for the thrust: such as nutbag, groin bundle, peckerdickcock.

While reading House of Holes I wrote pussy cradle down in a notebook. I’m jealous and self-hating that I never thought to use that.

A Devil’s Path

We used to never think of the devil as clothed. He was a naked deceiver running through villages dousing poison and prodding any who held their doubts when they spoke to the sky. His hooves scuffed the earth as we walked and his red complexion matched the hue of the tales of fire weaved to children. His tail was defiance.

As we have grown so did the fallen angel. He picked up a suit. A fine suit. A suit better than the ones we wear to court; it’s the kind of suit you hang up before you slide into a partner.

The pitchfork got misplaced for a tongue of deals and fine-print tricks.

The evolution of this myth is no coincidence. Our view of evil is housed in the world around us. The devil is in the details, not a whisper at your bedside.