Will the weekend be wasted. I could go out with–- what the fuck is her name again. Colleen. First date since Bud died. It’d be a waste. Before I sleep with a man I make him show me test results, she says. It happens that I carry negative STD papers in my briefcase. But they’re from October. Who have I fucked since then. Angela. Kerry who I choked. Someone else, some other Tinder Asian. But maybe not. Angela existing has relieved my need for women. We text 200 times a day. Me existing hasn’t stopped her from fucking every man in Texas. What can you do. Continue reading
I was with a girl, this was maybe 2007. We went to the county shelter in Burbank to get a cat. A young male because my last cat was cool. The cat room there is a long row of tanks with plexiglass in front, air holes. 30 cats but no young guys until the very last cat in the very last row. Black and fluffy with a white star on his chest. Who’s this handsome fellow. He’s one of the bucket cats, the woman said. Two kittens found in a sealed paint bucket. The sister adopted already. This guy was aging out of “cute kitten,” maybe headed for the firing squad.
I put my finger on the glass and said: hey, bud. He put his paw on my finger. On the way out the clerk with the paperwork said do you know his name, and I said: Bud. Continue reading
Holy shit, meditating was a mistake. My spirit is open to the word of God, or the vast unknown or whateverthefuck. Mind is a blank chalkboard. Repelled by the act of thinking words. This is not gonna be helpful for writing. Picturing the critical voice perched on my shoulder. He takes the form of (REDACTED) from weird twitter. Thank God I’ve read his longform work and it’s boring stupid internet garbage. Making fun of political pundits. If you even write the word ”pundit” you suck. Another morning when I can’t write. Some mornings, all mornings. Well who cares. What do you want, to make a living off it? What do you have to express. Nothing. Fine, let’s jerk off. Continue reading
Through April 3rd at Coagula Curatorial
She thought you were hot, my date told me. Well shit. Could I pull it off. I’ve beat off to her rape video 15 times. You stand on a plywood box; she stands across from you on another plywood box; there’s a painted line between you and you talk but you’re not allowed to touch her. Close by there’s a mannequin of her called Emmatron hooked up to an iPad with canned questions. If you ask about the rape she directs you to the mannequin. The iPad says why didn’t you go to the cops right away. Why did you Facebook message him: fuck me in the butt, and so forth. You pick one. Her recorded voice comes on. Fuck me in the butt is an expression like shoot me in the head. If I told you shoot me in the head, would you literally think I want to be shot in the head. Continue reading