i don’t care about poetry or myself
do u like what u see ??
You are looking at Orion’s Belt
made of zits
on my chin.
You are the waffle in me
when i am feeling OK.
right now i am not feeling OK.
i am the waffle house fake butter.
Rap Videos are the only thing
propping up my brain-canvas,
and you are the only one sending me links to Rap Videos.
I am thirsty and alone,
popping cashews in the club
because I can’t afford a drink.
also I brought the cashews
i need friends
i want friends
i’m sick of hanging out by the firelight
of gas station truckstop grills
and eating sunflower seeds while all the cool kids
stand around smoking
maybe I should start smoking
but I probably won’t
walking down by firelight with you is amazing
walking by myself is amazing
to see the firelight burn and smell the woodburn of the grill
the charcoal making the inside of my nose black with ash
that is what I will do
i need a social life
i have 6,874 followers on Facebook and only know two of them
because i have three separate accounts
i want to eat Campbell’s Tomato Soup on your front porch
while you rustle my hair and tell me I kiss good
even though I never actually open my mouth
my iPhone broke again
and I was I got to 986 on Flappy Bird
what else can there be for me besides this
what else is down the road passed the
the firelight of gas station truckstop grills
and the fallen down trees lubricated with sap?
i will walk down the road
while you rustle my hair
passed all these things
and find out
All of the things that people talk about
I fear that this in my mind is a botch
Defiling what once I made from grout
My conceptions of popular culture
Of cokes and cars and clothing for the rich
And maybe even fixed up furniture
No longer seems to be the countries niche
But in place a new dialect is found
Laced with the internet and all its slurs
And dramatism made into profound
America has found its new colors
I think I was nine when I discovered Pink Floyd. I went to Target with my parents and bought the then-newest remastering of The Dark Side of the Moon. On the way home, I made my mother play it as I looked through the booklet, each page of lyrics colored differently with vague evocative shapes behind them. The terrible Camry speakers muffled the music, but I could still make out enough to get excited: the album’s opening heartbeat followed by garbled speech and musique concrete sound effects and laughter building up to a voice screaming, the sound of some strange and tremendously exciting kind of madness finally breaking into slow jazzy washes of guitar, keyboard, and pedal steel.
When we got home, I asked my mother to eject the CD and listened on the stereo in the sunroom, my father’s stereo, which was unused bar the occasional Elvis Greatest Hits CD or AM religious broadcast. I played it over and over, reading the lyrics as I listened, each song dense and weird and wonderfully alien.
Dark SIde was mostly a solitary thing. It is music for introspection, elliptical yet thematically clear, with lyrics about time, money, war, and madness written in simple, stoned paradoxes that seem to hold infinite depth to any slightly pretentious nine-year-old. My parents undoubtedly remembered the album from college, but my interest in it was still puzzling; suddenly, their elementary schooler had the same taste in music as that perpetually spacy guy they vaguely remembered from their dorms.
My only connection to the Floyd in the outside world was my neighbor, Andy, a middle-aged city official of some sort who dabbled in Lebowski-tier laziness on the weekends, building a fire pit and drinking beer with other neighborhood adults while his daughters and various neighborhood kids played. The daughters were in my grade, but I didn’t bother with them; no one my age could understand the profundity of Roger Waters’ poetry.
Andy was more my speed - I sat in a camping chair with one or two other parents while he drank and discoursed on Pink Floyd, giving me recommendations on where to go next. He told me about the mythical Dark Side - Wizard of Oz synchronicity, which I attempted with a VHS of The Wizard of Oz and a crappy old TV. I followed Andy’s directions to start the album at the MGM lion’s third roar, but I didn’t get much out of it, likely because I was the first person ever to attempt this while entirely sober.
ezra pound at one am on the day of my birth
i hate the bastard for all of his long sentences
but i find myself now falling into that same pattern
and holy hell i realize
that, yes, untranslated linguistic crap
falls from the sky like dandruff from the clouds
but maybe thats the point
ad if you dont get it youll never get it
and yes the cantos are just a rip off of other
bigger better pieces of literature
but what makes them bigger, tell me,
what makes them better
so what every story has already been told
in every tongue across every nation of all time
i still have my way to tell the story
my own tongue
my own practition of the language i have been
endowed with by my own nation, heritage
ill condense what i must and persist in the rest
im turning my eyes to the dictionary of my mind
im twisting the nipple of the folios of the ages
to turn out the richest milk, for you to gulp down
trains at night
tell me how to live my life.
it is 1:28 AM.
they sound like demons from above.
I am thinking
the bone that is the inside of my eye socket.
that the moon’s Venetian lattice
on the sheets
also wants to scratch up
pieces of me.
over familiar feelings
i didn’t know existed.
there is calculus to be done
and an entire wet earth to save
but i’m tired.
i want the world to accomplish itself
by marshall moore
it’s ok if it’s ‘cheesy;’
it just can’t be ‘lame.’
Circle 1: people for whom ‘cheesy’ and ‘lame’ mean the same thing.
Circle 2: people who hate “Marshall Moore.”
They are the same circle.
is a teddy bear
with a heart that reads
“I Love You This Much,”
arms extended apart
about two-sevenths of a meter.
I probably like you more than that
by Marshall Moore
Little Debbie is a genius. She invents snack products like it’s nobody’s business. The obvious beauty in this is that inventing snack products is her business. Despite being in her fifties, Debbie continues to invent new, exciting snacks that engage with the youth on a core level. Her newest concoction, the Cosmic Cupcake, has the potential to tear up the snack game. The expansion of the Cosmic sub-brand is a genius move, but only if the cupcake can live up to its name.
Sloth City has always had a great appreciation for what the kids are now calling the “Cosmic sub-brand.” Cosmic Brownies truely seem to have an other-wordly quality to them. The essential question is this: Does the new snack live up to its Cosmic nomenclature?