It's too nice outside to be drinking hot coffee

Napoleon’s corpse would fit mighty comfortably in my fridge. Unfortunately, I don’t have Napoleon in my fridge. I don’t even have anything French in my fridge. I pull out week old pizza that I did not buy, which I put on a plate that I did not buy, which I then put into a dirty microwave that I did not buy. The pizza is followed by Oreos, which I did not buy, and milk, which cost me a dollar.

Sitting at the dining room table that I did not buy, I read some Keats in a book that I did not buy. Unlike everything else, this book wasn’t the leftovers from some sticky reception table or picked up from the side of the road or fished out of some dumpster. The girl who lent this to me thinks that it will help my writing. She likes Keats. I accidentally ripped the back cover, but after I mended it you can barely tell.

While I’m reading his letters, in mid-dunk, it dawns on me that Keats was a real asshole. So, Keats was head over heels for Fanny Brawne. (It‘s a damn shame that Keats didn‘t pun, because he could have really gone to town. Fanny‘s fanny, and the like.) Fanny loved him, of course--he was motherfucking Keats, after all, the rich, brilliant bastard--but she was a total flake. Once, she was flirting with some other guy and Keats freaked out and went running around town crying and pulling his hair out. He walked ten miles or something to a friend’s house and the poor suckers let him in. Those poor suckers.

So they let sobbing, balding Keats in. Fair enough. But Keats won’t leave. He stays there a whole month. A goddamn month. They’re feeding this guy, and doing his laundry. Cleaning his dishes. The whole deal. And Keats just lays there on the divan, crying, tearing out his hair, and asking if there is any more cake left in the icebox.

Those poor suckers. Every time they ever so delicately suggest that it’s time for him to leave, he starts moaning again, and what could they do? He was a poet. He was John Keats. He was the type of guy who wrote poems and tore out his hair. He died of tuberculosis--in Rome no less. I’m not even lucky enough to die of tuberculosis, let alone to ever go to Rome. I’ll probably die of a heart attack in bumblefuck Missouri.

About halfway through the cup of milk I realize that it’s gone bad. These are Doublestuf Oreos, and there’s enough ‘stuf’ to protect my taste buds with a thick film of plastic fat. You can’t even tell how sour the milk is.

New summer program

I've been quite busy lately. Haven't been writing much. I promise to upload the Keats story soon. In the meantime, watch this clip from the first day of my summer research program.

You'll want to start paying attention at the 50sec mark.


axel and the white board from Claire Fox on Vimeo.

"The book 'Cunt.'"

"Like Kant, the philosopher?"

Oh, germans! Oh, Axel! Let the antics begin. Thanks Claire, for the lovely video.

Exquisite corpse poem via email

So, I haven't posted in a very long time, because this is the end of the year, so I have been too busy. Also: I was taking a short story writing class, which drained all of my writing synergy. I don't mean synergy, but I like the word, so I improperly used it for the greater good of self-pleasure. I'll post my favorite piece from that class next.

This poem was written exquisite corpse style, over email. The order of authors goes myself, Lindsey Baggette, Alden Lee, Evan Dunn, and Ben Drum. We all wrote two lines, then emailed them to the next person. I think we wrote a very good poem! Expect more.

I'm gonna cut you
in line, gonna slice--and break
your buttons, gonna swig
your belly into
this mason jar
an action all too sudden
shooting stars with stiller frames:
I miss most, but should I pour them out?
I keep them as I keep myself:
As silver tarnishing away.