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Xerces and Me

Me and Xerces

28 juil 06 22:43

http://lowepoetics.com/pdf/issue3.pdf

21 juin 06 12:33

Fall 2006, Loyola University New Orleans

Monday, Wednesday, Friday:
FREN-A100-001        First Year French I        9:30        Rogers
ENGL-H233-033        Honors: Classical Epic        10:30        Cotton
ENGL-A210-001        Texts and Literary Theory        12:30        Cotton
HIST-H233-033        Honors: World Civ to 1650        1:30        Ribeiro 

Tuesday, Thursday:
ENGL-A211-002        Intro to Creative Writing        3:30        Chambers

 

4 juin 06 16:37 - /// /// /// /// /// /// ///

Does anyone else remember when we did this shit? Man, it must've been over a year ago.

la avant-garde jazz by the CHRISTIAN PORN GROOVE COLLECTIVE, a.k.a.— e p, Danny "The Shit" Devillier, Stephano Richardi, and Micah Dee
, presentin' . . .                                        here.
Humeur actuelle: Frustrated.

22 mai 06 15:03 - short & sweet

This morning I woke up and checked CNN.com. I found a headline there which read, "Iraqi Elections a 'Watershed Moment' in Democracy, Bush says." Watershed. The word intrigued me. While context has always given me a good idea of what it means, its exact definition I never quite knew. So, looking it up, I found it means literally "a ridge of high land dividing two areas that are drained by different river systems" or metaphorically "a critical point that marks a division or a change of course; a turning point." What a neat word! I thought. And fascinated, I thought back to all of my own watershed moments.
           
            (Graduation did not make the list.)
Musique actuelle: None.
Humeur actuelle: Unsure as of yet.

30 avr 06 16:51 - Cloths of Heaven

Nothing is fun anymore.

Does anyone know how Stella got her groove back?
Through reevaluation.
Current Location: Spectator Seats
Musique actuelle: None
Humeur actuelle: Disappointed

22 avr 06 01:07 - AUSTIN WOMACK

The golden child of the sun I have seen
caught motionless in a wild frenzy of wind
as we careened through the urban streets
noir and stylish in a top-down camero
    pedestrians struck by his gleam exuding
    from the car's passenger seat, pleather,
    and turning to watch. . . . He was a
flurry of plastic sunglasses for fifties era women
spikes of drunken aureate bangs swinging
over eyes and peacock feathers riding his ear.
    For the two of us in the back seat who knew him he was
    some Vegas casino show with tawdry dancers
    and "the next Freddie Mercury" taking vocals
his tux tail lifted by that off-stage fan
which blows eastward the show's neon fog
and tired wrinkles cheap and sweaty, heavy from botox
    after show after show after lie—
    tonight, caught in the wind,
    I saw the golden child of the sun.
Musique actuelle: CRASH is, well, okay.
Humeur actuelle: I've had a great day.

14 avr 06 00:20

Am eighteen-years-old.

9 avr 06 19:54

dada     da da        da dada   da da        da dada   da da        da dada   da da        da dada   da da . . .
Musique actuelle: "Benton Harbor Blues" by The Fiery Furnaces
Humeur actuelle: Beachy

2 avr 06 20:25 - Theme for Paul Bennet, short and sweet

[Removed from the public eye.]

(This weekend I photoedited porn for legitimate & not immoral reasons, went to work, watched half of an LSU game, freaked out for a minute or two, drove to New Orleans, met a woman named Perry, jumped on my cousin's trampoline with Katherine, paid Meghan five dollars to drive me somewhere, had my work schedule changed with mere thought as if by magic, read a lot from the New Orleans Review and Loyola's ReVisions which greatly impressed & surprised me, accidentally ignored McGinty, invented a new drink with Brett Bajon, got picked up by my boss, toured Loyola of New Orleans, met up there with Leanne, spoke my first word to Andrew Wright in God knows how long, slept not nearly enough, jumped on my trampoline to music, and purchased new socks and pants.)
Musique actuelle: my kitty
Humeur actuelle: bread is chirping

17 fév 06 19:09 - Aedh Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven
Stephanie says.
She wants to know.
    Life's been going pretty well you know I guess except for no no it's been great, just great including excluding without regard to oh you know it's been great. And there's this and this and this and that all up for the taking you know we shouldn't no no just great great absolutely fine fantabsolutely you know whatever yeah yeah. Works well. Compatible. ERICK PILLER ("O I luv you, Erick Piller!") runs out his numerous friendships to the end, exhausting them with. Clouds is falling. Sky birth horrible storms. Over the scene is unfurled a bright crimson curtain, and music dolente doloroso but not at all enfatico ensues from the orchestra pit. As a result, THE AUDIENCE is flustered. What to do, what to do? But of course—the great theater always provides for its! Sad sad sad sad. No worries. From off-stage right proceed a jester, a magician, a mime, a trapeze artist, a gymnast, a tight-rope walker, a Jew, an atheist, a Mormon, a still-born infant, a box of pesticide, the ghost of Aeneas, a harpsichord, the end of the world, Valentine's Day, a beautiful lakeside view, and a pretend writer—none of whom part of the original program. This hilarious pathetic troupe, so to speak, dances, so to speak. THE AUDIENCE do not notice the warm smiles spreading legs over their very own mass of faces. Sad sad sad. Why the smiles? The dancers? The profound lack of denouement for previous performance? Wife being felt up by. Strangers? Sad sad sad. O O O. "I luv you, ERICK PILLER."
    Tired by solitaire.
Musique actuelle: None

6 fév 06 20:17 - !!! Christopher Walken for President of the United States of America in 2008, Vote for . . .

http://www.walken2008.com/

/faggot.
Musique actuelle: Homosexual
Humeur actuelle: Gay

24 jan 06 18:38 - The Shepherd Struck / My Day

    On my bedside desk my cellphone rattled and sang and brought me back to consciousness this morning as the early dark still hung in the window. Pulled my blankets over my face and I waited for it to stop on its own. But it went on to whistle a little television commerical jingle and would not stop whistling so my eyes opened coldly and my arm stretched out to it in frustration to kill it dead.
    Two nights before I had come across a little bird. My cellphone had rung, the number withheld, and I had answered.
    "Hello?" I said.
    "You need to come to CC's," an anonymous female voice told me.
    "But I don't even know who you are," I said, knowing it was Neil's friend Nikki.
    "I'm a little bird." And as these words reached my ears, the phone clicked off.
    "O little bird. Well, in that case I'll come along."
    But I had not been able to come along because I was crippled and without a car due to an embarrassing deer accident that had occurred still yet further into the blurry blurry past now leaving me. So I called Neil's cellphone.
    "Neil," I said. "Tell the little bird I can't come to CC's because I don't have a ride."
    Neil understood completely and came over to pick me up with his dark green truck. But of course, the mysterious caller had not been Nikki but rather Natasha, a friend of Carol Ann, Katherine's little sister and, as one might guess, the assigner of my little bird's task. Against the man who is my associate.

    I rubbed my eyes after killing dead the phone and sat up in my bed. My house lay in shambles, I saw: clothes scattered wildly all over the floor of my room, empty drinking glasses stacked high like Babel on every piece of furniture. Etc.
    In the tired shower stall the beads of water struck down hard on my shoulders and scattered the blood under my skin all about, leaving me red and tingling and invigorated with the new day. It held much promise; every day I awake to a day with much promise, a refinery for silver and a test for gold.
    At CC's I had seen Katherine in one of her old sweatshirts, her hair tossed in its usual way, curling gently at the middle of her neck, her forearms thin and girlish and reaching and, "You made it. What a coincidence!"
    "Wow, it really is a coincidence too! We didn't have to set up some crazy plan to see each other after all," I replied.
    Katherine and I had been/are banned from each other until February.
    "Eh, kind of a coincidence," she smiled. And it was then that I realized my mistake about the little bird.

    My dad was slouched, reading, on the couch when I came down the stairs in my school clothes. My cellphone hung heavy in my pocket, and wet hung the tips of my hair. He looked up at me for a moment. The Stranger by Camus lay cradled in his hands because I had suggested it to him earlier.
    My father is fast becoming religious because his flock has long since scattered under his gaze: I will say, "They are my people"; and they will say, "The LORD is our God."
    "There's some Tennessee Williams play coming up at the Swine Palace in February," he said. Katherine and I are banned from each other until February. He continued without a pause: "Is that something you're interested in?"
    Without answering, I walked over to the bar in our kitchen, where the Tennessee Williams flyer rested calmly. Don't miss the once in a lifetime theatrical event of the year, it said. Tennessee Williams in QUARTER TIME: from the works of Tennessee Williams; conceived and directed by John Dennis: The greatest scenes from America's greatest playwright. Presented by very special arrangement with the Tennessee Williams' estate: for tickets and information: (225) 578-3527 - www.swinepalace.org.
    "Yeah, that sounds pretty neat," I answered, still scanning over the dates. Feb 1 - Feb 19. "Hey, on February first there's no admission fee, only an optional donation."
    "That's good," my dad said from the couch. I almost asked him if mother had died today, or maybe it had been yesterday, because I don't give a damn if she did, but he probably had read too little of the book to understand my joke. Of course, it was hardly a joke.
    Out in my gravel driveway cast under light morning fog, the pale skylight scattered over the top of Daniel's Camry. Little birds clamored in the boughs above. Into the passenger seat I slid because he now gives me rides in the morning due to an embarrassing deer accident that had occurred still yet further into the blurry blurry past now leaving me. So I said to him:
    "Good morning. I'm going to a Tennessee Williams medley on February first. You want to come along?"
    "Good morning. No." He looked behind us and backed out into the buzzing street, shifting the Camry into drive. "I'm already going to that with the LSU scholarship thing."
    "Oh," I said.
    In the silence returned my latest dream, until then forgotten and stored away: then blurry blurry and called upon by name. In it I had run across an eternal beach bathed erotically in the moon's glow at night, chased without mercy by a momentuous gargantuan wave, which carried in one anthropomorphic hand a longsword. I wore sandals and rags and, stumbling to the ground, watched in awe as a quick amphetamine flood landed a watery gash across the land, cutting away an island: all perishing except for a third. I tripped once more, and sand crusted on the edge of my lip, and the longsword came closer and closer. Then my cellphone began to rattle and sing, whistling a little television commerical jingle; and I to see my day.

    While we walked away from the school some hours later, the firmament was filled with brightness and sunglow but remained devoid of clouds, cloudless. My cellphone hung heavy in my pocket, but dry were the tips of my hair, curling gently and russet, like a rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouching toward my crown to be borne.
    Surely some revelation is at hand. They will call my name, and I will answer them.
    "I still can't believe we don't have school tomorrow," Daniel said. "It seems like yesterday that Mrs. Breen told us about the newspaper convention."
    "Yeah," I replied. "It's wild."
    And I exhausted, scattered by the interminable day. I finally came to my familiar door again and turned the key to unlock it. My new puppy—unnamed as of yet—joined in chorus with my jack russel terrier Quincy to warn me against entering. But I did so anyway, and when I stepped through to the foyer, the two dogs leapt playfully onto my shins and, breathing hard, wagged their tails in excitement. From my backpack I took my literature book for English class and started on "The Bear" by William Faulkner, which I had read some time ago but recalled only as blurry blurry and leaving me: transient: fleeting. Finishing, I set the alarm clock on my cellphone for forty-five minutes and fell out of consciousness, into a dreamless sleep. Felt her breath.
    Sing sing. A little television commercial jingle. Whistled. Oh turn off, you. My anonymous female puppy lay curled in my lap. Little baby; little bird. Sleep sleep.
    Hours later, the telephone erupted in frantic yelling and screaming and shrieking. Pulled my blankets over my face and I waited for it to stop on its own: and after five ring-rings it did. A monotonous voice spoke out over the answering machine:
    "Herb. Hi, this is Mark Montgomery, your neighbor from across the street. The Broussard's told us you're the owner of a white himalayan cat. Well, this afternoon I found it dead in my garden. I'm sorry. If you'd like to pick it up, our address is . . ."
    Still lying on the couch, I coughed and pressed my head yet harder into the pillow, feeling so drowsy.
    When I was still six-years-old, my family had once huddled up in a closet during a heavy storm. At the center of us lay a fatigued cat named Sassy, who was nursing six red tingling invigorated kittens: I will turn my hand against the little ones. One, a little white himalayan, belonged exclusively to me, and for obvious reasons, I named it Stormy—so clever I was!

    Stormy died today, or maybe it was yesterday. He had been a nice cat, a good cat, a loyal cat, ubiquitous and comfortable and, all in all, a part of the scenery.
    I fell again asleep. Two-thirds shall be cut off and perish, and one-third shall be left alive.
    On the coffee table beside the couch, my cellphone rattled and sang and brought me back to consciousness this evening as the late dark yet hung in the window. Pulled my blankets over my face and I waited for it to stop on its own. But it went on to whistle a little television commercial jingle and would not stop whistling so my eyes opened coldly and my arm stretched out to it in frustration to kill it dead: sat up in my bed.
    I saw that my house lay in shambles: clothes scattered wildly all over the floor of the den, empty drinking glasses stacked high like Babel on every piece of furniture. Etc.
    As I stumbled up the stairs in my rags, my each exhaled breath whistled through my congested nose like the song of a little bird. I trudged tiredly and, tired, came in quarter time to the entrance of the upstairs bathroom. It felt heavy and immovable, and I struggled to twist the finicky brass knob for entirely too long before the door swung open. From within it, steamy air jetted out of the darkness and stopped me. The room felt hot—like a refinery for silver, a testing place for gold. I flipped on the light switch. Water poured out from the sink into my palms, which I tossed back onto my face; and looking into the mirror, into my reflection I did cough.
Musique actuelle: "Youth Oriented" by Happy Apple
Humeur actuelle: tired

10 jan 06 22:22

L I V E J O U R N A L   E N T R Y

Short beginning to a short story. Worth continuing? Frankly, I can't even tell. That's a bit pathetic of me, now isn't it? I have three submissions out right now, and am looking forward to the slew of new rejection letters to plaster all over my walls. Life might get hard for a while if something bad happens soon. But luck's usually on my side, isn't it? And on her side?
    Oh, you know how it goes. Here's the poorly formatted excerpt—for your reading pleasure:

It fell from the end of the little red stirring straw in droplets, the coffee, plunging into the void between Doctor Bernadette’s thin lips. His sharp teeth protruded like those of desperate wolves, in two lunging crescents from his mouth, and his white medical coat hung down to his calves. With listlessness he licked his lips. He set down the mug and turned to his patient, who sat, hands folded, on a bed across the room.

“Well, well, Mr. Tucker,” he said. “To me it looks like you’re almost completely recovered. Ready for the outside world again.” He smoothed back his hair and picked up the coffee mug again, taking a sip. “Are you?”

A river of black trickled down the doctor’s chin and mingled with his goatee. Just wipe it away already please, Tucker thought. Oh thank God. The patient looked at the faux marble tiles checkering the floor and clutched the mattress’ edge.

“Of course.”

“But that’s what they all say,” the doctor laughed. He cracked his knuckles and continued, resuming his air of professionalism. “In any case, you have less than two weeks. What do you plan to do once you leave? It’s been a while, hasn’t it? You’re coming on . . .” He mused over a clipboard on the counter. “Yes, coming on four years now.”

Don’t want me to leave, need the money for their clinic. Too hard finding more rich people to leach on. A bright orange envelope on his clipboard. From Karen, probably telling me to behave for the next twelve days. She could just stop paying. That would get them to let me go.

“I’m going to stay with my sister and mother until I can find work.”

“And once home, how soon do you intend to start looking for a job?”

“Immediately. I’m tired of being a parasite.”

Doctor Bernadette raised his eyes to him and set down the clipboard. Frowning, he turned to pick up his coffee mug. No, you damn idiot, don’t say that kind of thing. Sounds suspicious. Get the wrong idea about me.

“Mr. Tucker,” he said. “We’ve talked about this before, and frankly it worries me that you’d say such a thing. We both came to the conclusion that you are by no means a ‘parasite.’ In fact, —shit!”

His hand fumbled the mug as he lifted it, and scalding liquid spilled out onto his fleshy fingers. His hand pulled back in pain, and the mug flew loose, crashing to the floor. Bits and curves of opaque glass spilled out near Tucker’s bare feet, and a circle of dark brown seeped out over the tiles.

“My mistake, my mistake! Mr. Tucker I apologize . . .”

“It’s not a problem.”

“Not worth calling a nurse to clean it up, my mess, after all. Just give me a minute and everything’ll be spic and span again. Watch that glass there.”

Kneeling to the ground, he pulled his medical coat up away from the floor and corralled some of the larger shards into his palm. He took a hankerchief from his pocket and sponged at the coffee. Above him, the clock read six past noon.

Another late lunch. Who will bring me it, I wonder. Sara? Make it all worth the wait. With my luck, it won’t be her. More likely that old bitch . . . Wish he’d hurry and leave. Want to read Karen’s letter. Maybe she handwrote it. Lovely script. No one appreciates that sort of thing anymore.

Doctor Bernadette walked to the shelf to retrieve a small towel. Tucker glanced up at the sound of his footsteps and blinked.

“Could I have my letter while you’re up?”

“Sure, just one second,” he replied, going over to his clipboard. “Here you go.”

Already been opened, as always. Does Karen remember that they screen the letters? Never writes them personal anyway. Writes them consistently though. Better that way. To my dearest Jonathan, so anxious to have you home, so anxious. Very sorry to have to tell you like this, but Mom’s sick: cancer. O my God. You are a greater blessing than you could ever know. O my God. You can bring light into her life when there seems to be none left. Let her know her son as he truly is . . . Typed. Wanted it to appear more clinical and detached. Should’ve spilled coffee on the damn thing. Should’ve burned it when they screened it. Why would they let me see this? Ready for the outside world, don’t you remember? That’s what you told them.

“Doctor Bernadette, it’s horrible asking you this, but . . .”

“Anything, Mr. Tucker.”

“Can you let me be alone for a little while? I need some time.”

The doctor scratched his ear and shrugged. From the clock came the stentorian click of each second’s passing as he folded his handkerchief and laid the damp towel over the mess, wiped his hands on his dark khakis.

“Sure, no problem,” he said, rising to his feet. “Later I’ll send a nurse to finish cleaning this mess. Do you want me to tell her you’re skipping lunch? Sara should be getting here soon.”

“Sara? No, please. Lunch is okay.”

The doctor nodded and took his clipboard. His white medical coat flowed behind him, caught on the air, as he exited back into the loud, cacaphonous hall.


Musique actuelle: none
Humeur actuelle: none

30 déc 05 14:52 - ***stars((((((()clouds_______ice!

Today I simply cannot force myself to do anything constructive. Yvonne is finally coming back home from Colorado, and the excitement's keeping me from concentrating on important tasks and that sort of thing. And I wrote and read almost all day yesterday so somehow in my mind it's become okay to slouch around for maybe the next twenty-four hours. How pathetic! Anyway, instead I made custom Best Of playlists for a few of my favorite bands. My sincerest apologies for making two posts about music in a row, but yeah yeah yeah.
    Important
    &
   

( Velvet Underground, Beulah, The Beatles, Bob Dylan )
Musique actuelle: "Spirit" by The Clientele
Humeur actuelle: CHEERFUL

27 déc 05 00:37 - My Elitist Bullshit

    Pitchfork ranked Sufjan's Come On, Feel the Illinoise as the best album to come out in 2005, the absolute apex of this year's musical progress. Now consider these other records that were released in 2005: Feels by The Animal Collective, Self-titled by Broken Social Scene, Suspicious Activity? by The Bad Plus, Strange Geometry by The Clientele, Cripple Crow by Devendra Banhart, Everything Ecstatic by Four Tet, Alligator by The National, Chandeliers in the Savanna by Neon Blonde, Twin Cinema by The New Pornographers, Gimme Fiction by Spoon, The Peace Between Our Companies by Happy Apple, Lookaftering by Vashti Bunyan . . . and that list is off the top of my head. Yet Pitchfork Media chose to rank Sufjan's soporific bore-of-an-album as #1. Well fuck off, Pitchfork! Sufjan Stevens makes uninteresting music—he uses pathetic titles—he stretches the songs' arrangements.
    And his music isn't folk, goddammit!
Musique actuelle: "My Face Inside the Trees" by The Clientele
Humeur actuelle: Annual Let-Down

22 déc 05 14:28 - IN THE HATS

SOME RECENT OCCURENCES:

    What a show that was last night! Like a Cicero of the bass guitar, honestly. That shit was in the hats, as we had it.
    This morning rolling aside in my bed, I found a bobby pin. Finding things in my bed warms me; really, it does. Then guess what! Thirty minutes later or so, I turned over and pulled my little quilt-style-design blanket over my head, and lo and behold! my fountain pen was clinging to it by its precious little arrow clip. So after that godsend I just had to get up. A pleasant morning, indeed!
    Katherine went to Ledville, Colorado, because she needs to get away from me. For x-mas she bought me Ulysses by James Joyce. I bought her Tender Is the Night by F. Scott Fitzgerald because it reminds me of her. Mentioning that we both bought each other books makes me feel hokey. Eh eh eh.
    My exams all went splendidly except for world history honors. Might've failed that one for serious, oh the horror. . . .

RECENT RELEVANT QUOATATIONS:

    "Hmmm, shit, well . . . this is very very good. Much too good for someone your age."
    "I came back to read it again, and it struck me anew this morning. There are parts of this so brilliant that it makes me want to vomit."
            Yes, yes, I know. I'm perfect.
    "Payment is requested within 10 days; plus fines due. If not, PARISH ATTORNEY WILL BE NOTIFIED. . . . Total Owed: $48.45"
    "Good essays on the exam, too.  Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays…
   Peace,
   Mr. Eldringhoff"
  "He didn't tickle the ivories—he fucked 'em up!" (Daniel D.)
  "That shit's in the hats."

(curtain)
   
Humeur actuelle: Can't Think

14 déc 05 19:47 - exclamation marks

The Jones Creek Public Library has me for $48.50. And my daddy's a pilgrim.
Yet nothing is getting done!

(Oh and Blood Meridian by Cormac McCarthy was really great!)

4 déc 05 10:59 - THERE HAS BEEN A HIT AND RUN

BY THE SEXXXXY TRUCK

YOU'VE BEEN HIT BY THE



|^^^^^^^^^^^^| ,,
| SEXY TRUCK | '|""";.||.___.
|_..._...______==== _|__|..., ] |
"(@ )'(@ )""""*|(@ )(@ )*****(@)



ONCE YOU'VE BEEN HIT, YOU HAVE TO HIT 8 PEOPLE! IF YOU GET HIT AGAIN YOU'LL KNOW YOU'RE REALLY sexy! IF YOU BREAK THE cHAIN, YOULL BE CURSED WITH UN*SEXYNESS FOR 10 YEARS SO PASS IT HIT WHO EVER YOU THINK IS sexy
Musique actuelle: "Truckin'" by The Grateful Dead
Humeur actuelle: SeXy

30 nov 05 22:21 - visceral buzz

Oh wow,
oh my god wow.

28 nov 05 23:04 - I love you all!

It's been a while, so I think it's time for another poem.

The man I wish to be
Is named Sir Jeff-a-rey.
Brawny, beefy, and buff,
He tastes of sweety fluff.
Oh, how I do aspire
To have him light my fire.
One such day I shall be
Just like Sir Jeff-a-rey.
Musique actuelle: Somewhere Over the Rainbow
Humeur actuelle: giggly
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