Where were the young men?

Where were the young men with their heads dipped into books
the day the ponds flooded over?
Onto the streets the homeless took apart their can
collections and cut them into tin canoes
that floated down the streaming gutters all rainbow-dinge and gasoline.
No one really knew what to make of the whole scene,
as there was something hauntingly apocalyptic
yet beautifully ephemeral about this particular puddle.

No thoughts, no words cross the young men's minds.
Just images within ink characters. When they read
an individual page they found a year's worth of art
in the font's shape and the typewriter's ink ribbon dust stamped.
There was nobody but the homeless outside,
the rest had aligned
themselves along the street in the huts and
staircase'd closed-door victorian-imitation 1980s-style mid-level cost-friendly
inauthentic
but truly empty wallet homes.

Strung Out in Heavens High

Hey guys, What’s up? Blake Carlson here, checking up on ol’ Blogopolis. It’s sometime, in the getting late afternoon, and I just found a beer with head still in it. Well, it’s been open for about twelve hours now, but it’s alright and I’m going to suck it down while I write this to you readers out in interspace

I saw Spoon the other day. And the Walkmen. That band is so bad. How can anyone stomach that shit? Have you heard them? Have you seen them live? Lead singer has a guitar, at the show, plays it like four times. The rest of the show, that shit is just strapped to his back to make him look chic. Also, the dudes are like fifty, or something dinosaur like that. Spoon though, sugarcoated concert viewing bullshit. Britt Daniels wails, but seriously, that dude just stands there, sings his smug ass songs, wears glasses, and walks off stage. If I wanted to hear exactly how Spoon sounded on album, I would listen to their album and cut myself, not go out in a crowd filled with people wearing north face, who are giggling constantly mind you, and stare as a collective body at a band who just demands their MTV. Thoughts? Anyone seen them live? Cause really, they are the shit pits, man. Let’s talk about it.

Saw Vampire Hands last night at some baller art space. That was pretty decent. Those guys are face melting, I tell ya, just skeletal shit, you know? Oh god I just had some of that beer I found, that shit is flat and warm. Gads. But yeah, dancing in public. Pretty fun concept. Not at a Spoon show though, let me tell ya, stay at home and write ur shitcan poetry, do not see these guys live, it’s like watching a never ending episode of the O.C. where, instead of people punching people (which is awesome), kids are happily socking themselves in the face (which I guess is sort of also awesome).

Does anyone like Hall and Oats? I’ve got Rich Girl cemented in my head right now. That shit is hot!

Also, shout out to my buddies in Portland. Been thinking bout dat place and it has left this surreal imprint on my mind. Those rose tree things still hanging out? Vamp Hands coming ur way and Will, are you not playing a show with them? Oh yeah, with that Booze Howl (tight name btw). I’m glad I’m from the Midwest and not that far out there west coast. Those people are Kentucky Fried Crazy and so far from Kentucky.

I miss hanging around ur guyses couch. Did I tell you I watched three OnDemand movies in fast forward? One of those was American Psycho 2 and that was so terrible. Actually, I don’t even need to write about it. Look at a blank piece of paper and imagine that’s how the movie makes you feel. But not inspiring or anything, just void and blank and well, like a retarded person.

I propose we have a community discussion regarding Dan Bejar’s lyricism in “Foam Hands.” Lyrics open for interpretation…

1. “I didn’t know what time it was at all.”
2. “Since you’ve been gone, me and the King have been steadily growing apart. He lives down the hall.”
3. See # 1.
4. “Foam Hands.”

Questions to ask oneself while listening to song…

“Why did he write this song?”
“Why are whistle choruses fucking rad?”
“Who is the King and why does/did he live down the hall?”
“Introducing Angels?”
“Why didn’t he know what time it was, at all?”

Well, that’s about it for now. Here’s a message from the action man…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r44OFO-MNPo

Ima go comb my hair, dog.

Sit Down, Children, Sit Down

You’re just in time! All day sounds from
The White City’s streets litter spring scenes
Like gum stains stuck to sidewalks asleep
With black pavemented dreams. Never to
Be wakened. Never to be disturbed

While trains billow by like a jet’s sonic
Boom circa 1948. Nuclear weapon drills
Remember kids under seats. “Duck
And cover” translates to the image, the
Horror, of dust all over everything…

Because that’s all there is going to be
Lincoln Park and its intercity elementary
Dust all over
Mayors dealing daily with corruption and
Posh aldermen
Duck and cover an inefficient postal service
And Segway
Driving CPD dust all over flighty businesses
And Civilians
In dire need of self-medicated sleep duck
And…

Garbage trucks and sixteen wheelers
As 21^st century tombs embalmed in
Filth by means of crisply baked bones
Speckled white left sparkling like

Diamonds setting foot on
Ancient Cambodian clay-

more mines.

A piece and a response

Do we really have anything?
(unreadable)
What on earth was the last
thing you actually had?
A book in your hands that you never finish.
Then they'll say upon last respects:
"What a hackneyed writer!"

- - - -

A note on last night's writing:
I can not
read that shit.
Must have been too drunk on
gin
tequila
beer
and red wine
(not to forget
whiskey,
though every time it seems I do),
to have that
right handed release.

We Were Drinking and Alex E, Please. This Was a Bet We Wrote Listening to Franz Liszt

Alright so I’m this person

I’m this something

Hello, I am everything and my name is Greggory. Perhaps you’ve read something of mine once or twice but that breeze you feel on your legs or that fucking shiver on your spine, that’s me. Greggory Jones. I’ve had business before with you people. Like you I like expensive things. Have you been to the new Crate and Barrel outlet on Clybourne? The one by Sheffield and whatever the fuck happens in Lincoln park.

Well I have been there. It’s a downright terrible place and everyone knows it. I can’t even bother to pass the village without a fake smile and a raised eyebrow. The things I pass you wouldn’t believe. Take, for example, the corners of streets that fill themselves with bricks shale and cold. Their doors open and close for the privileged who deem it necessary to create a world where the only existence is themselves and their cars. Which I’ve been in, by the way. I’ve traveled all over this god forsaken city and I get real sick of it.

So when I do drive
On the highway
And get sick
Of the other motorists
I sit and think
About what makes
These people
These drivers
Human made
Like machines
Sick with the

Fits

So hi hi hi. Friend in the privileged minivan, how do you feel? I’ve been in your car and I’ve felt all of its everything and you know what I don’t really give a

Something something edited welcome to the city. Glad to you have you here.

Glad you’ve been guiding us this entire time. It’s hard to talk to anyone else about this kind of thing, especially knowing that it could be much worse. I could be in a stack of the most flammable trees, searching for the next window frame for which I could conform. So easily I would burn. The fire and the signals ever present as my guide.

Sigh
And agree

Lets bleed this
Hey, Alex, let’s live this
Welcome to the future
Welcome to everything.

Cause progress
Does not wait for
Time moves slow
And patient in the

Middle western states.