Thursday, November 19, 2009

:) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :) :)


Friday, November 6, 2009


1. My father is a man with a scar on his forehead and a tattoo on his hand. He is a man with a mustache that drapes over my shoulders and down my back. My father is a man who is a man who is a ghost.

2. When I wake up my hair is wet and rain is blowing in through the window. I take all of my clothes off and build a small fire in my room, then I set my wet clothes on the burning tipi. I stay up all night planting a grove of vines near the door.

3. I take a walk with my father's ghost. We go to the park and feed the ducks. I get crumbs in his mustache and he wipes them off my shoulder. Thanks, I say.

4. I dream of Mountain standing in the middle of a great prairie. I watch black smoke curl around Mountain's summit. I decide to give the mountain a name. I name it Mountain.

5. The apartment is dark and cold. There is no light or heat. Ivy covers most of the windows and doors. I lay on the floor staring at my ceiling until vines overtake it.

6. My father's ghost knits his mustache into mine and we walk through the woods holding hands. I try to tell him about my dream but he isn't paying attention. He is busy shaking bird nests out of branches and collecting them in our mustache.

7. I find a washed out picture of my father where his eyes are small dark clouds. When I put the picture up to my ear I hear thunder. My father's ghost tells me that it's only the ocean. I clear some ivy and put his picture on the wall.

8. My father's ghost drops me off at my apartment. He tells me that I feel lonely again I can walk to the library, or read a book. Maybe finish proofreading that letter for him. I say okay and then go inside.

9. I attempt to grow a mustache of my own. A small ingrown hair occurs. When I pop it blood, pus, and mud come out. I experience a great deal of pain. I decide to give my mustache a name. I name it Must-Ache.

10. One afternoon I come home and my father's picture is missing. The wall behind the picture is bloody and pale like the skin under a band-aid. A small flower blooms from the center of the wound.

11. My father's ghost stops coming around. I find tiny mustache hairs in the sink. I open a window and burn incense and herbs to lure him back. I fall asleep with the smoke pouring out ribbons and strings.

12. I sit out in the balcony in my sleeping bag and smoke marijuana. I become a piece of paper blowing in the wind. A gust of wind swings me over the guardrail and I watch myself swoop in pendulums down to the street.

13. I fasten tiny scrolls onto pigeons with small lengths of vine. I watch them fly out over my town. The message I send is: I HAVE A BETTER MUSTACHE NOW. CAN YOU COME HOME PLEASE?

14. At my mother's tree house, she tells me I look like a picture. I always wear the same jacket. I tell her it's because I want to look like my father. I tell her it's because I want to look like a ghost.

15. That night I burn more sage and watch the embers drift up over the trees. I watch them until they begin to look like small and dying stars.

16. There is a thing that when I touch it, the thing becomes something else. Something that feels like I don't think or maybe I don't want. When I say it, the thing comes out like I don't know.

17. I decide to stop looking for my father's ghost. I do not understand. It all seems a shroud. A veil of bones. I feel like the time we tried to make bread and our yeast did not rise. I feel like a small and dense thing.

18. I separate the hairs of my mustache and examine my ingrown hair in the mirror. I notice a small flower blooming from the wound. I fold the skin over and tear it off.

29. I dream a succession of polaroids each showing Mountain as it falls to the ground. I watch Mountain's face crack, then split, then crumble. When I reach the last frame the picture turns to blood and falls through my hands.


Thursday, November 5, 2009


1. //\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\//\\

2. I make a home for myself beneath the branches. I watch a man hanging from them by his hair.

3. >>>>>>>>>>>>

4. In the grass, there is a snake. I can see it's copper head in the sun.

5. ############

6. We knit a matrix of tracks through her hair, then lie beneath them and watch trains barrel over our heads.


Wednesday, November 4, 2009


FENCES by ben brooks is a very beautiful and small book.

a few months ago he traded katie for a copy of Vega.

ben brooks is 17 years old.

there are some interesting interviews here and here.

now i am going to plant my feet into a soiled pot and stand in a public area and stand very still.