Tuesday, November 22, 2011


Let's all together I'm sorry
Remove then the way it seems like ourselves
Talking about the then trying for left
Answer your way in the attack center of
Climb so much for never overthrow

Hell, what's the remember
Can't probably in the salt with
I'm coming over then have stamped
A kid with a end times holy right



Everything about this is wonderful:


Matthew Beard's book is out soon. Go to his Tumblr.


Recent tweets:

"Sort of a good news/bad news thing: I do not have pyrokinesis. #2hoursshoppingatIkea"

"Selling a jar of Sufjan Stevens' tears on eBay, but haven't met the minimum yet. Think maybe the market bottomed out 3 years ago."

"The Donkey Kong kill screen is actually an homage to the ending of 2001."

"I still like to imagine that the band Fishbone all live together in a haunted mansion on a hill."

"Hell is author people."

"Sometimes I think waitstaff will lean in and kiss my forehead when they hand me food, and then I feel disappointed."

Monday, August 08, 2011


Trouble is what it is. I think that. Like, once there was this guy who thought a lot was going right for him. Like, once that guy was moving in the right kind of direction, and moving in the right kind of direction made sense to him because he had himself access to this sort of inner wayfinder.

And he felt good about the inner wayfinder. It jazzed him up, and kept him moving and thinking all was okay and right with everything and, sure, he was going and moving and yes.

This all makes sense. Don't deny it. I know you are there claiming—at least internally or inside your head or two your spouse/partner—that this seems vague and, Hey Writer! Why all the sudden so vague?

All the sudden is what sticks with me. Like you and I have this longer-ish term relationship. It's not real, this longer-ish term relationship you think we're having. Not at all real. You are engaging with me and because I am a written series of words on a page, you are adding me to all the other written series's of words on pages that you have seen recently and also over the years. We are all rolling up together into a big ball in your mind that you are rolling around and around.

So, having all the way dispensed with that wierd whatever it is that is going on in your weird whatever head, I'll get back to my thing that I was saying before.

Wait. What was I saying before?



Monday, August 01, 2011


You should listen to that way too loud.


That song used to really scare me. When I was little.

Now I'm bigger and I decided to slow it down a little so it would scare me a little again. Just a little.

Little is known.

Little more is about.

Little is lots bigger than it appears.


Monday, July 18, 2011


Many of these appeared on Twitter late at night. I like them so I am putting them here, too:

Don Knotts walking down a long, empty hallway, one small tear hanging from his chin. #gustaveflaubert

Three chicken nuggets, on the floor, never ever to be picked up, even to be thrown away. #raymondcarver

You and I are in an Ultimate Frisbee game and there's a caribou running across the field. #tcboyle

The guy keeps digging and digging under his fingernails, and eventually he finds his mother's skin cells. #chuckpalahniuk

Words turned blue in a garment bag. #douglascoupland

"Pop Tart?" "No, I'm good." #flanneryoconnor

A horse backs up when a firecracker goes off and it steps on your toe and it breaks it. #markrichard

Everyone laughs when the ketchup bottle sputters. #davidsedaris

Certain the hitchhiker has a knife. Pick him up & figure if he pulls the knife, you are more than ready to drive into traffic. #barryhannah

Door's open. Walk through. Fall to your death. Turns out you forgot you were on a helicopter. #lydiadavis

Guy at a party talks bonobo sex lives and it's: interesting, boring, annoying, creepy, and then fucking fascinating again! #jonathanfranzen

Carpal tunnel syndrome from spending all summer practice-writing "Have a good summer," for next spring's yearbooks. #samlipsyte

(Fixed a couple of typos.)


TMWCB Classic

Pet (July '07)

We bought a dog made out of sand.

I know. Buying a dog made of sand. Bad idea.

We bought the dog made out of sand as a gift for our son.

I know. Having a child. Bad idea.

Our dog made out of sand liked to run in the backyard. And it howled at the squirrels in the trees. And it lounged on the couch next to anyone who lay down there. And it ate the dry kibble we fed it with enormous gusto.

In this way, our dog made out of sand was just like all the other dogs in the world.

We were unable to wash our dog made out of sand because when we did, we lost parts of him.

The first time we tried to wash him, we poured water over his paw and watched a bit of it melt away and spin down the bathtub drain. He walked with a limp until we went out to buy more sand from a hardware store and repaired the wound we had caused with water.

So we knew not to wash him ever again. And we never let him out in the rain.

When the rain came, our dog made out of sand howled at the sliding glass door. He wanted to go out. He wanted to run around in the rain and gallop through the wet grass. He wanted to roll in the puddles.

But we could not let him out. We did not want him to fall apart, piece by piece. We loved and wanted to protect our dog made out of sand.

Often, a story like this will end in a sad way. Often, a person who writes a story like this will decide that in the end, the dog made out of sand would somehow get out of the house in a rainstorm, and melt into the grass. There is a tradition in a story like this of sad endings.

One wonders, then, how I will end it.


This is my 4th favorite Tumblr.

There will soon maybe be an announcement about that guys Tumblr and something else.


Monday, July 11, 2011

Made you something

I practically made this for you.

I mean, I practically did. Practically.

I made this part of it first, and when I looked at it, I thought of you.

I thought of you. I did. I swear.

I made this long part next, and while I wasn't really thinking about you while doing it, I was thinking about someone you know. It connects this long part to you in that way.

I made the part with the stuff on it while I was drinking a soda. And you like soda a lot. You always seem to be drinking soda. White sodas. Cola sodas. Root beer sodas. Green lime sodas. You and the sodas. So when I made this part and soda was involved, man that certainly seems to connect it to you.

There was a part here that I ripped off and threw in the garbage. And the thing is, I threw it in your garbage can. Remember that thing in the garbage? The thing you asked about? And I was evasive? Makes sense now, right?

That part there was an accident. Look away from it when you look at this thing. Pretend its not there. That's what I've been doing. Doesn't take long to get used to it. It gets easier.

I was thinking of blogging about the process of making this thing. But. Can't.


I like Twitter. I really do.


I have a new CLVRSKLL column.

Tuesday, July 05, 2011

Napkin. (A Man Who Couldn't Blog Classic.)

from the early days, 8.26.05

It's very difficult to get a blog these days. They are scarce, rare as diamonds. And valuable. I would very much like to have a blog. On the blog I would blog. Every day I would sit down to blog on my blog. Yes, given the chance I would certainly love to verb on my noun.

But, alas.

I do not have a blog, because they are hard to find. You can't simply go online and sign up—free!—for a blog. What kind of a world would it be if you could, do you think? Pretty astonishing. It would be a wild and beautiful world if everyone of us could have a blog of our own. We'd all be so free and so very lucky if we could—every single one of us!—have a blog of our own.

But, alas.

I've no blog. Can't find one. Can't get one. And so, I write on napkins. Little, soiled napkins. I find them and I write on them. I write about how much I wish I could blog. I take soiled napkins from restaurants and bars and hotdog stands, and stick them in my pocket, and I bring them home with me. I take out a ballpoint pen, and I grab the napkins from the bottom of my pocket, and I write on them. And I take those napkins and drop them from my window. They fall into the alley behind my apartment. People pick them up and read them.

People like you. You standing there with this soiled napkin in your hand, reading.


Last night, I thought a lot about George Plympton. That's because last night was the night we in Seattle explode things in the air over water. And George Plympton—the great and powerful Plympton—loved more than most the act of exploding things in the air. (Sometimes over water.)

For George, here is a list of the fireworks in the Spinners, Wheels, and Wings category sold by Black Cat Fireworks:

4 Wheel Drive, Blow Your Top, Cat Eyes, Crackling Jumbo Ground Bloom, Disco Spinners, Dizzy Spell, Escape the Mothership, Extra Large Ground Bloom Flower, Green Hornet, Gyro Pyro, Hypno Spinner, Kamikaze, Solar Wind, Space Bugs, Spin City, Super Jumping Jacks, Surface to Air Missile, Tasmanian Devils, The Wacky Whistle Machine, Twister, Utter Chaos, Wailing Wheel, Wasp, Whirl Wind, Yellow Jacket.


Yes. I get to decide if something I wrote on this blog is a classic.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

this is goodbye or hello or something and i don't know what.


Friday, April 29, 2011

Running again

Hello again.

It's that time of year when I link to this story.

Which means it's that time of year when I ask if you might be able to donate a little money for breast cancer research. And to bribe you into giving money, I run a little.

But I know I do this every year. And because it keeps happening—and will keep happening for a while—I know you get a little fatigued by it.

So this year, let's have some additional bribes. Here's what we'll do.

I have a fairly small goal this year. $600. If I manage to make that goal, I'll go out with my Holgaroid:

and take a photo for everyone who donated. (And, as loathe as I am to do this, I'm going to ask that you at least donate $5 to be eligible. $5 is not bad, right?)

UPDATE : Due to film cost, though, I think I need to cap this to the first 12 donations. Sorry.

If I break $600—even by a dollar—I'll have a hardcover copy of A Jello Horse printed and everyone who donated will be entered into a drawing for it.

If I break $800, I'll have a hardcover copy of The Moon Tonight Feels My Revenge printed and everyone who donated will be entered into a drawing for it.

If I break $1000, after the 5K, I will run the additional 5 miles home.

(Friends—if you would like to offer to donate another prize for this, please drop me a line.)

I would not be a published author right now if it weren't for a specific person. That person died very young. Breast cancer. So, once a year, I run.


Tuesday, April 05, 2011


HOW WE WILL SLEEP (A Distribution of Duties) on Riley Michael Parker's HOUSEFIRE.


Keep tripping over it. You see it there? In the road? I keep running along and tripping over it. Jesus.

What was it, you think? Bird, maybe? Insect?

Probably this was once a houseplant, and someone just threw the fucker off of the roof, and it landed here, and it got run over, and here we are. Look, though? Is that green? Is that a leaf? Does it breathe? Are we standing in its light?

Does it need us? Can it vote? Might it fly a little? Will you break its back?

Am I tired? Is this me, all docile and free? Can the sky call? Can we save it?

Can we blog about it?


Blake's book is now for you.


I don't know what this is, but I think it might be important later.


Thursday, February 24, 2011


We trundle from place to place. Can you trundle? We can and must trundle.

From place to place.


To place.

Hi. So, then, when all is what is. Then what is what is?

Good question, Reginald! Good, good question.

Hark, and thus, such as we have been in and out respond a little til you think is all besides and haven't.

I'm not. I'm interested in and not. Return it. Reskin the fingers and reskin the toes. And stop with all the mess. And such.

Remove the fingers and remove the toes. Replace the fingers and replace the toes. Use pebbles. Use chicken fat. Respond in kind. Fall.

Are you falling now?


Trim a little farther away from. Stop the bottle up. Terminate.


I ♥ perspective!

Monday, February 07, 2011

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

books and stuff

Four Books You Should've Read Last Year But Can Read This Year If You Want:

The Orange Eats Creeps by Grace Krilanovich

Forecast by Shya Scanlon

The Ask by Sam Lipsyte

How They Were Found by Matt Bell

Those were four of my favorites. You should go read them now.


Hey, so maybe live a little worse, yeah? I'm not saying go out there and go nuts or nothing. I'm just saying living a little worse. A little worse. Not a lot worse. A little worse. Everyone's always on about living a little better. Being a little better. What about the worse? Why not live a little worse? Just a little, though. No need to get crazy on the thing. But, sure. A little worse.

Hey, so maybe live a little less, yeah? I'm not saying go out there and end yourself way too early or anything. A little less is all. Maybe instead of spending all your time drawing back the curtain like you do now, maybe cinch the curtain up a bit and use it to hide a little more. Maybe get a little smaller, life-wise. It's probably easier to do than you think. Live a little less. Just a little, though. No need to get crazy on the thing. But, sure. A little less.

Hey, so maybe learn to blog. I mean, I can't. But sure. You can.


Books I've Read This Year (Ongoing)

The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt
Toward You by Jim Krusoe

Monday, January 03, 2011

This is what the world will be like in 2011.

In 2011, I'll never make up the lyrics to songs on the elevator muzak stereo system, and when you are standing next to me, you won't be forced to drown out my singing lyrics to the songs on the elevator muzak stereo with wild, loud, intense gum chewing. This is one of the things I can promise you, world, about 2011.

In 2011, I'll never make risotto. Not once, not once, not once, not once. So I will never make a risotto where the rice is still not completely cooked. I won't do that because I won't even attempt the risotto in the first place. This, world, is one of the things I can promise you about 2011.

In 2011, I won't make you read a draft of some sort of poem that I have written that is about faulty brain chemistry. All my writing about faulty brain chemistry will be done in prose form. I will not even write about faulty brain chemistry in prose poetry form. This is my ironclad promise, world. This will not happen in 2011.

And that's it.

That's all I can promise.


I have twenty for thirty. Don't know about you. But if you've got thirty, I've got the twenty to return to you for it.

Hey, let's talk. Hey, let's get in touch about this later and some stuff.

Really, though. Hey, I've got twenty for thirty. You know?

Maybe you don't. See, and then once you do see, you don't see what you don't see. You only see what you do see.

And how limiting is that? Right?

Am I right?

Really. I'm wondering.

The comma or the period. I can't see the sentence for the punctuation, sometimes. It's all dash this and semicolon that. What good's to come of all this looking and looking and looking if the sentence gets lost in its stops and pauses?

That's what my priest says, anyway. That's what my priest tells me when I'm looking up at him over the edge of the silver dish.

Am I right?

Really. I just want to know.


Don't touch this man in 2011, you. Don't you dare do it. (You know who you are.)


Books I've Read This Year (Ongoing)

The Sisters Brothers by Patrick deWitt