Unpleasant Event Schedule Poem

Today one of my poems is here: http://www.unpleasanteventschedule.com/ Thank you Dan for publishing it; it looks cool!

50 Love Poems Chapbook

I've printed out a limited number of copies of my chapbook, "50 Love Poems," that I'm selling. I could tell you all kinds of great things about the book, and that you could spend $7 on other products that wouldn't be as lasting, but I'll let a few poems below speak for themselves. I will also write you a unique four line love poem that will be yours alone on each book. If you're interesting in buying one, please e-mail me at floatnotswim@gmail.com for more purchasing information. (My printer/designer: www.BookWyrmsArt.com) I Every rock show I’m standing alone by the bar, sipping a cheap beer, kissing goodbye to all the dollars in my pocket. The bands might be surprised, though, if you slipped behind me and wrapped soft arms around my hyperventilating chest. They might stop playing, throw a spotlight on us, and dedicate a new song to our love, made up then and there as if we telegraphed words and music through the way we touched beneath blinking string lights. We’d dance past concert posters and paintings of skulls on the wall. We’d rub our nose rings like Gothic Eskimos. The punk rock girls would catch the bouquet of thorns. Security would escort us. Upheld lighters would guide our way. VI After leaving your place the world became a living cartoon, serenading birds flapping on my shoulder, pesky bunnies so happy they make everyone sick. When the super-heroes arrive they ask me to rescue you from your ex-boyfriend who wants to destroy the new universe and put the rundown dump back in its place. I try to use my kill-asshole-laser-beams, but he has a bigger-than-you-force field and the Hall of Beer is broken apart, the girl’s disappeared amidst the fray. For whistling squirrels and your safe return I’d let him escape, fight evil another day.

You Are Boring

You are boring. The world is grateful. It doesn't have to listen to you. It doesn't have to pay for your chapbook. It doesn't need to pretend your readings are interesting. Yes, you can just go to sleep now. In those dreams you aren't dull. You aren't sitting in your chair typing these words. You aren't scratching your nose or ass or both. You aren't thinking of making love with someone who'd be embarrassed about these thoughts being shared with the public. You aren't really anything, you're a figment and an angel, and that's when you're really real.

Damnation

As he walks through hell's gates, he can't believe all the stories were true. Pots of boiling water, lava, excrement, devils with pitchforks, people yelling for help -- all real as can be. He could have attended church more often, not embezzled money from the company, saved his friend who "accidentally" drowned. Sure, there were all kinds of things he could have done to prevent the eternal torment to come. Except, he knew he was just too lazy. He'd promised himself over and over he'd be a better person, but when push came to shove his fellow co-worker in front of his boss' rampaging train, he couldn't help giving the necessary tap in the back. To do the right thing he would've had to stand in front of a million locomotives, smoked last cigarettes for tons of firing squads. He's not totally unhappy, now, though. Despite being astounded by Hades' existence, he'll submit pretty willingly to the torture, like a dish soaking in hot water. The alternative, to believe he was suffering for a reason, one he had to rectify, would be worse than the pain.

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Top Story: I'm Not God

"Some of the biggest cases of mistaken identity are among intellectuals who have trouble remembering that they are not God." -- Thomas Sowell My friends told me I wasn't God, and I was very disappointed. I used to think the sun rose because I willed it, but now I understand it's a result of the solar system operating like normal. My car doesn't run on magic sparkle dust I sprinkle on its wheels. That's why I have to pay for gas, I thought it was performance art, a pantomime of what other people have to do. Co-workers don't speak the dialogue I've written in my mind; they are autonomous beings with their own desires and personalities. Even sleep isn't in my control. When I dream it isn't a fantasy where I only pretend to be subjected to anxieties and fears: my boss giving me work I can't handle, donut cream bursting from my expanding stomach, a hotel clerk forcing me to climb to the highest floor of the building. Instead, it's a random collection of images from the waking world, melded into true nightmares. Now I wonder who God is and where he's hiding. I check the seat cushions, question everyone I know. I look into the clouds. I inspect the stars.

National Character Writing Month: A

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Bad Dream or My Life

Every morning someone wakes up screaming and I disappear.

I Write Bad Poetry

From CNN's/Sports Illustrated's Web site, by Kelly Dwyer: "Washington wrapped up a disappointing season with a seven-point loss to the Cavaliers on Monday, a four-game playoff sweep that revealed next to nothing about these Wizards. With the team's two-best players on the pine, all we learned in four losses to the Cavs was that Antonio Daniels never turns the ball over (that's been apparent since 2001), Antawn Jamison can score with the best of them (you don't say?), and that this team's big men just can't be trusted to do anything besides get in fights and write bad poetry (assuming that there's such a thing as good poetry, of course). " Shall we be mocked, or shall we send Mr. Dwyer some bad poetry (which is apparently all poetry)?