No Rules

•September 30, 2018 • Leave a Comment

It’s sometimes hard to remember that there are no rules. If I wanted to write about a chick (of the poultry variety) who staggered across a mescaline stash in the Sonoran Desert, pecked a prophetic mantis to death, then imbibed with locusts’ honey and sacred spring water (for €19.95) and saw the face of some wayward god gnawing on Shostakovich’s left ear while Anchises conducted Tilson Thomas’s orchestra of the moment to Balanchine choreography of Götterdämmerung in the key of B and Hart Crane proclaiming the end of times unincorporated by Superchunk, well: I can fucking do that.


•September 15, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Instagram can suck my… imagination, deploy! Hint: he’s judging you.

•September 13, 2018 • Leave a Comment

I’ve long felt a sort of kinship with John Cheever, for many reasons; reading Falconer, finally, serves to remind me that he worked with Carrara marble; I work with Mississippi mud at best. Rock River effluent most days. However, I was barely eight when the scum from Spring Creek, gurgling through concrete pipes that assumed mythical status then, to lead across rocks deemed ancient in our prepubescent authority to rocks speckled with fossils, the meaning of which we were discouraged to inquire after. At that age, everything of any significance comes from Middle Earth. Those lands were more real than our mundane little worlds.

A Hard Rain’s a-Gonna Fall.

•September 7, 2018 • Leave a Comment

The day is coming soon when to be anti-LGBTQ, anti-gender equality, anti-racial equality, ableism, ageism — any approach to the world that does not recognize the equality of all living things on the basis of their inherent characteristics, rather than the accidents of physical presentation — will be universally recognized with disgust and deserved ostracism. Not to support ostracism as a means of bullying, by any means, but if my Sioux-Mongolian non binary agricultural scientist significant other doesn’t deserve recognition equal to your Nantucket red Yale financier SAE, you’re automatically excluded from all tomorrow’s parties, with a “go fuck yourself” short snort. And by “all tomorrow’s parties,” I don’t mean Hamptons excursions — I mean influence and power (the same, in contemporary fuckonomics).

The wave coming isn’t the one Trumpistas are onanistic about.

Salad Days

•August 3, 2018 • Leave a Comment

Maybe it was seventeen years ago. I was running 140 kph on a limit of Perryville that was for no more than 104, windows down, “Wish You Were Here” blazing on the stereo of a silent car, out to Caledonia. But like the album, there was no joy in my heart; this was a belated farewell to a state I’d loved and lost. In a few months, I’d be in New Hampshire for gods know what. This space — openness onto nowhere in all directions was not theirs. The sun opened vistas of remarkable majesty, mingled with the distinct odor of freshly mown hay, cow and horse shit.

I believe it was around 13.00 when I thought, “maybe I should never leave.”


•July 25, 2018 • Leave a Comment

A: Um, I guess I could talk about how I’ve always thought of myself as a copy of a Giacometti that went horribly wrong, like probably when I was like 3 months old and didn’t have to shit, but wanted to use my special Oskar Matzerath I just took a shit cry to fuck with my mother or just to get her attention or to really fuck with her and make her worry I was Cri du Chat despite being chromosomally sound but make her worry that the genotype had somehow gotten mixed up. Not because I’d be aware of doing those things at three months old, but so that 32 years later I’d get paranoid wondering if that’s the kind of adult I’d become, without the capability of never knowing if I was the kind of three month old who’d do that kind of shit.

Lindt: We could. Is that something you’d like to talk about, Andrew?

A: Nah, I just wanted to fuck with you. Life is that kind of cactus sometimes.

A visit to a lake

•July 18, 2018 • Leave a Comment

When I was 11, my parents took my sister and I to Zion, Ill. to walk the white sands and enjoy the Midwest’s sea. In preparation for a beach visit, I tried to lose weight. I quickly learned that’s not possible in a 24-hr frame. So I resorted to reading. “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” and on the way and at the lake, “Hamlet.” It’s cliché to say it, but that changed my life. I realized what transformative literature, what books could be and do. I don’t remember that beach or that crystalline lake. I remember those books, as I was never the same.

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