john mayer is a FUCKING POET

in lieu of a post of my own, i'd like to post something by John Mayer. before you make fun of me, let me say this: yes, his pop music is uck, for the most part, but the man can SHRED some blues guitar. and he's a little crazy. and for these reasons, i love him.

that being said, he wrote something the other day that caused our managing editor to rain down fire and brimstone on the newsroom Friday morning. "I WILL FIRE EVERY SINGLE EDITOR IF THIS CONTINUES. THINGS ARE GOING TO CHANGE AROUND HERE," he threatened.

Was he serious? Would he really fire his entire overworked, underpaid (not to mention: loyal!) editorial staff? I doubt it. however, you ought to read what john mayer said to provoke this.

JOHN MAYER IS A FUCKING POET (link)

why is it that only girls get to lay there motionless during sex

why is it that only girls get to lay there motionless during sex

we men want to be afforded that same right

the distance gained

the breaking of waves on shore, heard from afar, uncaring

we want our feelings to act on us like we were somebody else, too

on our back like it rested in a grassland with wind, close to the ground,

our hair tucked behind our ears

wind shushing with the nervousness of a boy who shushes for the first time

yesterday I woke with a start from a dream. I couldn’t remember the eye color of any girl I’ve ever dated. where have I been looking, all this time, all this time, if not there.

Early Adventures in Page 220 - A Corrupt Text

twice he came to what might have been a turning point in his career [...] If she isn't chasing diamond, she is seeking solace in booze or blow.But maria said she didn't like nuts and they weren't to bother about her. In their forty eight hours of unwanted reprieve the men had more time to ready themselves. The patriarch doesn't seem to share the Church's long-standing suspicion of the theatre, as a temple of disorder and dangerous suggestion.

An Arrangement of Words Took From a Green Stickie, a Red One

Quick

She nicknamed him

Like eggs, and

My relationships with the dullest of blades.

Let's make

to finish

I sever

Scramble!

Because he was

Megaupload.com

Megaupload.com

Megaupload.com

"Instant gratification"

The Train

A mother brought her young son aboard the train. They got on at Ravinia, the southernmost stop in Highland Park, and got off at the uptown Highland Park stop, just one stop later. It was the child's first train ride, the mother told the passengers around them. One stop. Like wading slowly into cold water. The train is fun, the mother wanted her child to know. It is not scary or dangerous, though it is big and it is to be given a wide berth. You must exercise caution. But then it's fun. They rode the train for about four minutes, and then they departed. It was almost lunchtime; I bet they ate something soon thereafter.

I think this is the wrong approach to parenting. I think a child's first train ride should be a long one, at least an hour long, maybe more. Possibly Transiberian. At least to the city proper. Take the child to the downtown station. A train can still be a heroic thing, a fantastic journey. Don't take your kid on a five minute train ride and ruin the possibility for exoticism in daily life. There are only so many opportunities. Don't make everything so safe that adventure lasts all of five minutes and ends in chicken fingers. Don't ruin the train. The train will ruin itself years later, when the child is broke and the summer is hot and there is no car to take to and from his old job in the suburbs. The train will ruin itself. Let the train be an adventure; create a memory for that child. It's one of the many things wrong with overly cautious parenting. The toddler now owns the train. He owns it. It can never hurt him. Let the train own the toddler, let him build it up. Boys must idolize the big parts of the world around them. It is in their nature. It is part of boyhood. If they don't idolize the trains, if they don't respect them, they grow borderless. Boys are expansive. They will fill the space you afford them. Fear and admiration. Let the boy see the world, like a gleaming ornament from afar, but do not let him hold it in his little hand.

let there be lightheartedness!

i saw you in my house last night.
woke up with a two-day hangover,
and there you were,
sitting on the edge of the bed.

your naked back was to me,
and your ass pressed into the memory foam.
i mumbled your name and reached,
but i couldn't get to you.

son of a bitch, will you stop this haunt?
i bet if you came to me in the daytime,
i'd laugh at how your hairline, waistline changed:
less of this, more of that, perhaps.

i might slap you once for all the things we never said.
then again, i might buy you a shot and tell you
i'm trying to forget. but i'll give you tequila
because i remember how you hate it.

you outta know i loathe to wake and find you in the dark.
next time you sneak in and ruin my sleep,
i'll roll over and pretend you're not there,
the way i did the last time i saw you in the light.

(anyway, i can't trust a man who won't drink tequila)

by the way, the huffpost front page features a huge splash about the 2 upcoming gay marriage cases. The headline reads: DOUBLE RAINBOW! haha.

That Morning

"That morning she pours Teacher's over my belly and licks it off. That afternoon she tries to jump out the window.

I go, 'Holly, this can't continue. This has got to stop.'"

- Raymond Carver, "Gazebo"

Forty Flosser

Ironically, Catharine, I was just about to put this up when I saw your entreaty. Whoopsies. Maybe we'll see Israel tomorrow.

He’d quit at it so long ago that it’d almost been the beginning, age seven, not even a person. Almost as though he’d never started, and it felt that way now – like he’d never started. His hands shook because he knew there would be blood. Blood was to be expected. Blood like from an operation, not buckets but drops soaked into gauze, not all the way red but orangey at its edges on the gauze and thin as hot oil. His hands shook. And his jaw hurt, already, from stretching open that way, at such a forgotten angle, rearing to clamp.

He fit the twine into the dark spot between his front teeth, snuck it up into the gum, slipped it to and fro. He winced. With your face already contorted and reared back and spread, you can only see yourself wince in your eyes, which quake and howl. You can’t see yourself bleeding; you taste it. He pulled out the twine and spat into the sink. He reinserted the twine. He worked his way down the top row of teeth, slowly, casually, each tooth further removed from the first a greater obstacle than the last, more blood, a pervasive soreness throughout the mouth, harder to wedge the cut up piece of dental floss up into those long-neglected crevices. He was crying softly. At forty. Am I crying? He wondered. Will this be the start of it? I’ve had so much to cry about, so very much to cry about, and it’s never come. And now I’m crying because of sore gums and the sight of a little blood spat in the sink. Still, I’d prefer pain to soreness.

Will this be the start of it? Am I crying?

He got hot, then, that he was crying, hot at this rebuilding process with its simple-sounding first-step that hurt to the touch. It gets better, he knew. Two weeks from now there would be no blood, and the teeth would feel good and strong, and the gums pink and virile. It really would. He knew it.

He threw the tin of floss into the garbage. He hadn’t flossed his bottoms. He caught his face in the mirror. He saw some of the blood.

here's lookin' at you, kid

jon, your posts are making me sad.

i wish i could be there to drink with you. but i'm not, so how's this instead: tell us a story about israel? something that begins in the wide-open day-desert heat and ends in the close coolness at night.

if that makes you feel worse, then--fuck it--i prescribe the following: popov vodka and elliot smith.

in the dark, obviously.

Traditional Irish Ballad #3

sectional

yet


lectrical

plutarch

is

phleschy

sections

are pensive

penicillin
is making me puke

(not really tho')

get an emphasis
and

rely on it

sing my sigma

and pestle my mortar

sweep some stakes

and go to the hospital

to collect your winnings

instead i got high

it'd be funny if, like, deer, for instance, as an example, watched videos of other deer fucking, and then, like, deer-masturbated to the videos. really puts things into perspective, no?

without you, definitely without you

i am literally seconds away from listening to joshua tree alone in the dark

then i'm gonna read some raymond carver short stories

then i'm gonna drink

then i'm gonna give myself away

and i'll give

and i'll give

and i'll give myself away