Maybe I judged

Ke$ha too harshly.
"Dancing with tears in my eyes"
is a track where you actually hear
an un-autotuned Kesha, and
even though its supposed to be about
a boyfriend that dumped her (right?)
it feels like its about something else
entirely.

"on the floor im just a zombie
who i am is not who i wanna be
i'm such a tradegy
with every move i die"

girl's got a problem.
and she knows it.
and maybe she's a little bit pathetic,
but I am too sometimes.

next toast is for Kesha,
for at least trying to fil the void
somehow.
just hoping that maybe fame doesn't make it worse.

dont have

a lot of pictures because
I don't feel the need
to meticulously document
my existence.

take a look at those albums -
it's just the same photo,
over and over.
switch out one face
and replace with another.
same pose
same girl
same red cups
pride.


who are these memories for?


before us, they held a
handkerchief in their hands
to remind them of a lover
in the war.

we just click through
200 photos of us
kissing the boy
down the street.

if everyone else continues to propel
what if i want to jump off the ship?

in a long time

tell me could i 
bust your myths,
write your scripts,
steal all the most inspiring lines
right off your lips.

we are but ribs
from hardened flesh

rustling with sounds
of cracking necks.

tell me something honest;
something i dont want to hear.
wounds cried bloodless
like i cried tears.

if time took everything,
what could be left?
anything would rattle
inside an empty chest.


so we never danced.
i never sang either,
but we crawled on our knees,
ignored the nice weather.

simple as fuck,
you gave me that much.
but hollow like ashtrays
we no longer touch.

Fresh off the streets of Philadelphia

When art becomes work,
it's not art anymore.


I could spend my life
complaining that no one will ever
understand me,
or I could make them
understand me.

so God damn true

"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely. We write as the birds sing, as the primitives dance their rituals. If you do not breathe through writing, if you do not cry out in writing, or sing in writing, then don’t write, because our culture has no use for it. When I don’t write, I feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."

do the Snookie "waaah"

i just found this incredible website
that shows you 365 things you can do
that you've never done before.

I want to do all of them so much,
I wish I could speed up my own
12 months, 12 tasks list.
Idk, maybe in 2011,
I'll get ambitious and do a full
365 days, 365 tasks.
aren't we all gonna die in 2012 anyways?
better late than never.

fucking ridiculous

[23:48] ImJoeDenney: wow and fallout boy
[23:48] ImJoeDenney: shudder 
[23:49] tentacles4arms: right? and ed hardy, who ruined tigers for everyone. 
[23:49] ImJoeDenney: were going dowwwwn dowwwwwwn with my lvl 9 elf, and sugar were going down swinging (at other dudes who wear ed hardy cuz we all ultimate fight, bro) 
[23:49] tentacles4arms: hahahahaha
[23:50] ImJoeDenney: the ruined tigers line was not lost on me 
[23:50] ImJoeDenney: i chuckled

so a slave and his master walk into a bar

[22:31] ImJoeDenney: i am an island 
[22:31] ImJoeDenney: impossible to love 
[22:31] ImJoeDenney: (the island in this metaphor is africa) 
[22:31] tentacles4arms: i hear islands are great vacation spots
 [22:32] tentacles4arms: if you are africa then im on board 
[22:32] ImJoeDenney: on board a slave ship, amirite?!
 [22:32] tentacles4arms: AMISTAD MOTHERFUCKER
[22:33] tentacles4arms: im just looking for the Thomas Jefferson to my Sally
 [22:34] tentacles4arms: tis all 
[22:34] ImJoeDenney: if you will sire my bastards, i will grant you access to the east wing, where no colored hath ventured before 
[22:35] tentacles4arms: OH BOY
 [22:35] tentacles4arms: Mr. Jefferson, youre too kind
 [22:35] ImJoeDenney: now sally, dont cause a fuss, back to the kitchen 
[22:36] tentacles4arms: yessuh massah

I read this status on facebook today

 "so my gf is a keeper. we went to a kegger,
and every chance she saw that i was running
more than half a cup of beer, she would
yank that shit and fill it up.
and it dosent help that she went undefeated
at pong with bree. now thats marrige material.
and she tells people to drive off cliffs"


so your standards are that she
must be an alcoholic, and more
than eager to indulge your own
alcoholism?
I don't want to give a
"what is this world coming to" speech,
but good luck buddy.
Hopefully you guys can get adjoining rooms
at the methadone clinic somewhere
down the road.

Can I have an entire blog devoted to my sweater collection?

Or would that just be overdoing it?
My sweaters are my most prized
possessions - I'm never gonna
give them up: Rick Astley style.

Maury, love of my life

I wrote this at the request of DJ,
for the W&M music mag, Vinyl Tap.

As the unofficial king of low-rate television,
Maury Povich wears his crown with the sort of grace
that could only be exhibited by a man that has
seen the results of one paternity test too many.
And yet, his poker face is still incredibly strong,
even after all these years; he’s not
giving anything up until the results are revealed.
But for those of us that are slightly more impatient,
here are the top five tell-tale signs of the dreaded -
NOT THE FATHER.

5. The baby is named after the man in question.

 If his name is Jaykwon, and some girl on his block
claims he’s the daddy of little baby Jaykwonda, rest assured,
he is NOT THE FATHER.

4. The baby doesn’t look like a carbon copy 
of the man her mother slept with.

Everyone knows that regardless of their gender,
babies always come out looking identical to their father.
So if baby Diandra doesn’t have Carlos’ trademark earlobes,
then I’m sorry, he’s just NOT THE FATHER.

3. There are more than 3 men being tested.

Chances are, if you can’t narrow the count down
to at least 2, then a couple probably slipped in
when you weren’t looking. Therefore, all the men
being tested today are NOT THE FATHER.

2. Upon arriving onstage, the man grabs his chair 
and sets it next to the stairs.

The further the guests sit from each other,
the lower the probability that the results will
prove his paternity, it’s a proven fact.
Also, watch how he sits down –
if he’s up on the balls of his feet the whole time,
it means he’s more than ready to spring
from his seat and execute the classic Maury victory dance.
Much like an endzone dance, this is beautiful display of joy.

And lastly, number one:

1. If the mother is more than 
100% sure of the man’s paternity

Paternity results in a baby mama’s mind tend to
defy the laws of mathematics.
A common statement heard in these cases is
“I’m 120% sure, Maury!” or
“I know who my baby’s daddy is, I’m 1000% positive!”
Extensive research has shown however, that
these numbers are often inaccurate, and implausible.
Divide her percentage by 10, and you’ll get
the number of men that really should be tested
in order to provide conclusive paternity.
In the meantime, feel free to take a bathroom break,
because once you get past one hundred,
he is NOT THE FATHER.

Finally nice

to be writing stuff I like again.

Barnacles

So now we sit, barely exist
in the trenches of "what if?"

Like some demented function
Like a poem without meaning

Like some witless bag of dirt
by the side of the road
writhing in a pain you
can no longer see
we are

drifting apart,
without boats,
without oceans,
nearly breaking our own necks
with the sounds of you
walking out that door
this fucking
stillborn ship,
never sailed due south
until i passed the captain's cap
to you.
you failed me at seaside
left my bones ashore
gangrene rotted
pale grave skin
braided filthy
at your door.