http://etherealcowry.tumblr.com/

Gnawing grooves speak to Pores in the phone Like pores in the feel For non-alliterated fragments for...

Fri, 05 Aug 2011 20:33:27 -0600

Gnawing grooves speak to

Pores in the phone

Like pores in the feel

For non-alliterated fragments for the fragments of the literate

A burn too easy to fuel, too easy to remember to need

On a foggy, dry dusk of an accidental morning

We can mourn the night we lost, even when the short hands go forward

Bouncing from a Spring that feels more like an Autumn with your eyes closed

Snow-drenched clothes on a mattress, stabbing

Modern Version

Wed, 13 Jul 2011 23:53:00 -0600

Shock and awe: Post 9-11 selflessness (it’s not about that; don’t get distracted). You recline so casually as if the world is finally content—as if the kingdom is distant—as if it leaves a stale taste in my mouth. Everyone has a scowl that they’re saving for a complain-y day, but let me tell you: my internal organs are colder than they claim to be. Shushing and sighing; you won’t hear any of it and you won’t get out of this stress-free, literal mise-en-scene. Ignorance is bliss-tering; a dumbed-down sting that has me reminiscing in such a way that I convince myself that the world would be a better place if we were all born with driver’s licenses and eligibility for the draft—whichever comes first. Ignore that last statement and hiss at your sister as a metaphor for the Garden of Eden, but promise me that you will remember later that some profound thoughts just end up sounding like a drunken stream-of-consciousness. Meanwhile, out the window, dirty lawns, if they’re watered enough, double as Jacuzzis on cold summer days—but in November, we will cleanly commence our pagan pilgrimage and shock the tattooed Christians: I’m taking off my t-shirt, you’re putting on your sweater, but goddammit, we’re so fucking earnest about it! We can’t move to England until we fully understand their celebrations; do they frown on encyclopedia usage? Dear lord, give our tired minds a rest! Curtained efficiency gives us the potential to fall asleep; oh, the noise of the unwelcome socialites that we continue to re-analyze! That reminds me: Ansel Adams once took a photograph of a pre-pubescent sunrise, resenting the moon for being too strict in the way she raised him (it’s a rare piece—you wouldn’t understand). You have a bible too? What does that tell me about you? Did you know that on the eighth day, It created a self-deprecation that reminded It of all the things It loves about Itself?

You are welcome. Make yourself at home.

I guess Anonymous ran out of questions.

Thu, 28 Apr 2011 17:17:25 -0600

I just want you to know that I really enjoyed your poem, “Footprints” and your book, Go Ask Alice.

Title

Tue, 26 Apr 2011 07:32:00 -0600

I’m building a paper crane on my chest today.

I feel stronger (back to the “normal”, neutral feeling) than I have in a week. Tonight, I just want to watch zombie films and feed my overwhelming amount of vegetables to those closest to me. I can’t believe I have eggplant; something to be excited about, I think. I’m still going to listen to Mono and Slowdive constantly, but my eyes feel dry, and I’m grateful for that.

Once the people fizzled out of the PAGAN service, I could embrace those as close to him and feel this everlasting comfort. He gave me so many new friends this week, and there is no way I can ever feel alone again.

I miss you, my very best friend, Jeremy Daniel Stewart—the most caring and personally-helpful man I ever met; a true example of evident love.

do you have any fetishes?

Mon, 25 Apr 2011 12:00:25 -0600

When a girl shits while I’m taking a shower.

I think we’re gonna be great friends, Anonymous.

describe your perfect morning, day, and night

Mon, 25 Apr 2011 10:52:13 -0600

Morning:

Wake up to sunlight blocked out by dark plaid sheets covering the windows; reach over to find my at-least-half-naked muse; grunt, mumble, no clear words until I smoke a cigarette; stumble to the kitchen to brew some Cafe du Monde and return, two mugs in hand, to the perfect smiling face; brush teeth and read in bed until it makes us tired again and have a pathetically dependent cuddle until I am told to stop.

Day:

Skip work to swim in a natural water; buy too much food, never once counting my money; hold a head in my lap/lie my head in a lap and underline my favorite parts of the works of female novelists; listen to the same album over and over until I am sick of it for the day.

Night:

Early sunset; a glass of red wine and a fresh pack of cigarettes; try to be even more awake than I was in the morning or day; ignore everyone except for a handful (not the size of my hand, just five or less); write some bullshit that I’ll end up hating later, but enjoy at the moment; open and close my eyes to something that requires no attention, like a series of Brakhage films or a few episodes of Beavis and Butt Head (the complete spectrum); fall asleep to my head being scratched, subconsciously smiling.

what happened to Lucy Liu's career?

Mon, 25 Apr 2011 10:40:39 -0600

I can see why anonymity is necessary. These questions are riveting and controversial. Just read this:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lucy_liu

Played this for him in my car once and he said his voice was...

Sat, 23 Apr 2011 10:50:00 -0600

Played this for him in my car once and he said his voice was creepy and he didn’t want to listen to it. Kinda weird coming from a guy that was obsessed with horror films and 80s goth-rock. About a week later he told me he bought the album and he loved it. This song already made me cry; why does it have to be so goddamn appropriate?

He talked of his funeral so many times; he requested that this...

Fri, 22 Apr 2011 15:14:00 -0600

He talked of his funeral so many times; he requested that this song be played. I really hope it happens.

Maybe if I stop drinking water, there will be nothing left to come out.

Too Much to Say

Fri, 22 Apr 2011 13:45:00 -0600

You saved my life so many times; why wouldn’t you let me save yours?

You fucking ass hole; I loved the shit out of you.

Your wife is the shit; she cremated you and isn’t allowing any of that “God damn Jesus talk” at your memorial. You would be so proud and happy.

A (SURPRISINGLY COMFORTABLE) KISS ON THE LIPS, FOLLOWED BY LOVING EMBRACE MAKING SANDWICHES TOGETHER...

Wed, 20 Apr 2011 23:21:00 -0600

A (SURPRISINGLY COMFORTABLE) KISS ON THE LIPS, FOLLOWED BY LOVING EMBRACE

MAKING SANDWICHES TOGETHER IN YOUR TINY KITCHEN

LAUGHING AT THE SAME PARTS OF MST3K, SMOKING CIGARETTES

YOU WERE DOZING OFF:

“GOOD BYE. I FUCKING LOVE YOU. SEE YOU SOON.”

Style is Relative (I'm a Philosophy Major [and I Want to Talk About It While We Drink at This Party])

Wed, 20 Apr 2011 06:04:00 -0600

We don’t talk that way. Chomsky says so! Ever heard of him?! Don’t yell…! Um…Vonnegut’s available to everyone now, y’know, and we’ve listened but we haven’t retained. Each sentence contracting! Face me and tell me your written rule-breakings; oh, hushed are we? The simplicity of sex-poetic—innovating in the recent days after alleged-Genesis. Her timidity tortures him; that wasn’t from the quote I just read aloud to you, only a short analysis. All alliteration amorous according—a mind as timid and tortured as he, from more concrete drugs than he, less forced and abstract than he, just as aware of emotions as he. Just tell them how you feel. Just. Tell. Them. How. You. Feel. These are sentences: this one, the ones before, and the next couple. The thespian and the keynote speaker share the same stage, share the same amount of applause, share a motivation, unlike any motivation, a motivation that begins and subsides in a woman; ugh. WOMEN.

Do I Write Pretty, Biased, Never-Lovers?

Wed, 20 Apr 2011 05:47:47 -0600

Thesaurus in hand, God is guessing that you are fully-equipped for the day

Another word for “eyes”…

Things to worry about after the realization of synonymously-literary fag hag (Her words)

Not nearly as offensive as it sounds…

She explains from the Heavens that you don’t admit your faith

Back to analogies…

These so-called writers make your crafted Higher-Power-gift feel beautiful

The uneducated don’t appreciate you…

Just drink with the fags, dance, enjoy your night, until you wake up

You’re overweight with knowledge, the handsome morons ignoring you…

One Stanza Just for the Sake of the Wake

Wed, 20 Apr 2011 05:36:58 -0600

Mexican waters sweeping us in from miles out

Majestic mountains, plain fruits, here and there, fluttering about

The engine’s turning as we sit in the interstate transporter and pout

And wait for the fuel to carry our rhyming, melodic shouts

Ciao Simone

||||||Regarding||||||Everything||||||

Mon, 18 Apr 2011 16:07:29 -0600

Calm the fuck down, children. All of the “good guys” and the “bad guys” are going to be “dead guys” eventually.

Old Ramble That I Edited More to My Liking

Mon, 18 Apr 2011 08:40:13 -0600

We used to make fun(!)

of those kinds of people that

you surround yourself(!)

with now, and with good reason.

I am not strong enough(!)

for reality either, but the substitutes are just way too unsatisfying and temporary.

You will say, until the day

you die:

“You’re so fucking judgmental. You don’t even know them.” As a matter of fact,

I either do, or am wise enough to not know them. This isn’t

me and you in a car(!)

downing some rum or taking fake acid in a hotel room. This is grown-ups growing down until they’re as down as they can be and bringing you down with them. Just because

I stopped(!)

being the only voice around doesn’t mean

I have to stop(!)

being a voice of reason. My life is a poor guideline, but my words are earnest, sometimes-logical, and powered by a concern for a love whose untarnished, once-genuine personality

I am so reminiscent(!)

of—so abstract and unable to be revived. If you ever talked to

me again(?!)

I would ask you if you would stop hurting both of

and get back to your old home, even if that means

I am locked outside on the porch forever(!)

Fiction

Sat, 16 Apr 2011 04:39:00 -0600

Simone and JP:

These are not the given Christian names of any pair.

These are secrets—everyone has them.

These are breaks from honesty—the titles are the only parts of anyone that can truly be kept to themselves.

These are ways to feel comfortable saying such things as “Well, Simone, this is JP, existentially speaking, ‘We both know you are more intelligent, and I, for one, adore you more than semicolons, even; that’s a colon, somewhat; and you are a perfect escape; blatantly, completely.’”

“Brothers” (a video starring me, Dustin Timbrook,...

Fri, 15 Apr 2011 19:54:31 -0600

“Brothers” (a video starring me, Dustin Timbrook, Travis Swinford, and Cory Higgins) is finally on YouTube! Edited by Dustin Timbrook

Girls Gone Vile

Tue, 12 Apr 2011 20:38:00 -0600

They filled your voicemailbox until you threw your phone into their crowded mouths—the beaches, relentlessly dialing your numbered days, beggars for

“Any spare change of plans?”

All you had to offer were some leftovers: naturally-tanned, pristinely-molded concrete comeliness that you’d been carrying with you longer than only your mother and father could remember.

“You’re obviously worthless, you foul, offensively-sandy peasant! (“twice redundant” [my lazy wordplay that still pumped strength into your use of impeccable expressions of revelry])”

Weighing the options, you helped the alternative-needy:

“I’d give you what I hold, but I’m on my way to deliver them.”

Better to upset the edge-of-death stranger than the impatiently-hopeful old chum, you couldn’t have possibly known any better until the moment you decided to allow his timely intimacy send his head-to-bosom reflex into action—the first of many seizures that brought our epileptic youth to the only immaculate verdict in the history (doomed, never to repeat itself) of either of our cases of human trial and error.

Shaking off the coastal-gulf bum was your final delay in getting the refused goods to a more secluded (hermit-worthy, really) spot to go on holiday.

“Hurry.”

I knew you couldn’t hear me, sighing (to ask myself “Awwwww, what’s wrong, huh?!”), but only to breathe more easily. Shaking off your soft vocal chords, your well-dressed torso, your nearly-bare bottom half, much less the the simple idea of your presence, was impossible to contend.

“No more delays.”

You, stomping the tension into the “WELCOME” mat, I ran to the door, trying as hard as I could to make it sound like a walk.

“Get those leftovers into the center-solace between my bedposts (where it is sure to keep them chilled) before they spoil all of me at once, undeserving.”

You didn’t have to return to high school (an innocent seductress) for an entire week; “love” is seen in the East as losing validity with each frequent proclamation—that is the only thing that we could make out that week before, when the man from Fukuoka tested our patience, dry-heaving his poor English, directly aimed at our flushed cheeks. Not to say mine has any trace of wealthy worth, but there is a short and quiet speech that my language had given me the words to plead:

“I will gladly lose my validity for seven, uninterrupted days, not realizing the detriment until I’m sitting in the mouth of the beggar, cursing you, ‘Why can’t you at least have one modicum of ugliness?!’”

REVEALINGREVEALINGREVEALINGREVEALINGREVEALING

Mon, 11 Apr 2011 15:22:10 -0600

THESCRIBBLESONPOSTITS

THEPILESOFCOLLEGERULEDNOTEBOOKSNAMEDAFTERAWORLDIVELEFTFORGOOD

ANYANDEVERYONEANDNONEOFTHETHINGSICHOOSETOSHARE

“which one(s) is/are about me?”

YOURUNSHAREDINQUISITIONSSPEAKSOQUIETLYANDSLOWLY

JUSTJUSTJUSTLIKEJUSTLIKEMMMMMMINEYEAHJUSTLIKEMINE

IDEDICATETHISONEANDONLYTHISONETOYOU