Tag Archives: blog

selections from Americanah by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie

“She’ll come back and be a serious Americanah like Bisi,” Ranyinudo said.

They roared with laughter, at that word “Americanah,” wreathed in glee, the fourth syllable extended, and at the thought of Bisi, a girl in the form below them, who had come back from a short trip to America with odd affectations, pretending she no longer understood Yoruba, adding a slurred r to every English word she spoke. (78) Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

dance dance
Disco Dance

–God sum cute ass blondie was jus sittin rite next to me on bus. –dude i can’t get on a bus without sitting or standing next to a beautiful girl. it’s maddening. i actually talked to one the last time … Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Lace and a touch of grace

a lot of things are secrets because most people don’t care to know about them. like how to make clear ice. every time i listen to Teen Dream, i think of Tori. every time i listen to Teddy Bear, i … Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

sing clean

two hunters carve their red-eyed way through the metallic dawn. two hunters, one city, no prey, no population, only desolation: steel sequoias, bridges with their feet wet, flags reigning minimal, pigeons with their heads down low, hot dog rats and … Continue reading

Posted in dear diary, poetry of the mind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


possible reasons i have long hair:
because i want to be as pretty as a girl.
because i want to be as brilliant as a god.
because i’m lazy.
because i’m cheap.
because i like dancing to rock & roll.

possible reasons i fall in love so easily:
because it’s fun.
because it’s fun.
because it’s fun.
because it’s fun.
because it’s fun.

possible reasons music moves my soul:
because of the bass.
because it’s free, instant, and infinite pure happiness.
because i can’t be fucking all day, every day.
because i can’t be sleeping all day, every day.
because it’s the next best thing to death, it’s life.

possible reasons numbers rule my moves:
because i’m always listening to music.
because it’s something to do.
because i cannot make decisions.
because physics.
because i’m never checking the time.

possible reasons i have a blog:
because i’m a stoner.
because it’s the 21st century.
because sometimes people i want to talk to aren’t online.
because i hate talking, but i like thinking; something’s gotta give.
because i always have. Continue reading

Posted in dear diary, poetry of the mind | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


i updated WordPress and all my CSS got destroyed.

this sucks. Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Shelter from the Storm / Buckets of Rain [archive]

so here’s the story.

i just woke up about half an hour ago from drunk dreams of Joseph Frewer, the catholic church, tits, and constant roadtrips: my friends and i, always, driving here and there and everywhere.

and i woke to a fucking crazy rain.

it’s pouring a shallow West and–holy shit: West should be capitalized. North. East. South. and West. the West is the Best. the West is a very definite thing and i believe it to be the Best. i only believe in capitalizing very definite things. besides the title of this blog post, which is all caps for purely aesthetic reasons. also i capitalize things when quoting other people, because who am i to impose my capitalist tendencies on others?

i told my mom about the rain and she texted me “Poetry in motion. Cliche but true.” word, mom.

but, seriously, the rain. the rain! listen to it fall. watch it fall. it’s like looking into a mirror. it’s like watching the sun rise seven billion times a second. it’s like swimming in air. i need a rain partner. i want someone to come dance in the rain with me every time it rains. i want to get naked in it and run. even when it’s not raining.

do you understand how privileged we are, just to be able to enjoy the rain? i can mean so many things by that statement and i mean all of them.

can i read you a poem? will you listen? are you listening? who is speaking? who is listening? can i read you a poem? can i read you two poems? i promise they’re short:


I am a man with no ambitions
And few friends, wholly incapable
Of making a living, growing no
Younger, fugitive from some just doom.
Lonely, ill-clothed, what does it matter?
At midnight I make myself a jug
Of hot white wine and cardamon seeds.
In a torn grey robe and old beret,
I sit in the cold writing poems,
Drawing nudes on the crooked margins,
Copulating with sixteen year old
Nymphomaniacs of my imagination.


Take care of this. It’s all there is.
You will never get another.

how hard is it to start your own monastery? instead of doing what normal (i hear Adam, others, screaming “””””””nOrMaL+?!#?$%?!?$!?$$^^??”””””””) people do after they graduate, i just want to create this monastery in San Francisco, but, give me a second. it’s hard to describe what i want from this monastery because i want it to closely resemble the universe, whose inhabitants hate and love each other equally and infinitely. basically, lesbians, men, woman, gays, dogs, birds, computers, bros, punks, suits, whatever, whoever will be allowed to join. no restrictions there. and we are tax-exempt because we believe, we believe in each other. and, when we’re not buying eggplant and eggs and olives and honey and tea and milk and cheese and rose jam with the money we receive from donations, we write poetry. or listen to music. or talk to each other. but most of us realize that there’s not too much to say, so we mostly just sit and think. also, most of us realize that there’s not too much to think about, besides everything, so we mostly just sit. except that some of us experience the prods and pokes of the Earth too ungently, so we cannot sit but we can run and jump and climb. and so we stay there our whole lives, feasting on the glory of the stars, with regard to one in particular, and then we’ll die, corroding into the ground, dusting off the top layer of this rock and sleeping, while our children play dirty, dirty disco music and stamp their feet on our body. Continue reading

Posted in dear diary, poetry of the universe | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Ronny ****, Sailor [archive]

i might be reading too much Herbert, but sometimes i wish i could ride a sandworm across the sands of Arrakis.
i might be reading too much Melville, but sometimes i wish i could ride a ship across the seas of the Atlantic.
i might be reading too much Tolkien, but sometimes i wish i could ride a pony across Middle-Earth, to the Arkenstone.

i wish i could blog from the shower. every time i take a shower, without fail, i remember about three hundred things i want to write about here. i commit each to memory, fantasize about listening to the Orb while, in the near, near future, i expound upon these wondrous thoughts of mine, and then, upon exiting the shower, my ideas and fantasies fade like ships into the horizon. didn’t Seinfeld joke about this once?

no matter. having just remembered one particular item, i, upon recalling it, only wish i had not been so quick to extol those shower-thoughts of mine. it’s really nothing spectacular, amazing, and wondrous.

it was an easy one to remember, because it’s one i’ve thought more and more of increasingly. what reminded me: i racked my brain for silly eccentricities i wanted to share with the world and, instead, came up with a small piece of treasure related to my dreams from last night. now, being a strange dream, as pretty much all dreams are (and before you can say, “well, i have dreams where nothing extraordinary happens in them,” let me say, “that’s extraordinary in of itself”), i would love to relate the dream-contents to you. but, you see, this is the first thing i thought of in the shower today: i cannot be as open on my blog as i would like to be. i cannot share this dream with you.

this dream, as you might expect, was not just a strange/weird/explicit/sexual/unusual/farfetched dream (as you might expect, i relate those sorts of dreams often). in addition to any number of those features, this dream starred one singularly troublesome character who, if this character were to find out about this particular dream, might be particularly disposed to kicking me in the nuts. and while i’m inclined to assume, if not fantasize, that this character has dreams of a similar sort (with the roles reversed/inversed/conversed/freeversed/blankversed), i have no choice except, for my nuts’ sake, to remain silent.

i read two Melville tales and one Wilde tale today. the first Melville, “Billy Budd, Sailor,” is about a virtuous, affable, trustworthy, benign young sailor named Billy Budd. but for all his positive qualities, the world of law and order has something in store for him.

midday, Meryl had Stumbled me a story by Oscar Wilde, called “The Fisherman and His Soul,” which, as Meryl admitted herself, “wasn’t really about anything.” an excerpt:

Inside it is even as a bazaar. Surely thou should’st have been with me. Across the narrow streets the gay lanterns of paper flutter like large butterflies. When the wind blows over the roofs they rise and fall as painted bubbles do. In front of their booths sit the merchants on silken carpets. They have straight black beards, and their turbans are covered with golden sequins, and long strings of amber and carved peach-stones glide through their cool fingers. Some of them sell galbanum and nard, and curious perfumes from the islands of the Indian Sea, and the thick oil of red roses and myrrh and little nail-shaped cloves. When one stops to speak to them, they throw pinches of frankincense upon a charcoal brazier and make the air sweet. I saw a Syrian who held in his hands a thin rod like a reed. Grey threads of smoke came from it, and its odour as it burned was as the odour of the pink almond in spring. Others sell silver bracelets embossed all over with creamy blue turquoise stones, and anklets of brass wire fringed with little pearls, and tigers’ claws set in gold, and the claws of that gilt cat, the leopard, set in gold also, and earrings of pierced emerald, and finger-rings of hollowed jade. From the tea-houses comes the sound of the guitar, and the opium-smokers with their white smiling faces look out at the passers-by.

“i just loved the descriptions of things,” she said.

i ended the night with a second Melville story, “Benito Cereno,” about a good-natured captain who finds himself helping out a mysteriously-circumstanced slave ship.

what else did i do today? chronologically:

i ate a plate of spaghetti and meat sauce. i showered. i listened to Adam’s Christmix. i exchanged a long-sleeved shirt for a sweatshirt with a zipper. i purchased, with cash, a long-sleeved shirt, half-off. i purchased, with a gift card, a novel by Melville called “The Confidence-Man.” i ate a plate of spaghetti and meat sauce. i ate a plate of rice, fish, and vegetables. i retrieved a drunkenly misplaced jean-jacket/Yellow Submarine sweatshirt combo. i filled an SUV with $10.00 of gas at $2.97/gallon. i listened to Miles Davis. i ate a bowl of spaghetti and meat sauce. i listened to Funkadelic. i listened to the Orb. i uploaded a december photo album to facebook. i wrote a blog post. Continue reading

Posted in dear diary, poetry of the universe | Tagged , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

that was fast [archive-lj]

http://zzzronnyzzz.googlepages.com/ Continue reading

Posted in dear diary | Tagged , , , | Leave a comment