Jealouis C.K.

No, this prompt has nothing to do with Louis C.K., although, i do think he is funny.

Musician, comedian, poet, and owner of his own publishing company, Derrick Brown. I would say i'm jealous, i would say i'm envious, somehow he figured out how to do everything, somehow he figured out how to make music good enough to open for guys like the flaming lips, and be funny enough to open for comedians like david cross, and have this incredible talent to write, and perform poetry.
But i guess this isn't about him either.
I guess it was supposed to be more about a guy named anis mojgani, and his poem entitled "the branches are full, and these orchards heavy" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wvs-tBuSVLY&list=FLG2Uc-pNdNaHbnciepuoe3w&index=6&feature=plpp_video) he creates this fantastical imaginary world that is more real then the keyboard my fingers are punching. He speaks to men, men who have forgotten God, Men who have put money and possesions and themselves above god, men who refusual to believe what they hear and what they read, what they have been taught, he speaks to the men who are "cuting god out from their insides"
He speaks to god, he does not bow or kneel, he does not ask or whisper, he SCREAMS, he demands, he doesn't not humble himself, he lifts himself up and drags every question that man has ever had to offer god, and SCREAMS "I want to SEE YOU, i want to see your FACE."
I wish i could write like him, i wish i could perform like him, i wish i could make YOU feel, i wish i could write the poem that Kyle Nelson talks about in his poem (whose name escapes me) but i wish i could write that poem that makes you and him question god, that makes you want to pick up a phone and call your friend just to let them know that they missed out on something incredible, something that they will never be able to capture, I wish i could write a poem that makes someone jealous, i wish i could write a poem like "the branches are full, and these orchards heavy" because this is the kind of poem that Kyle was talking about.

So, I guess that this is really about Kyle Nelson.

with blood-stained fingers,
 Holden

For the Farmers

Thank you anis, for your beautiful poem,
Thank you Dan smith, for the opening lines,
Thank you Joshua James for telling ME to sing loudly.




This is for you. This is for me. This is for all of us. This is for the ones who only listened long enough to know that the person they are talking to has the same opinions they do. Sing Loudly.

This is for the early morning runners. This is for the musicians, and the people that BUY their records. This is for the ones who can't sing, This is for the ones whose records don't sell. Sing Loudly.

This is for the sign holders and the farmers. This is for the self-sustained. This is for the goat-milking, Sheep-sheering, mid-night-pickling, chicken-owning, garden-growing, farmers. Sing Loudly.

This is for the women with dirt under their fingernails. Sing Loudly.


This is for the kids who stopped dancing, and for the tone-deaf. This is for the girls with shaved heads, and the boys with balck nail polish. this is for the poets who will never be heard and for their notebooks that will never be read. Sing Loudly.

This is for the sixty-year-old couple who went to space camp for their thirty-second anniversary. This is for The old, and the young, for the mountains and for the rivers, for the valleys and for the forests, this is for alaska, and the pandemonium which lives within it. This is for the fighters. This is for the winners and the losers, for the liars and the cheaters, the honest and the modest. This is for the rich who are starving, and for the greedy poor. this is for the ones who never said they were strong. Sing Loudly.

This is for the five year old boys who make coffee for their drug-addicted, hung-over, single mother. Sing Loudly.

This is for the skinny-dippers and the lake swimmers. this is for the you. Sing Loudly.

This is for the ones whose voices will never be heard. Sing Loudly.

This is for the ones whose eyes have seen, for the ones whose minds have thought, and hearts have felt, for the ones whose hands create and feet that walk, for the mouths that dance, and the ones that talk even if their voice is not heard. Sing Loudly.

Let your voice be heard. This world hates your eyes and it hates your hands and your feet and your heart and your voice. So Sing Loudly. Scream at this world.

the hospitals are full from people cutting god out of their insides- Anis Mojgani

I keep forgetting that i can't cut God out of me.
I have swallowed his words. I know they are true.
No matter how sharp my knife;
no matter how deep the cut;
God and his words will flow through me,
they are deeper then me,
they are deeper then you,
they are deeper then us all.

I have torn the pages out of this book,
tied them together and swallowed them down;
i'm fishing gods words from my insides.

I have vomited these pages up,
I have swallowed them again.

I have circled words.
I have Memorized lines.
I have looked as deep as my eyes will let me.
And when i stand back,
all i see is
"I own YOU. I own THEM. I own HER. I own EVERYTHING and EVERYONE."

So I have torn the pages out of this book,
tied them together
and formed a noose.
The ink has left a permanant stain on my neck from trying to own myself.
come close, see for yourself.
The ink has left a permanant stain on my hands from fighting and fighting these words away, trying to show God that i own me, that i own myself. When will We own ourselves completely? When will these pages break the grip they have around me?

My lighter won't burn the wet pages.

This book was tied to my ankle.
It dragged me down
and held me under.

The light has since faded.
the fire has since been put out.
He still owns me.
and he knows that i will see the light again.
but
will i take it in?
will i build it up?

I was playing zelda six hours a day, i was drinking more mountain dew then ever, I must admit, i had a drinking problem. I didn't have a drivers liscense, I didn't have a girlfriend, i didn't have a life, i wore horrible shoes, i wore terrible pants, i wore v-necks and shorts, i wore flip flops, i had horrible hair, it was neat.
I was walking down the street, i saw a girl, she was pretty, I was nervous. i walked past her, she grabed my butt, i turned around, she winked, so i waved, she motioned for me to come over i shook my head, she motioned again, i shook my head she walked up to me, she hit me in the balls and ran.
i was walking down the street, and i saw her again, she didn't see me, i hid behind a tree, she was jogging, i jumped out and grabbed her by her hair, threw her head against the tree, put my hands around her neck, i could feel her legs kicking, i could feel her hands trying to pull my hands off, she went limp. i dragged her lifeless body to her parents house, i rang the doorbell and left.
i met a guy named rickety crickett. He saw me strangle that girl. He gave me some kicks and tight pants, told me to roll them up. he showed me how to spit it, showed me how to grow a beard, he tought me how to lay low, he took me with him to new york. i've been living here for a month now, i've killed four others since then.

I'm a dentist, and I drill people

His name was Greg, he was a dentist. WAS a dentist. One day while DRILLING the patient, he noticed something rather strange in the back of their mouth, it was some kind of tooth-like thing, it was small and green, with a a strip of crystals through it. It drove him crazy wondering what it was, he lost sleep, he pulled the wrong teeth, he ate the wrong food, he drank drain-o, jk, not really, but he was pretty SCREWED up (get it? screwed up? he is a dentist? funny right?) anywho, one night when he waqs alone in his office, "working late" he grabbed the patients file to "review" it, he took the address and with his boom box loud playing  brokencydes new album he kidnapped the patient hit him in the head with a bucket of golf balls and pulled the tooth!

After carefully studying the tooth, he realized that it wasn't a green tooth at all! it was a TIME MACHINE!
Where will he go!? what will he do when he gets there!? will he use this time machine for good, for bad, or for pleasure!? This post is horse shit.

or is it?

High school means nothing.

trailer trash- modest mouse
My name is Isacc, i'm eighteen, the eldest of three children. Growing up I fell asleep to my parents fighting, and woke up to them screaming. After my parents finally got a divorce I took it upon myself to take care of my little brothers and my kid sister. I live in a trailer, I work over 50 hours a week, and I'm in high school, although, It means nothing.

Pitchfork- Joshua James
Joshua  is in his mid twenties, He became a janitor to work his way through college--his boss is a high school drop out--appliances begin to break but Joshua can't seem to pay for them to be fixed. fighting between him and his lover due to finacial issues arise. His lover begins to wish she would have become an actress instead of running away to live and love with a small town farm boy.

How Firm a Foundation- Mormon Tabernacle Choir
Luci is a poor chinese school girl, she lives in poverty  both her parents went to high school and college, yet they barely make enough to pay the bills, she has problems with her self esteem so she starts to sleep around, one night while "in the act" she has a brilliant idea, she is going to make money off of one of her favorite activities.
After a few months she becomes extremely sick, she is poorer then ever due to her drug and alcohol abuse, but! she is also poor in spirit, one night after she did a two for one deal she saw something that caught her eye, it was a book, after reading the back page she realised that she needed to put her problems into the lords hands, she begins building a strong faith in the lord jesus christ, she becomes very religous, she puts her past behind her and rises to success, while traveling the U.S. talking to HIGH schoolers about not selling your body to the devil she encounters her EX-PIMP, WHAT WILL HE DO!?

I FOUND Chase Hansen

Chase Hansen Helped me get slim, he reshaped specific areas of my body by removing excess fat deposits, he improved my bodys contours and proportion, and ultimately, he enhanced my self-image.
Despite my good health and my reasonable level of fitness, i still had a body with disproportionate contours due to fat deposits. Those areas might  be from a family trait rather than a lack of weight control or fitness.

Chase Hansen  treated my stubborn fat pockets in many parts of my body including the thighs, arms, neck, hips, waist, back, inner knee, chest, cheeks, chin, calves, and ankles, the boy has magic fingers.
In some cases, chase hansen performs alone, in other cases he is used with a team, but he doesn't really need one.
What Chase Hansen won't do:
People like Rosie O'Donnell, she's obese.
Replace regular exercise and good eating habits.
Let stubborn areas of fat get him down.

from an online liposuction procedure
http://www.plasticsurgery.org/cosmetic-procedures/liposuction.html

So you wanna be a writer?

I could talk all day about writing, and about poetry, and what it really is.
I could spend all day talking about how Poetry is all about feeling, and how when you write a poem, It should be pure heart. You should just cut open your skin and let your blood flow out onto the paper.
I could spend all day talking about how much I hate Robert Frost and Ted Kooser. But they aren't worth the time, They aren't worth wasting my fingers on.
I could spend all day talking about real poets and real writers, I could spend all day talking about guys like Charles Bukowski, William S. Burroughs, Stephen Chbosky, Anis Mojgani, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Jack Kerouac, Anthony Burgess, Jason Safran Foer, John Steinbeck, J.D. Salinger, and Ayn Rand.

I could spend all day talking about writing and poetry,

BUT!!!

I would just be stealing every word and every thought from Bukowski. I could NEVER, do as good of a job as Bukowski does in his poem "So you want to be a writer?" But I doubt ANY of you have read any of his work. Do any of you even know who Charles Bukowski is? WHY? Because school doesn't teach you about good poets, and good writers, They tell you Mark Twain is god, and That Shakespeare is the best you can get, They say Willa Cather was a good writer, well school is wrong, and Davis, YOU ARE WRONG.
So if you haven't been introduced to good writing and good poetry, if you haven't read a poem that isn't about snow, or corn, or paths, or villages, or bullshit.
If you haven't heard of Bukowski. You're whole universe is about to be destroyed by the Death Star of poets.


Do you want to be a writer?
Well. . . The first step is to write.
Still can't do it?

then read this.

so you want to be a writer?
by Charles Bukowski
if it doesn't come bursting out of you in spite of everything, don't do it. unless it comes unasked out of your heart and your mind and your mouth and your gut, don't do it. if you have to sit for hours staring at your computer screen or hunched over your typewriter searching for words, don't do it. if you're doing it for money or fame, don't do it. if you're doing it because you want women in your bed, don't do it. if you have to sit there and rewrite it again and again, don't do it. if it's hard work just thinking about doing it, don't do it. if you're trying to write like somebody else, forget about it. if you have to wait for it to roar out of you, then wait patiently. if it never does roar out of you, do something else. if you first have to read it to your wife or your girlfriend or your boyfriend or your parents or to anybody at all, you're not ready. don't be like so many writers, don't be like so many thousands of people who call themselves writers, don't be dull and boring and pretentious, don't be consumed with self- love. the libraries of the world have yawned themselves to sleep over your kind. don't add to that. don't do it. unless it comes out of your soul like a rocket, unless being still would drive you to madness or suicide or murder, don't do it. unless the sun inside you is burning your gut, don't do it. when it is truly time, and if you have been chosen, it will do it by itself and it will keep on doing it until you die or it dies in you. there is no other way. and there never was.

RAISON

French, for reason.
Reason for what? Raison d'aimer? Raison de voir? Raison de manger? Raison de boire?

Raison de parler?

reason to speak?

why should you speak? What comes from speaking? What are your reasons to put volume to your thoughts? because you are for, or because you are against? because you are for against, or because you are against being for? Because you are neither for nor against but in the middle and largely unconvinced by either side? because you'd like to order a drink? Why would you order the drink in the first place? To drink, but, pourquoi devriez-vous boire? To celebrate? To stay warm? to forget unwanted memories? to calm down, maybe so you can follow through?

Why does any of this matter anyway?
Pourquoi suis-je parle de cela de toute facon?
Pourquoi suis-je ici? Que fais-je ici?
Ce qui est ma raison de vivre?

Raison d'etre, reason to live. the claimed reason for your existence.


what is mine?
I'm still figuring that out.
but what's yours?
poetry? politics? women? drugs? rock n' roll? music? animals? death? SCIENCE!? cats? rap? tupac? biggie smalls? immortal technique? tyler the creator? earl? odd future? books? stamps? records? your mother? your father? your dead parent, grandparent, sister, brother, best friend? why? what reason do you have to live? what reason do i have to live?
I don't know,
but i'm working on it.

Are you?



 Etes-vous tuer votre avenir?

Sing loudly.
Holden.

Dear reader.

Welcome.
You have just been give a direct order, a direct order, to rock the fuck out.
Rock out like you're six years old again and you just met santa. Rock out like the cats are clawing at eazy-e's face and it's the only way to stop them. Rock out like Tupac has risen and brought Biggie with him.

Rock out like it's the only thing keeping your skin from falling off.

Rock off like the sun is about to explode. rock out like the judge just dropped his drawers in court. rock out like you didn't kill that man, like you aren't sitting behind these bars. Rock out the way you will when you finally take those steps and are free from those walls.

Rock out like. . . chase hansen just gave you a hug.

Rock out like Tyler durden made you into one of his human sacrifices. Like Mr. Durden just took your license. Like Mr. Durden knows your name.

Rock out like John Lennon just Came back to play one last show, and he just dedicated it to you.

Rock out like you're in Shea stadium, and the Beatles have just taken the stage.

Rock out like you just flew. rock out like you can walk on water. Rock out like LL Cool J on stage.
Rock out like you're the first women president.

Rock out like you work in the world trade center, and  it's September tenth, and you just lost your job. 


Rock out like it's September eleventh, 2001, and you're sitting on the top floor of the south tower and the plane just hit and the room is filling up with smoke and the building is shaking and it starts to fall.
And it won't stop falling, and it's the last 5 seconds of your life.
Rock out like your pulling yourself from the rubble.

Rock out like you are NOT the one giving birth.

Rock out, BITCH.

There is nothing to be excited about EXCEPT!!! that we're all going to Hell.

It's not that I wanna die, It's just that I don't wanna live.

To be perfectly honest, I really don't know if I actually exist. If I'm real.

Am I alive? Is everything an illusion?
I don't really feel much. I don't feel hatred, I don't feel Love, I Don't feel happiness, or anything even remotely close to it.
I can't stand the feeling of others touching me.
I don't sleep much at night. I can't. Too many thoughts, I'm on the brink of insomnia.
Sometimes I find myself doing things, just to feel the pain of it. It seems as though pain is the only way I can remind myself that I'm here, that I'm real, That I actually do exist.
What's the point of living if  I can't feel anything.
Why should I stay here if I can't be touched, can't be hugged, can't hold a hand, can't kiss, or be kissed. Can't make love, can't hold someone. Can't be held while I cry.

Is God alive?
What if God really is dead? What if the devil has taken over Gods kingdom, over his reign. I know that he has here. Just look around you. Look at you. Look at me, especially at me. We're all going to Hell.

Is life worth living?

No.
Whoever says it's worth it, has never felt the way I do.

Love always,
                  William R. Holden

The surprise ending is that I die alone.

It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore.
She left one week ago from today.
I walk up harminor boulevard, on my way home from my 9-5 desk job, stuck in a cube. I open the door to my 1200 square foot home that I owe my life on.
I bought it for us, so we would have a place to live. Together.
I walk through the dirty house, papers scattered, empty bottles of rum, vodka and beer lay around the floor. I hear the crunching of broken glass under my foot, it's our picture. The frame fell off the table after she slammed the door. It's a photo of just me and Her. I pick it up and hold it in front of me, starring. My eyes water. I fold up the picture and tuck it into my chest pocket. I loosen my tie as I check the messages. It's Emily, she just got back from a two year trip around the world.
I should have gone.
She is wondering if she can come over and visit, the last time I saw her, was at my wedding, two years ago. I delete it. Look out of the kitchen window, the garden is over grown, the corn is falling over, the tomatoes are dieing, the peaches are rotting, falling off the branches, birds are choking them down. The beans are dried. The beets have been devoured by some type of animal, rabbit, raccon, I don't care.

The birds are picking out the eyes of my scarecrow.

I walk to the bathroom, trip on my old guitar, broken strings, splintered wood. I remember when I use to play. I'd play small shows, but people seemed to enjoy it, i don't know why. I remember when I went on tour to release my first album, She tagged along. I remember when I went on tour for my second album. I asked her to marry me on that tour. . .
The bathroom smells, I don't care. I don't even wash my hands after I'm done.

I head back to the kitchen. Paper is everywhere. My writing. My SHIT. How did I ever think it could be published. I pick up the only manuscript that was ever accepted. The first one I ever submitted, I read the first line.

"It's cold all the time, here in the fork. My eyes don't seem to focus anymore."
BULLSHIT! How in Gods holy kingdom did someone publish that? How did I think someone would read that. I throw the failed novel across the room. I pick up a poem, "The whore on 39th" i tear it in half. I pick up another. "Welcome happiness" I crumble it up, and throw it. I pick up another manuscript, rejected, twelve times. I throw it at the television, i picked up for  40 bucks at a second hand store. I reach for my chest pocket, looking for a cigarette, I find the photo of us, from the day she said yes. She was wearing my jacket. I pick up my keys, drop them in the sink, my car is still broken. I loosen my tie a bit more, kick off my shoes. Grab the bottle of wine that we were supposed to share today, our anniversary. I pick up my wallet, seven dollars. I walk outside, standing on the front stairs, I take a drink. Pull off my socks, take off my tie. I step onto the grass, It doesn't feel as cold as it usually does. I walk the two and a half miles to the gas station. My last seven dollars on a pack of camels, turkish gold, or as we called them , turkish loves, turkish candy. it was our brand, it was our Cigarette.
There she is, With him.
The air, the sidewalk, my skin, has never felt as cold as it does now.

I walk alone, I sleep alone, I eat alone, I drink alone, I am with nothing but the memories of failed novels, poetry no one ever read, and an old broken guitar. I die alone, holding our photo in my hand. . .

Stolen thoughts.

We were sitting in the grass next to the fire.
We were holding hands, knees touching.
You leaned over
kissed me
and asked,

"What goes on in your mind?
What are you thinking about,
                                               right this second?"

You.
I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like plants think about the sun.
I'm thinking about you like wells think about water.
I'm thinking about you like bukowski thinks about poetry,
like a car thinks about gas,
like a cigarette thinks about being smoked.

I'm thinking about you.

You're wearing your clothes, all of them.

It's NEVER about sex,
when I'm thinking about you.
When I'm thinking about you the way my feet think about walking.
The way grass thinks about growing.
I'm thinking about you like water thinks about flowing,
like the stars think about glowing,
and dynamite thinks about exploding.
I'm thinking of you like the sun thinks about fire.

I'm thinking about you like R. Davis thinks about R. Frost.
I'm thinking about you like Joel Brown thinks about getting with a girl
who is also
in a wheelchair.
I'm thinking about you like Carlyn thinks about DYING.
I'm thinking about you.

I'm thinking about you like a noose thinks about
                                                                              HANGING.

I'm thinking about you like a gun thinks about shooting.
Like a razor thinks about cutting,
and a needle thinks about veins.
I'm thinking about you like my PEN thinks about WRITING.

I'm thinking about you like pornography thinks about destroying your brain.



                                                        But You
                                                                   are NOT
                                                                                 thinking
                                                                                                   about me.

But I'm thinking about you.
I'm thinking about you like pages think about turning.
I'm thinking about YOU.
The way air thinks about lungs,
and the way your heart thinks about blood.

I'm thinking about you.

                                              And You
                                                               STILL
                                                                          aren't thinking
                                                                                                    about
                                                                                                     
                                                                                                                   ME.
I'm thinking about you like a bottle thinks about getting broken.
I'm thinking about you like the fire thinks about Burning.
I'm thinking about you like my mind thinks about DOING.

and I wake up.
ALONE.

And I'm STILL thinking about you.
I AM STILL THINKING ABOUT YOU.

Love.

Love is a Book of poetry that no one will ever read.
Love is someone walking into your house without knocking.
Love is hell. Love is death. It's digging your grave with a rope tied around your neck.
Love IS a cheap whore
Love is the unseen universe.
Love is Religion.
Love is the fake smile you put on your filthy face
every goddamn day.
Love is a six inch nail.
Love is the center of the earth.
Love is the gallows.
Love is burning down your home.
Love is DEAD.

Life is hell, but hey, it's better then school.

I could be running, naked through the trees,
diving into a lake and swimming around at 2 O'clock in the morning.
 I could be watching the sunrise.
I could be biking, I could be trying to fly.
I could be drinking a bottle of wine, watching the sunset over the mountains.
 I could be dancing, hell, I should be dancing.
 I could be at a concert,
I could be at the movies,
I could be hiking,
I could be getting lost in music.
I could be in Salt Lake, I could be in California, I could be in vegas,
I could be playing a game of poker.
I could be playing nazi zombies,
 I could be laying in a field.
I could be smoking a cigarrette.

I could be living. . .
 I could be laying in a bathtub, doped out of my mind.
 I could be hanging myself.
I could be crying in my closet.
I could be on a long walk.
I could be gambling my money away.
I could be drinking my life away.
I could be homeless.
I could be dead. I could be. . .