I adjusted the links on this blog through the act of addition.
---Being linked is the second base of blogging.-----
-----We can now send shirtless pictures to each other----


I am back at work now, the bad work where I stare into space and inside the faces of people who make more money than I ever will. Of course this works pays more than my words do so I must do it, begrudged with a fake smile like the rest of the country.

I have read the chapbook Atlanta by James Iredell seventeen times. Each time I finish reading it I write a slash on my wrist and wave my fist at this city, the same one named as the title of James Iredell's chapbook. Atlanta (the chapbook) is hard to define, much like the city. Is it prose? Sure. Is it poetry? Sure, why not. Atlanta (the chapbook) is more punk rock than punk rock itself. It contains the most vivid writing to take place in The Clermont Strip Club I have ever read. For those that have walked into the dank place where boobs go to hang like coats on a lost and found rack you understand the backdrop I am speaking of.

If you don't buy Atlanta (the chapbook) you must throw ferrets at your mother.




On another note I am writing down people's alien abduction stories. Heard two the other day while serving coffee. Over the years strangers have just given me their stories of interstellar kidnapping hoping I have answers for them because I have an alien head tattooed on my wrist. The other day a man got very angry when I told him my alien was a little joke. The veins in his arms spurted up rather fast and his eyes grew wider.

He whispered "2012".

"What?"

"2012 you'll find out what the joke is."

I stood there hoping he would go away. I wondered if he was about to jump the counter.

"Gimmie my damn coffee joke boy." He shouted as I stepped away.