So I haven't made a post since like last week or whenever, but that's not my problem. However here I am with a new post that will surely blow your minds! That's right, it's a couple of pictures of what my immediate surroundings look like when I sit down to write something. I figured you are just dying to see this, so here's what's up!

As you can see here, I am hard at work at a draft of a new thing. You can tell I am hard at work because there is a large beer within reach.

In this second picture we can tell I've made a good amount of progress from the first

picture. I not only opened the large bottle of beer, I also poured it into a glass. Also at some point I managed to capture a few wild hamburgers in the wild, one was eaten before I took this picture.

Yes, they were all very delicious.

Here, I have almost reached the end of my writing for today. I know this, because the beer is almost gone. There's a direct correlation there possibly. Also, note how the pen has not changed position. That's because I am so good at writing that I never need to actually write. It's true

Okay so there I was, needing to work on homework but of course that's just no fun, so I sat at my table flipping through twitter. I have a twitter, in case you didn't know. Anyway, I was flipping through twitter, when I noticed a trend. Not a trending topic, I never pay attention to those.

The trend is that my arty farty friends like to live stream things. And for those of you who are too cool for internet stuff, live streaming is where you stream a video of you doing a thing, live. Clever how they got that name right? Right. So I got to thinking, I've never watched one of these live streams. That thought of course led to another thought, a genius thought, a million dollar thought.

What if I live streamed me writing a poem?!

I know right? Genius idea, like I said. Then I took a look at myself and what I was doing and thought about how that would look to someone watching online. For the record, the picture was this: notebook open, one line jotted down, whiskey and coke next to the computer, poet leaning back flipping through twitter on his phone when the kitchen timer goes off, letting him know his Kroger brand macaroni and cheese is done. He then gets super excited and squeals like a teenage girl at a Backstreet Boys concert (don't tell me this reference is old I don't need to feel old). So I was thinking about this image, picturing myself eating Kroger mac and cheese right out of the pot with a bottle of cheap coke and cheaper whiskey next to me I realized my mistake. This wasn't a million dollar idea, it was a billion dollar idea. It could possibly change everything about literature, screw the trochee's heave or whatever, this is it. This, right here and right now. Finally the world could see how literature and poetry is written.

But then I thought about it again and realized how boring and depressing it would be. For both the writer and the person watching. Really, who would want to see that?

(my twitter is @troubadourtofu if you want to know. it might be offensive sometimes so uh)

here are a few lines of a poetry that i am trying to work on, there isn't a lot so i don't know if you can get anything from it really, but deal with it

Every hello is a goodbye in disguise.

And when I say "I love you", it really means

that I'm sorry, because I will promise you the stars,

but only give you a grain of sand.

so that last post was pretty personal and serious and deep and that is not what i like being so here is a recent poem that is kind of lighthearted!

SWM seeking Muse

single white male looking for whiskey soaked rhymes

and a heart full of blues lines. I need that

Delta sound filling me up inside.

So your flowery sonnets with their flowery

words need not apply.

If the meaning is lost in pretentiousness

it's a mess.

And I don't feel like cleaning it up.

If a poem needs translation

from English to english then

it's worth none of my time.

So let me repeat:

I need that Southern heat, that tea so sweet

it curls your toes

I need vine covered walls and portrait plastered walls.

I need lines that make you feel,

not make you think

so hard you get an anuerysm.

I need the passion, the pleasure of a Southern belle in bloom,

the sound of cicadas

and the company of good

food.

So save your high brow speech for some other forlorn poet

Because I need you

to speak to me

Like a memory filled summer on a porch,

my blood thinned by whiskey and the air so humid

it leaves you

breathless

panting

yearning

longing

for more

so something i've never felt comfortable with is confessional poetry. i hate writing about myself, i absolutely abhor it. it's too personal, it's too close. i want to be able to say, "no, that speaker isn't me. no, that poem is about a made up story, it's completely fictional." i don't want to write about my life, because i feel like my life isn't worth writing about (yet?!). i don't want to write about my emotions because i know that i cannot do them justice. i don't want to write about major events because they deserve more than words that i haphazardly throw together and sentences that i break up arbitrarily.

is it something i'll get over?

i'm sure it is. i've noticed that if i just start writing, what usually ends up on paper is more personal than if i had sat down and developed an idea. i have written down things that i would never picture myself writing about, i have written about ideas that i thought were long gone. it is both a good thing and a bad thing, a blessing and a curse. i feel that as a writer and poet i should be able to write about the personal as well as the distant, i should be able to write about whatever my hands feel like putting on paper. i am starting to get there. i am starting to write more than just stories i make up in my head, i am starting to write about stories i make up with my life. life is all one big story after all, and the best way to live forever is for people to tell stories about you.

whiskey was involved in this blog post.

i am still alive

here is a poetries i quickly jotted down to practice on rhythm. i think it turned out okay. also rhythm is a weird word to spell

untitled (rhythm exercise)

in this frame of my life i'm the boy you never knew

fresh to the world not five feet tall

brown headed boy on the hood of a car

blue honda's hood meeting blue denim jeans

leaning over eyes closed kissing mom on the cheek

saying goodbye or saying hello, does it even matter?

no no no. know that this little kid

with the sunshine hair and the carefree air

always all smiles and laughing all the while

went extinct not too long ago

but a dinosaur fish off the coast of Brazil

came back from the past

so this little kid surely will

hi guys it has been a long time please do not hate on me. i have written a bunch of poetries but this one is my favorite so far. this is the second draft, there is another revision in the works but i actually really like it where it's at right now. so without further ado here it is, i hope you enjoy it.

Thoughts I Had While Flying Home

One

steamboat’s weight worth

of cicadas’ droning

drowning out whatever

my relative says. It’s not important

that the sun hangs low or

that the air is closer to a stew,

thick and bubbling with the scent of heat. I’m numb to it,

the vibrations of countless crystalline

wings blocking it all out

everything

block out the sun

two

times this week I sat legs crossed

head back laughing while the grilling meat

told a sizzling tale, a

spiced up story begging to be

devoured by us eager meat eating listeners

three

days ago we sat while the artificial

stars on our vine hidden porch blinked in time with

their highborn brothers and sisters. And all I

could do was sit and watch, bourbon

in one hand, cigar in the other

four

redneck hick prick bastards

hollering that the South will rise again,

too full of cheap rotgut whiskey to realize

the South they want, She’s not ever coming back

She never really fell in the first place

No, she just changed, she just grew

into something a little less ugly