I ate the baby with the wettest neck you've ever sniffed I'm going to tell you this one more time some other time from now ok

Help defeat the fucking tornado by buying BRIAN FOLEY's The Tornado is not a Surrealist. It's true, they really aren't.

In related news, my loft is supposedly going to be ready for me to move back into finally on July 4th. It's been 4 months now. We'll see if that date holds true.

KIM CHINQUEE gave props to Publishing Genius and my chapbook. Thank you Kim!

Recently, JEREMY JAMES THOMPSON asked me to annotate a poem by CHARLES BERNSTEIN for a broadside of his poem 'Every True Religion is Bound to Fail,' which was then presented at a reading by Bernstein for the Center for Book Arts Broadside Reading Series. It was also annotated by William Moor, Walter K. Lew, Dillon Westbrook & J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden, and Jeremy hand created a series of 150 numbered, autographed and absolutely beautiful broadsides, in which I appear printed in hot pink.

LOOK:



In the annotations I managed to discuss Orel Hershiser's productive pregnancy-making, Three Six Mafia pancake breakfasts, jacking off in the Georgia Tech library bathroom and other ridiculousness. Thank you Jeremy for inviting me in to such an awesome project.

I want to learn to hand-print things now but I imagine I feel lazy.

Right now reading ATMOSPHERIC DISTURBANCES by Rivka Galchen and I think enjoying it and also reading IT WAS LIKE MY TRYING TO HAVE A TENDER-HEARTED NATURE by Diane Williams and feeling in a melting room or something, which is awesome.

I am going to continue creating this thing to entertain my hard drive now.

This 'novella' or maybe 'novel' thing I am working on, maybe titled HOW MANY FLOORS DOES THE NIGHTMARE HAVE?, it is becoming maybe ridiculous.

Here is a part of a random graph:

The woman had a long black metal chain that ran out from her vulva. The chain led somewhere beyond the bathroom door. The woman continued with her fingers curling hair until her whole head was encased--her cheek skin slumped and slathered with bright white oil that clung to light underneath. Her tits had been removed. In the tub the father burped and nattered, trying to stand up. The nude woman’s neck was stacked with hickeys. Her spinal column seemed disrupted. Her ass, though--her ass had been on sticky paper, replicated through the years. The father nodded. He felt his back arch, his fat toes cracking as they cricked.

Day 7: Beirueareadlij

Day 7 @ 7:24pm there are 28627 words. I feel slightly better than yesterday as the energy of PART TWO is rather different from the first and is birthing babies in my sternum or something. I realized last night I haven't remembered any dreams since I started this which is unusual for me and a strange kind of silence.

This book is very 'bleak,' probably in parts more bleak and evil than anything I have written, but also I think funny. My funny, which is not always others' funny.

I feel like I am writing the closest thing to a Lynchian novel that I've seen. I feel like I am getting out all the 'evil' in me in this writing and when it is done (hopefully by Friday, first draft anyway) I will be expunged and good things are going to happen. I have a lot of evil to get out.

Today I want to call the novel: I AM THE ONLY BLACK GOD, which is an ODB lyric.

I tend to like to shoot myself in the foot, at least in the eyes of industry-types, though I think a lot of people would buy I AM THE ONLY BLACK GOD with a picture of an enormous antbed inside a living room or a child covered in mold on the cover.

I would buy the fuck out of that.

I would also buy a book with this cover:



No title. The picture is the title.

No matter what else I say in the future, the title of my novel is that picture forever.

Other things are about to happen.

My stuff is being packed and moved for me by some company the HOA hired. I was not allowed to pack or move my own stuff because they had a contract. They said I could come watch them pack my stuff. Tuesday I get to go watch them put it on a truck. I can choose between them putting it in a cubicle where I have 5 days to get it out or I can bring a truck for them to put it on and take it somewhere myself. Somebody from FEMA wants to inspect the place for the 3rd time now. They are waiting to see something in the walls unfold. They are waiting for me burst.

Submit to

NO COLONY.

Tornado Update + Links

Randomly got called by my HOA tonight. It's been about a month out of my home now. I thought I'd be back by the end of this month. Now they estimate it will be another 2-3 months. They are going to rip out the drywall and cabinetry in 10 out of 12 units in my building. The cabinetry has to be imported from Canada for some unknown reason. There's nothing wrong with cabinetry. They say they afraid of water having sunk into it. They want me to sign a contract tomorrow releasing some company they hired to move my shit for me. I'm not 'allowed' to go in and move my shit by myself. I had to sneak onto the property (with some help from unnamed sources in security) to get some of the shit I didn't want stored. A lot more water damage has occurred in the past few weeks. A lot of water from my neighbor with the missing roof has spread through the wall into my place. It ruined more books than I realized. I got most of my stuff stuff out, though all my furniture and the rest of my stuff stuff is in the apartment and I guess these fuckers are going to move it. I don't know what will happen if I do not sign. They keep saying 'good as new.' People keep saying 'at least no one was hurt.' At least no one was hurt. At least no one was hurt. It's becoming like the Pledge of Allegiance, hearing that. I'm glad no one was hurt.

Thank you to everyone who keeps writing me about my status. It is appreciated.

- - -

Justin Dobbs interviewed me a while ago and now it's on Dogmatika.

I want to actually write the book I was talking about here:

"My book is about abortion practices in middle Taiwan, where young mothers are made to squat in public fruit stands with their pants down and yip like my neighbor's dog until they are rendered infertile by their own sound. It is a very brutal and disturbing practice. I saw it once while I was on a ski trip with me mims and pips. We were sold shoddy ski tickets by a charlatan in a bunny suit. My dad will buy anything if you smile. Anyway, the main character in the book is a nurse practitioner whose main job is to stand holding the middle finger of this one young lady subscribed to abort. His name is Chuck and he has never seen himself in a mirror and he hates his father for leaving him at the Taiwan Zoo when he was young, which, if you've never been to the Taiwan Zoo, believe me, you'd understand. The book rotates between exhaustive stream of consciousness excerpts from Chuck during the nine day stand it requires to help Akisha (that's the girl's name) abort. Chuck, perhaps surprisingly, does not think in words that include the letter 'B', which is a trick I stole from a rather famous Taiwanese tome I most admire, titled Dahm-Vana-Ana Wee-Womp. The other passages in the book are told from the perspective of the child inside Akisha as he/she is being aborted. It's all very difficult, obviously, and I expect to win several awards. The book is titled Dahm-Vana-Ana Bee-Bomp: A Sequel, and will follow the release of my other recently completed book, Scorch Atlas. I went through a long period of not being able to walk without my hands over my face after I wrote this book. I was not able to call my mother and I was not able to cry. It was very hard, this writing. Very hard. Please give me the award."

Justin Dobbs and I are writing some kind of thing together, sending short chapters back and forth. It is mostly written sporadically, high on coffee. I don't know what it is, but it is starting to scare me a little. I don't know what we'll do with it. I like it. I think about it while I'm driving.

- - -

Download the Lamination Colony Audio Suppository. I made it quickly but it's a good listen, I think. It sounds good with fat headphones.

Various

Thank you to everyone who commented/wrote/called about the tornado shit. It has been and continues to be pretty disconcerting and/or surreal and/or difficult. I finally got to go into my place this morning and check it out. I was really lucky. My window had been busted out so the firemen could get in but there was no other damage to the actual building structure. A lot of wet got into my closet and messed up some stuff and there was a fine layer of dust and crap all over everything, but other than that, it is intact. My stuff is fine, with the exception of some warped books, and an impending case of mildew. There's still no word as to when we'll be able to go back to living in the building, as many others were severely damaged. A wooden roof beam flew off of one building and basically impaled the living room of a unit three doors down from me. My neighbor on my right had his roof ripped open and lost all his stuff. I'm still a little fucked on not being able to sell it anytime soon, but with the list of everything else that could have happened, I am thankful.

Life is strange. I think my brain is really beginning to come apart. I can kind of feel it. But okay.

- - -

On a more positive note, some fun things coming:

I have a thing in Chelsea Martin and Brandon Scott Gorrell's new zine: THIS IS STUPID I LOVE YOU, which you can get on the website I think and stuff from some awesome people like K. Silem Mohammad, Tao Lin, Kevin Sampsell, Mazie Louise Montgomery, Prathna Lor, Mike Topp and so on. I like handmade zines a lot.

I also have a review of William Walsh's WITHOUT WAX in the new print version of Rain Taxi.

What else. I don't know. Trying to distract myself. Trying to look for something.

About to start reading MY LIFE IN THE BUSH OF GHOSTS.

Atlanta Tornado

A tornado landed in downtown Atlanta on Friday night. The tornado landed on my loft complex. The Fulton Cotton Mill Lofts and the Stacks lofts in downtown Atlanta. I was not at my loft complex. I was a half-mile down the street at my girlfriend's house. We heard the tornado outside but it wasn't immediately apparent what was going on to me, because I hadn't been in a tornado. The trees were blowing horizontal and it was very loud.

Here is a picture of the building next to the building I live in:



If you look at the water tower in the upper middle and go down to the bottom of the building, that is where I run on a treadmill and read books by literary authors and the television broadcasting bad programming above my head in front of me on silent.

Here is the building on the right from another angle:



The tornado landed on top of this building and made 4 floors 'pancake' onto one another. This building has been standing for more than 100 years.



My girlfriend and I drove past the building right after it happened, not quite realizing the damage, though there was brick in the street. I have never seen so many trees down. You can't drive anywhere because the cops are blocking streets that aren't blocked by trees.

The building I live in is right next to this building. You can't see it in the photo. It is a much smaller building.

Around midnight on Friday night, about 2 hours after the hit, I came home half-drunk to see what happened and the cops would not let me go to my door or verify that my place was intact. They were not letting people go into the complex more than a little. My building was blocked and we had to go around a back way.

By my building there were two cops. They told us to leave. I said I wanted to look at my place and the guy said I couldn't and to leave and I still kept looking. The windows on my apartment seemed to be okay from where I was standing, but there was a huge pile of rubble in front of my door and all the other apartments in my building were damaged, including the units on both sides of me. There are only about 12 apartments in my building. Some had their roofs ripped open. The cop said if I didn't leave he would arrest me.

I haven't been allowed to enter the complex since then and I am not sure what happened inside my apartment, to my stuff.

Books and stuff. And clothes. And some stuff.

I was trying to sell my loft but now the buildings are fucked. The roofs got ripped off 3 out of 4 buildings. I don't know when we'll be allowed back in.

The shirt I am stuck wearing is not one of my favorite shirts.

They have now discovered 2 people dead in the rubble. They are still looking. Many others were hurt. I'm fine.

I don't know.

Earlier Friday morning I'd gotten a letter of bad news about money. I was angry because it was a bullshit situation that will cost me money. I was angry about bad momentum that seems to have been piling on me. I was in the parking lot at a gas station, putting gas into my tank that does not have a gas cap because someone stole it for the fourth time.

While pulling out of the Texaco on Friday morning about ten hours before the tornado came, I talked at god. I said, "If you're going to bring it, you might as well bring it all."

I said that and then I went to my parents' house to go out for my mother's birthday.

For dinner I ate veal.