Run On Review: 7 Pounds

Will Smith is a mysterious sexy sad man who lurks Anton Chigurh-style throughout the proceedings stalking Rosario Dawson throughout a hospital slipping past receptionists and stopping closing elevator doors with a black briefcase showing up next to her bed several minutes after recieving a cellphone call from her in order to determine that she's a good person so that he can give her a 6 month extension on the balance of back taxes she owes the IRS after showing up in her backyard to feed her vegan Great Dane raw meat but before eventually fixing her vintage printing press during a subsequent break-in which precedes sleeping with her which then directly precedes him sprinting in a salmon-colored shirt through the rain to call his friend [dude from saving Private Ryan who's like a cross between Gary Busey and Michael Douglas] who's been instructed to forcably convince the people at the hospital to give the now dead from jellyfish-induced suicide Will Smith's heart to the suffering from congenital heart failure Rosario Dawson and his eyes to a vision impaired Woody Harrelson so the two can subsequently hook up after a childrens chorus recital once Rosario Dawson has found the world's greatest sundress and Woody Harrelson has a better haircut.

I Don't Know What The Fuck To Read

I don't know what the fuck to read. I thought about maybe a list of the year's best books, that were in my general purview of poetry reading habits. But I'm drawing a total fucking blank as to what could further my education, give me a deeper understanding of geopolitical events, teach me how to grow a victory garden, or understand current poetics. This is because I don't know what the fuck to read. If I had any idea what the fuck to read, I'd be reading that right now wouldn't I? I once read a few pages into Ulysses, a little of The Cantos, a smattering of Remembrance Of Things Past. Not knowing what the fuck to read, I was doomed not to finish those books. I read some of The Bible once. And an entire book of Dennis Miller's rants, when I didn't have cable, a long time ago. I also made Suddenly Salad in a fry pan. And I lived in Jackson, Wisconsin. There is a Jackson, Wisconsin. At around the time in my life when I lived there I read the wrong translation of Rimbaud, the one you're not supposed to read, but hey, I don't know what the fuck to read.

Not knowing what the fuck to read has left me it seems with 2 options. I can join the police force or holler at you over the Telecommunications that Homeland Security provides. It's not Homeland Security's fault that I don't know what the fuck to read. They don't teach me what to read, but I knew that already! In order to enjoy what I'm reading, I need to know that I was supposed to have been reading it. Know what I mean?

And finally I can't rely on nature to tell me what to read. It doesn't tell me. When I try to read it, it kind of snickers all in a round. Like the drinking songs of nature are God's ontological drinking songs.

Reading has no point in The Real Deal of today's multiple meltdown scenarios either. Trying to figure out which meltdown to read is like trying to take a big crap in the woods, and Armed Guerrillas are all around, snickering at you. They're humming the drinking songs. And the drinking songs were reinvented from Nature.

The deeper a person gets into not knowing what the fuck to read, the more they can actually enjoy reading on a cellular level. If they have a reliable network of Armed Guerrillas at their disposal that is... Sometimes when I look into the sunset, I feel a fatter sunset is emerging. A more tactile one than where I attended the Universities, which also failed to show the correct reading material. The reading materials of this sunset appear to be vast and large, have acne scars that are weeping uncontrollably. Those acne scars function as time-stopping goofs, skips within the network of reading that proliferates in a consuming consciousness, until it becomes obsolete. In each acne scar is a dictionary of diagrams. And each diagram is a diagram of a person's reading habits, updated each time one of the poor weeping pores blinks an eye.

Art Tasers Monthly
by Weldon Gardner Hunter & Mike Hauser

What happens when "Marche" asks "Umm, a didgeridoo./ Why?", and April calls back "o innocent importune booger!!/ create!"?

What happens is Art Tasers Monthly, a collaboration I did with the very gifted poet and flaneur about Vancouver, Weldon Gardner Hunter, that I also happen to be very proud of. I have a few copies, just out from Ruining Your Vacation Press. I might take them to Woodland to put on consignment. But hey make me an offer. Or try RuiningYVPress@gmail.com.

Also out is Meal Ticket #1, featuring the same Mr. Hunter, Lindsay Colahan, Brittney Dennison, and Ryan Clark, also most likely hit-up-able through RuiningYVPress.gmail.com.

I happen to have friends who are great musicians, as well as friends who are great poets. (And friends who are hilarious, sexy, contrarian, slinky etc.) My great friend Zack Pieper happens to be both of those from the first sentence. And on both the poetic and musical tips are these two awesome debuts from two seperate projects in just the last few months. Should I decide which one I like more? I ask myself this only for a second. It'll probably just be a case of diurnal promiscuity. I'll probably listen to The Trusty Knife more often in the morning (my morning, which is 11 or so), and Farms In Trouble later at night. That's the trend that's developing anyway. The Trusty cd while not yet posted, is available, so get on their asses about that too.

Riverwest Currency.

Mike's Plans for The Afternoon

Back to you, Karl!

New Vernacular

Person 1: How are you?

Person 2: Hangin' in there like vintage kitties!

Possible Futures

You might find yourself fighting John Cougar Mellencamp to the death for a hunk of bread.

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