this one’s for the ladies …

I hate to inform you of this


but I may have

zero interest

in your oh

so revered snatch

it might not be the single most

pertinent X mark

on my trail map.

Like a gawking peacock

hen-ing its head ’round

begging for attention

own the assumption

that those tail feathers

of color and lore

are tucked up there so tight

to match their preciousness.

Check my sources

ask any of them

coffee cigarette both neither

mention that I love them

they will explain in laborious detail

the nature of my single-mindedness

but, tonight, alone

we may all have been

and are


Creepy fan voicemail

Editor’s Note: Some guy who lives in Santa Cruz got my phone number from a friend from a friend from a friend kind of thing and insisted I come down to hang out. Here is a series of two voicemails I received at 3am.

Voicemail I:

Don’t you fucking start with me you fucking artist, I fucking hate your life.

I know I am one and I fucking hate myself that way and I know I hate myself and I know like you are one, and so you hate yourself that way, in identifying, and stuff.

And we haven’t offed ourselves yet. You oughta come down to Santa Cruz and come into like this beach town house and you should be playing beer pool, beer pong, I don’t even know what this game is. But you should be here because it would be awesome. Because it would just be awesome.

Just be awesome, with your life. Just live in joy. (Inaudible, something French)

Live. In. Joy….

Kay love. Why aren’t you answering at 3 am C’mon what are you asleep or something? Pussy.

Voicemail II:

Fuck you fucker. Look for inspiration.

Keep looking in Folsom because that’s where inspiration strikes.

…in a boring ass suburban town.

Can you just stretch your web out for a moment you stupid son of a bitch (fart sound)?