BAUMANNBLOG

I'm an actor, writer, publisher, book cover designer, accidental angel investor and human with Crohn's disease. Carbohydrates are my drug.

Ask me anything

• from a thing in progress

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  Please, put this book away. If you can, leave it for no or less or better noise. We hold our kind’s poison—you right now, only because I found these forms, its vial. If you continue, keep a skeptic’s eye. Hide your admiration and shuck as much as you can get.

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  I saw Paris in my stapled gut. That city is so enormously civilized—it will be the first to burn. Fires licking up gilded walls. I couldn’t walk, so we needed a pre-grunt ritual. Eventually, my abdomen will show a pink line. It forks once and slightly, like forgotten lightning.

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  We lived in seven homes. The first was full of bugs. The second caught a lot of light—neighbor eyes. We took the third house home in gray bags. Plants, of course, and a fox we saw often—the fourth. The fifth had its own mother—say hello. The sixth was just hell, we laughed. The seventh—

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  Fortunately, nutrition doesn’t have much to do with your disease. Fine, I say—a beverage of hot walls.

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  A cop, a crucified general—guest lists on a hidden mirror. I taped off realms of the mortuary, all so cautious—keeping the still of the bald man’s broken nose, beneath the sheath of video grain.

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  It took a candle, a circle of dirt, and a housecall by a patient vet.

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  We leaned against a long summer. Crafting a master wasp killing technique. A gazebo, gone rogue, swamped with Texas. We heard our birther whisper about it—I just forget some projects.

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  She tells me I told our children about fake hyperventilation. Sordid stuff—Star Wars breeds a draftsmen’s fight. But wait—I also lied about the truck to the head! Five year olds brandishing stats, ready to jewel and pound.

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  My desire for lotteried mass suicide came pretty easy. Fearing cash, floating in it. Raped, tortured, and your sister is missing—you guess the same fate, but didn’t read to find out. Then you do it and it’s done and your hands are numb, but—can we see it one more time, with more emotion?

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  An enclave of apprentices, apprenticing under each other, waiting.

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  Before he threw himself out a window—his apartment—he urged a love of forms. Sing for the bird, for he sang first. Before he hung himself—his garage—he urged a love of boredom. Feel the awe behind the task, make confident your time.

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  They founded a treasury of mindfulness. I opened my purse—stolen lobotomies, peanut oil secrets, a ghost train. They counter offered and the money was good, but the papers were a bit strict—full employment, twelve thousand years. We sealed ourselves inside a bivouac and started to hum.

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  I joke against a future of poverty. I do this for my wife. We’ve never heard of a prophet on primetime.

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  Every guest is demanding to know the bounds of the universe’s chaos—worst house party ever.

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  Letter to a young west Texan—quick, move to another city. As the audience files out, that’s when you start to listen. Be imperial in curiosity, not conversation. Eat leftovers.

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  Everyone! Shoot up a liquid living wage to stay healthy! More seriously—let livid fires burn, and keep faith the climbing road will curve. At worse—no sleep, ruin heat—descend.

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  We, among my family, blame heavy anesthetics for ruining Christmas.

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  The desire for this book to last tempered by my lucky and doomed inexperience with death.

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  The self is gross but it’s the only bridge in town. The metaphor has to die right here, because we need to stick our tweaking hands in the dirt—ecology of culture. Like me, smacking gum, saying—this should be your last date. Like my friend—mostly anonymous—to his public, saying: aspire to silence you coward.

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  Many mothers are raped. I keep telling my wife—I keep imploring disorder—it’s enough to just be and be good. Dead fucks blackmailed us. Now it seems enough to take your aim from the lotto: grace, humility, transcendence. I fill in my card—you’re watching—as what has to live screams.

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  Letter to a young west Texan—seek out the books about fat masturbating philosophers. I found mine in the middle school library.

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  Some special days: you’ve amassed an empire of car insurance. You’ve found out another of her friends killed himself. Scrounging up absurd flashes—coins in wet gravel.

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  I cite my father’s hands. He would talk about them, but then they wouldn’t grind, be grounded, fixing currents. It’s okay to err away from his work. He insists. Is prouder that you did. We hear this over the clock in his chest, glowing moons.

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  I really do advocate highly private accountant mercenaries. And only bacterial billionaires. But this pamphlet says it’s okay to spasm.

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  Two televisions facing each other, playing the nuclear blast scene in Terminator 2 over and over—add an oyster and the promise of conscience, and this still life is complete.

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  They argued—there are so many services that are more ridiculous than that, he said. He’d pay for it. Now, for $995 a year, you’re guaranteed 5 random street fights. You can’t put a price on practical wisdom.

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  • #txt
  • #in progress
  3 Aug 2012