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my mom keeps all my old baby clothes in a box in our basement. she says that she keeps them there in case i have a little girl. we keep the unoriginal secret that one day she hopes that i'll wake up a baby again, in 2003. she tells a story about reading my sister and me a book on the floor of target after i was born, how the aisles seemed like they were stretching out forever and we would have all the time in the world to read every book if we wanted to, which, of course, we would. i still let her read me picture books. if someone asked me if i still let my mom read me picture books at 22 i would try my best to look at them funny. my mom keeps too much in our basement. this summer i told her i would help her clean it. we walked around in a circle and decided we needed everything for now and that we would get to it another day. one day we would clear it out with a fire hose, as if she didn't still have a piece of paper in her car that my sister wrote a reading list on two years ago ("jane eyre, a court of thorns and roses.") this morning i found mold on the bagels she picked out for me at the store. i threw the bagels away, destroying the act of unusable love, in retrospect because it was replaceable.
i think about what will be in her cabinet when she dies, if i will throw away all the food she bought, permanently rubbing out the loving act, choking it out of this world with my thumbs in its eyes; or if i will sit at my kitchen table with a preroll and watch it rot while the cats howl.
in 1985 one of my friends was in a Northeastern psychology program.
the university was Northeastern, and I am midwestern. we both are.
but this isn't about the course. i was in this weird study.
this girl said they were looking for people with disfigured faces.
my face is disfigured. not just disfigured-- Disfigured. it got burned. i dont have to tell you about it
anyway, in the study, some of the participants got fake burns on them.
but i was one of the ones with the real burns.
it was a study about social stigma and stuff.
the thing that everyone remembers about the study is that the people
with the fake scars
got the scars wiped off
without knowing
and went out into the world
and said that things were really hard for them
people were mean to them because of the scar
etc
but really they couldn't have been
because there was no Disfigurement
if you look up the study, the zerox'd version of it has an old wrinkly man's hands on all of the pages.
i guess that i was not a good control group person.
i had a dream that everyone all of my friends everyone called me Birth Mark Scar Mark Bitch Mark
which doesnt even make sense (Kleck, 1985).
References:
Kleck, R. (1985). Gender and Responses to Disfigurement in Self and Others. Journal of Social and Clinical Psychology. Retrieved August 4, 2023, from https://www.researchgate.net/publication/270540863_Gender_and_Responses_to_Disfigurement_in_Self_and_Others
HI, IT'S ME, CHASE OUTLAW AGAIN. I LOVE MY WIFE AND WEIRD THINGS ARE GOING ON LATELY. I DONT REMEMBER IF I TOLD YOU THIS BEFORE BUT MY WIFE'S JOB IS BEING THE HOT GIRL IN HORROR MOVIES WHO DIES FIRST. SO OBVIOUSLY I KNOW HER JOB BUT SINCE THE HUSBAND OF THE GIRL WHO DIES FIRST IN HORROR MOVIES DOESNT KNOW WHAT'S GOING ON, I DONT REALLY KNOW WHAT'S GOING TO HAPPEN TO HER CAREER WISE. SHE MOSTLY WALKS AROUND OUR HOUSE IN HER UNDERWEAR AND THAT DOESNT SEEM LIKE A CAREER TO ME. I WONDER WHAT WILL HAPPEN TO HER WHEN SHE STOPS BEING HOT? WHEN I WATCH HORROR MOVIES, THE GIRL WHO DIES FIRST IN THE HORROR MOVIE ALWAYS DIES, BUT THE HUSBAND NEVER SEES IT COMING. SO OVERALL I THINK I WOULD BE VERY SURPRISED IF SOMETHING AWFUL HAPPENED TO HER. I TEND TO GIVE HER A LOT OF TIME ALONE AT NIGHT BECAUSE SHE LIKES IT I THINK.
IVE NOTICED THAT MY BUSTED EYE LETS ME SEE TO THE OTHER SIDE. I CAN STILL SEE THIS SIDE THOUGH-- IT'S NOT LIKE FULLY BUSTED. MY TWO YEAR OLD DAUGHTER IS TEACHING ME HOW TO CLEAR MY CHAKRAS SO I HOPE THAT HELPS ME TO EITHER SEE THE OTHER SIDE MORE CLEARLY OR LESS CLEARLY. IT GIVES ME DOUBLE VISION SOMETIMES WHICH GIVES ME A HEADACHE. MY DAUGHTER SAYS MY SACRAL CHAKRA IS OFTEN BLOCKED.
if you think my poetry is bad then that's because i decided to write it bad. when it comes down to it when you peel back skin flesh bone to the marrow all poets are all asking for something. or maybe that's not poets and it's just me. out of my marrow i will make weird bone marrow cheese and i will make a beautiful candlelit dinner for you with my mom's lead paint dishes and we will eat the weird bone marrow cheese with nothing else, just by itself unsalted and we will throw it up because it's weird and it sucks. the kind of throwing up where we fall over each other in the hallway to your bathroom and the world is transformed into receptacles. and we will be too sick to our stomachs to fuck each other but you can play with my hair and we can watch pride and prejudice and zombies and gnomeo and juliet and sherlock gnomes while i deny that im falling asleep
i am writing my the bible but only the old testament and it's for a pumpkin god. my the bible will have specifications for the way that the temple is built and the way the stucco is laid in the walls and the way that the siding on the outer walls will strangely look like a dentist's office in a strip mall. my the bible tells the builders to make an organ out of melted crayons and to have tiny waxy bottles full of sugary liquid instead of communion. and the inside of the church should look like my childhood bedroom. there should be plastic planets strung across the ceiling and a green pattern on the walls that my mom dabbed on with a sponge. my bed will be in the corner. my the bible will forbid sitting on the bed with your shoes on. my the bible comes with an alarm clock that goes off on trash day before the truck gets to your house. the pumpkin will be important more in the book itself and i really am not obligated to explain that to you
we were both high in a place that reminded us of new orleans, and under the many moons of the bar we made plans to go there together. i didnt care about new orleans but you did. you said out loud, "what if this is the last time we talk about it?" and i said "no, we'll plan it, trust me." and the rest of Summer has started leaking out of herself, cold water eating out of a paper cup onto an old nudie magazine, and we're watching the colors bleed. we do not comment on it. we're tourist scuba divers carving our names on coral reefs while the instructor has his back turned. in the car afterwards i ask you if it's "reefs" or "reeves" and you throw a laugh into me like a baseball connecting with my nose. in national parks we lure the bison to your car, and when they gore the car we lie to the insurance men. one time i laughed and you said it sounded like a bark. when this poem ends i will think about the fact that i deserve probation more than you do. there is something that reminds each other of ourselves when we were stupider, puppies crawling towards the sun
you are 12, mii sports
gross character, disgusting
spite for online life
I had this stack of magazines in the back of my dad's closet. My dad died last week so the magazines are mine. I guess the closet's mine too. They're the kind of magazines that aren't appropriate to talk about, if you catch my drift. What I'm trying to say is that they're sex magazines. They're copies of Playboy from the 70s and 80s. My wife Linda and I, we were cleaning out my dad's house. He had a heart attack. And the magazines were sitting at the back of the closet. February 1985 was the first one on the stack. This girl in 80s hair all swept to the side and a big cowgirl hat and big cowgirl other stuff if you catch my drift, standing in front of this big star, smiling to kingdom come. At the top, above her head, it says THIS YEAR IN SEX (AND WHAT A YEAR IT'S BEEN!). Below that a little it says YAAAAAA-HOOOOOO. They don't make porn like that anymore. All smiley and rebellious at the same time. Porn now is just heaving and hawing like cattle. My wife Linda and I, we don't like porn too much.
I put the magazines on Facebook marketplace and a girl wanted them. I thought she must have been a lesbian but she said that she wanted to keep them in her boyfriend's apartment as decoration. I guess that's the kind of thing you can do now, be a lesbian with a boyfriend and give him porn. I don't know if I should've sold them to her. She kept saying that she was out of college and 22 years old whenever I asked her age, but I don't know. She looked young. She said that the magazine on the top caught her attention. This girl picking them up, she had cowboy boots on. I don't know if cowboy stuff is something that kids are doing nowadays as Kink but I'm glad the magazines are gone.
HELLO MY NAME IS CHASE OUTLAW AND I'M A BULLRIDER. I HAVE A FUN TIME RIDING THE BULLS BUT NOT IN A SEXUAL WAY. HERE ARE THE THINGS THAT I LIKE AND DISLIKE:
I DISLIKE LOSING WHEN IM RIDING THE BULL. WE ONLY HAVE TO STAY ON THE BULL FOR 8 SECONDS WHICH DOESNT SEEM LIKE A LONG TIME TO LAST (FOR EXAMPLE, AT SEX. I DO NOT WANT TO HAVE SEX WITH THE BULLS THOUGH) BUT IT IS A LONG TIME WHEN YOURE DOING IT. My wife talks about things lasting longer than you would expect too. She works 8 hours a day and talks about how long it is every day. IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT, IT'S CRAZY THAT MY SHIFT AT WORK LASTS 8 SECONDS AND MINE LASTS 8 HOURS. THATS LIKE 100X THE AMOUNT OF TIME! MY OTHER DISLIKE IS THE FACT THAT I BUSTED MY EYE OPEN WHEN I GOT BUCKED OFF A BULL ONE TIME. I STILL HAVE THE EYE BUT I FRACTURED MY SKULL AND STUFF.
My likes are my wife and the lord my god. My wife is one of those girls in horror movies who walks around the house in her underwear and gets killed by a serial killer. It's nice because she gets to work from home. She hasn't been killed yet which is also cool. It sucks that she can't do childcare while she works-- we have 6 kids, all between the ages of 0 and 3. She also hates that she has to do that. But she's obviously hot because the girls who get killed first in horror movies always are. Given that we both have such dangerous careers, our kids spend a lot of time with their grandma. The last thing I love is the pickles from Jimmy John's. They still taste a little bit like cucumbers which I like. I ALSO LOVE MY COACH. HE WAS A BULLRIDER TOO BUT HES IN A WHEELCHAIR NOW. THE REASON WHY I LIKE BULLRIDING SO MUCH IS BECAUSE THE FAME AND THE THRILL MAKE ME FEEL LIKE I'LL LIVE FOREVER
i am 17 and we are playing my favorite game waitingroom waitingroom and we are sitting in a room with no windows. i tell them what i am there for and they spin me around before dropping me on the platform. after i strip like a woman, someone baptizes my bones with stickers. i draw my eyes inside myself.
if you think about the shape of your eyes, you can imagine calcium crescent moons sitting inside your head at the back of them, spooning them like bodies. i am not seventeen anymore and the stickers did not peel off slowly. one day the peanut butter jar of seventeen will be empty and covered in sticker residue. i will put it back in the fridge anyway.
(the internet is a stress ball that jiggles when you touch it with a stick. touch it with your hands. kiss it. it wants you to put your hairy parts on it so bad! (so that it can be disgusted with you making it hairy (but it didn't want you to do that. it wants to talk to you about how much it hates the people who touch it. (the ball has dementia and doesn't recognize you. (tears aren't honey. tears are not honey because they evaporate but both never truly spoil and they might be good for your skin but in the long term it will be bad. (if i sit in my living room and hear a door open then i can trick myself into hearing long vowel sounds and the tune of the washing machine starting. (my mother shows me a video on the internet called "the c word, but for men." (im surprised she likes it. she says that she probably shouldn't show it to me and i tell her that i watched the video 7 years ago. (ive been staring at this couch for longer than 7 years. ((ee cummings said that death is no parenthesis and he died) more than 7 years ago))))))))))
-tie two bananas together and make them walk
-tie the banana to a fishing pole and cast it down the street
-put the banana in a stroller
-dress your dog up like a banana
-make the banana walk you
-dress up the strangers like bananas and make them walk each other
-fire your therapist
- & the heat works fine just in time for summer.
- & i am remembering summer in the back of my girlfriend's car senior year of high school. we splurged for a ten dollar walmart minifan so that we didn't destroy her battery. it did not work very well.
- & i roll down the windows in my corolla
- & i am remembering
- & in the same way that fall holds nostalgia in her hands, summer blows it on your face like fine sand. and it works because it sticks to the sweat on your face.