Well this sucks...

Hey,

Had some issues...

Basically I had to start over once again.

So here's all the old stuff.

http://floggart.blogspot.com/

Essentially, when I got rid of my gmail account, which is a whole different story, I deactivated my blogspot account, and so all of my work is stuck on the above webpage. Thats fine I guess, it actually helps consolodate things, but it's far less easy to access right off hand.

Below you will find the last posting, just to provide some reference.

-Brad

Blog de la Floggart
Sunday, December 7, 2008

October - December

Hey all,

The following is my poetry manuscript from this semester of creative writing. You'll probably see a few more of them agian at some point, just because they go through one more revision. It's been awhile since I've blogged anything, over a month in fact, so this is hopefully will get things going again.

In all, the last couple of months have been the busiest time of my life. I've come to find that college is not only one of the hardest experiences I've ever had to undergo, but it is also one of the most rewarding and fun. I've met people and done things that I'd never have had the chance to do otherwise. The people that I've met, or been thrown into relationships with, have changed me forever. For instance, all the people that will probably never read this because blogging is dumb, yes that means you Hannah, you guys have had a profound impact on me.

Pat: You were the first person I really got to know here. You came by and just sort of stood there and yelled at me about the business world till I became your friend. It was excellent. You've helped me make a number of decisions that would have otherwise gone awry. You have an extremely level head and I appreciate it.

Kyle: You're probably the next person I met. Man, I could probably tell you anything, literally anything, and you'd still cheer me on. I don't know what it is...but you have a way of being so completely straight-faced and non judgemental about situations that you could very easily judge. I appreciate that too man.

Chris: You are my best friend up here. No doubt about it. I think that's all I have to say. You put up with my wierd shit and you even do some pretty odd stuff yourself. I love it. Don't ever stop just lingering around my room, even if I look really irritated. Had I had a roomate, I would have wanted it to be you. And that's not meant in a wierd creepy homosexual way...or is it?

Katie: You are loud. You are sometimes obnoxious. But you are so beautiful. Mainly in the fact that you don't care about what anyone thinks. This is a quality that I want so badly. You also seem to be perpetually helpful, especially lately...And you always know what to say, no matter the situation.

Hannah: I don't know where to start. You and I...know a lot of crap about eachother. I feel like you know me better than you should...but I'm okay with that. I know I've had my fair share of blunders, but you've stuck with it, and I'd like to think we're still pretty close. Stay squinty!

Demetrius: You are the funniest kid I know, and you put up with so much of my shit. Thank you for not killing me and always being a good sport. I know I've hurt your feelings and I want to say, I never meant that man. Never. Here's to more good times.

Michele: Do me a favor and quit hailing on my parade. Word. Okay, so you are so stoic all the time, but it's good. You totally balance out the whole group and it rocks. Right on!

To the rest of my third floor companions: You guys rock. End of story.

Chance: You are a whole different story that has no place on the internet. I'll just write a book. You'll see.

Forrest: See the posting for "Chance."

Anyway, the rest of this post is just poetry. I'll be more dilligent from now on. Enjoy.



.50 caliber clarinet

woodwinds and brass
strings and percussion
these are but small units
yet when they gather
they are a whole
sometimes Conflicted
a Battle
sometimes Harmonious
a Union

who is to say
what it is that makes
A woodwind a woodwind
the strings strung
the creator of the instrument
he that holds its neck
its barrel or joint
he that plays it
makes it do his will

guns and knives
planes and bombs
these are but small units
yet when they gather
they are a whole
sometimes Conflicting
in Combat
sometimes at Peace
an Armistice

who is to say
what it is that makes
a gun a weapon
a knife a bayonet
the creator of the instrument
he that holds its hilt
its barrel or its stock
he that uses it
makes it do his will

777 Prospect Ave.

scantily clad women
and a kilo on the counter
white smiley faces
the wind could blow away

papers and paper backs
reeks like a hamster cage
waterlogged wood
swells and creaks

men with guns
holstered or otherwise
swagger from room to room
then mysteriously leave

the surrounding houses
with shot out lights
boarded up windows
no signs of life

our house stands Alone
Decrepit yet Glorious
testament to Lust, Addiction
and Parasitic existence

Death on Call

it’s extremely odd to look back

today was the last day i’ll see you
for god knows how long

you’re off to kick some ass
for the country called america

you are not a patriot though
you just know what you want
you are beautiful in this way

air force tactical air control party
the red green and blue dot on your map
a first step in changing all of our lives

my current picture of you
watching your white subaru pull away
your index and fuck you finger held high

i hear zach wylde, randy blythe
every audioslave album there is

i relive every conversation
religion, politics, running, military

i will miss you my friend, my brother

fingers

sometimes
i use a compound miter saw
to cut off people’s fingers
fingers that touch things
they are not supposed to
fingers that steal
hurt and break.

sarcasm is a bitch

this evening i attended a reading
poetry and fiction
the person to my left
constantly accosted me
poked prodded pried
evaluated every moral fiber
he/she ripped out my soul
threw it on the floor
spit on it
giggled
i walked home
alone in the cold

my world/your world

there’s a world out there
where all the pigeons have tourett’s
and all the girls wear red lipstick
where the blind are led by unicorns
and all the cops ride scooters
where tortoises wear knee socks
and cheetahs chat on Bluetooth
where neckties are turbans
and cocaine is for breakfast
where the trees like to dance
and the wind smells like phosphorous
there’s a world out there
where Santa Clause is a gun for hire
and Bill Gates lives in a cardboard palace
where cabbages can crawl
and your p.o. is in love with you
where apathy is a necessity
and you can feel subatomic energy
where dreams are lucid every night
and classical music kills babies
there’s a world out there
where the drive-through gives you AIDS
and a gargoyle is your copilot

there’s a place, a time
where bad things happen
we all know it
we all love it
we make it happen
this is your world, your life
the place you go
when you’ve no other options

a little hell is all you need

here you make the options
choose the place you go
your world, your life
you make it happen
you love it
you know it
all the bad things happen
in this place, this time

there’s a world out there
where horses fly crop dusters
and the militia men perform ballet
where the system can’t be beat
and goblins run our fiefdom
where trilobites are pets
and brick houses burn down
where entropy is our life
and masturbation kills people
where smoke rises red
and mom sprinkles ash in the corners
there’s a world out there
where abstinence gets you shot
and pogo-sticks roam the freeway
where you don’t go on dates
and breakfast cereal is for rodents
where everyone is full of shit
and the blasphemy is tolerable
where sandboxes are booby traps
and the forest is full of manholes
there’s a world out there
where you fit in
and so do i

I Steal Sticky Notes From My Employer

Dreaming about dying from the third person
perspective is not very fun for most people.
Sometimes I see myself falling for hours only to
land on the concrete patio of some coffee shop.
The worst are the recurring ones that stop in
once weekly for a little cerebral chit chat.
Exactly when I fall asleep I know the dream is
coming but I can’t ever wake myself back up.
More often than not I wake up all sweaty and
hot and crying and really needing to take a leak.
This happens way too much and I really need it
to stop so I can sleep on a consistent schedule.
Strangely my boss seems to be happy to see me
every time I come to work after an episode.
Most mornings he looks at me like I am a small
bit feces stuck to the shoes of his black soul.
I think he controls my brain and knows when I
have this dream so that’s why he’s always nice.
One time he even bought me coffee the day
after and smiled real big and high fived me.
Normally he just glares at me and tells me not
to spill coffee in the copier so it won’t stick.
Every now and then I think my coworkers have
strange dreams too and I overhear them talk.
They think our boss is a crazy too and they ask
me if I can summon my zombie friends to help.
Next time I have that scary dream I have to call
the graveyard and warn them about all the dirt.
For now I think I’ll just write it on a sticky note
so I don’t forget and hope no one sees it there.
Now I want our boss to control all of our minds
so I can summon the zombies tomorrow night.
I’ll write that on a sticky note too.

Oaks

Things are becoming strange
Our nature as we know it
It seems everything is aging
Life has changed gears

I watch as sapling oak trees
Become behemoths, reaching skyward
Their limbs creaking and groaning
Natural blasphemy

Our world in transition
Sideways and up
The sun has stopped its roll across the sky
For now, things just grow on

Only The Dead

In the ground Under grass and loam Beneath a marker Encased in wood Sometimes metal Sometimes buried with a country’s banner Sometimes only ashes In the ground Surrounded by roots and soil
Lays honesty
You see
Only the dead are truly honest Honest about the state in which they exist Because they have no other choice There is no denial They are honest about beauty Because there is none And if it is, as some say That beauty is only skin deep, then There is rotting flesh Bloated, bulging organs Broken mortuary stitches
We are no longer honest
Not to ourselves Not to others We live in denial About Religion Love Hate Beauty Wealth Stature We remain in denial Of our place in the scheme Do we really not know? Are we afraid of it? The dead are not afraid They feel no hurt No fear No contempt They feel peace; nothing The dead are as they should be
They simply are
They only exist Until over taken by Countless other organisms Yet, still they exist Even if they are Literally particular They know nothing other Than what they truly are Can we, the living
Learn from our dead?
No
We deny death We cannot comprehend it We Cannot embrace it Not until it is upon us Sometimes, not even then We try to banish it With formaldehyde and keep Our dead in a state of denial Is death what it takes To bring true honesty To our world? Is it? Must we kill lying politicians And massacre religion? Must we do away With self denial And embrace inevitability? Must we accept That death is the only ultimate fate Rather than love Riches Or power? Can a human do such as this?
No
Only the dead can be honest



Again, for those of you who would like to look at more of my wrting/rambling/academic work, please follow this link:
http://floggart.blogspot.com/