THIS GUY

I knew this guy who had a pet dog. Everyone else had zebras that just stood there eating grass, but this one guy had a dog that could do all these tricks. He named his dog Mitch and taught Mitch how to run a blog. Mitch did it pretty well, this guy thought. So he entered Mitch into a few blog races. A blog race is where blogs chase a fake rabbit around a track to see which one crosses the finish line first. Some people think it's cruel, but not this guy. He was totally banking on Mitch winning big. This guy had recently been fooled into a subprime mortgage that he couldn't afford. Each night he listened to Tom Ashbrook of WBUR talk to famous economists who prophesied the end of the world, or at least democratic capitalism. This guy was nervous. He'd stopped bathing. All he did was train Mitch, night and day. I used to go over in the evening and watch Mitch post. This guy knew Mitch would be the answer, and I started to think so, too. I told Jeff and Donna at work about Mitch, and pretty soon the three of us were subscribers to Mitch's RSS feeds. We formed a MySpace group called Believers in Mitch and, just for good measure, posted a few flyers around Allston with a picture of Mitch and Jeff's brother's cell phone number on it. Jeff's brother had loaned it to Jeff before going to prison. The next night we got a call from this guy. Yes, this guy. He said that Mitch had been hit by a car while crossing the street. Apparently Mitch had forgotten to look both ways because he was thinking about his next post. This guy said the first thing he saw after he'd scooped Mitch off the pavement was one of our flyers. He said Mitch would've liked that. This guy said it was crazy but he still believed in Mitch. One day, he said, just you wait.

THE DOG

He knew he shouldn't urinate inside. He remembered what had happened the last time he couldn't control himself. The man had not been happy. He had raised his voice and forced the dog's nose into the puddle. He locked the dog outside for the night, where the dog could urinate anywhere he wanted. It had been cold and dark and not even the exotic scents of wild animals could make him feel better. He feel asleep curled up in the pool of light seeping through the back door window. In his dream he dug through trash and treed a squirrel; in the morning he dug a hole in the garden and urinated on the same tree from his dream. The yard seemed big, then small. The world was a mystery. When the man appeared and made some kind sounds, the dog felt safe. He went back inside and ate food from his bowl, curled onto his bed, and fell asleep. He dreamt he crawled under the man's covers for a creature that smelled like applewood smoke. He awoke and roamed the rooms in search of the man. He drank some water and thought about dirt. Constantly, the urge to urinate.

MOUSTACHE

Back handlebar, in passing.
Three parts flour, two parts water.
Roux, nay, roue.
Plaster of Paris, TX.
A limp upper lip in lamb's wool.
Impeach fuzz.
Steaks.

AS TIME GOES BY

My letter didn't leave the depot.
The depot left my letter.

I didn't write the letter.
The letter didn't write me.

It said what I thought it did.
It didn't say something else.

Casablanca is dead in me.
I'm not going to die in Casablanca.

Speculum Stultorum

Speculum Stultorum.

AUTOGRAFFITI

I ask myself questions
and answer off-message.
I close my eyes
to watch for floaters
and see history.
I take myself to dinner,
offer to pay the bill,
and politely refuse.

Still Life

Light stone, a stack
of books, dust.
Bubblewrapped antlers.
A tumbler without ice.

I tire of tables.

At the grocery store
I will buy perishable goods
and connect with humanity.

Human Nature

Someone had been walking through my garden, and I'd started to resent it. I put up a sign that said, Please Walk Elsewhere, but by morning someone had put up a countersign that said, Please Plant Elsewhere. We'd reached an impasse. A few weeks later, another sign appeared: Why Not Just Switch Places? That night I covered the sidewalk in potting soil, transfered my plants and shrubs, and paved over what used to be my flowerbed. I woke up to discover that someone had walked through my new garden.

The Future

Humans have devolved in the past two centuries. First, with everything so loud all the time, we lost our hearing. To communicate with each other, we came to rely on handheld devices, but the effort overstimulated our thumbs. Since no one could think of a solution, we grew giant thumbs we dragged along the ground until we became too tired to gesture or send text messages to anyone. Someone a while back experimented with "smart" sidewalks made of touch screens, but our feet kept getting in the way. So we stopped walking. We can't hear, we can't communicate. Everything is silent and still. For some unexplained reason, I was immune to these mutations. I am the last person on earth with normal thumbs and ears. I blog into the void.

Insomniagriculture

I met a farmer at the grocery store. He told me he was on the verge of a scientific breakthrough whereby plants would stay up all night so the rest of us wouldn't have to. I said that was fine with me, as long as the vegetables didn't suffer. He assured me that they couldn't feel a thing, that "lettuce isn't sentient."

"No," I said. "What I meant was, vegetables can stay up as late as they want as long as they won't wilt or rot." He replied that wilting and rotting is not in his lettuce's genetic agenda, and mentioned something about "the biological will to crispness."

"Like survival of the crispest?" I asked.

"Yes," he said. We agreed that a "sad vegetable" is a wilted one, not a dejected or depressed one.

I was glad to have cleared that up. Vegetables, for most of my life, have been mysteries, but I felt better knowing they were happy. By "happy," I mean "healthy" and "hearty." Relieved of the burden of being alert, I spent the rest of the summer in a permanent vegetative state.

Myth

I had a myth that started to break down, even when I splashed water on it and let it take naps in the afternoon. Nothing worked--the myth that had served me for so long was dying. So I walked along the highway to Target to find a new myth to suit my tastes. It took me awhile to get there because there wasn't a sidewalk and the brush was very high. Drivers honked their car horns to cheer me on and made hand gestures in support of my quest. I took heart. Once at Target, I asked a salesperson where the myths were; she said Aisle 8, near small appliances. What a variety of affordable myths Target had! I spent an hour examining each one. Finally, the saleperson told me it was time to go, that the store was closing and I'd have to make a decision. It was a tough call, and I'd come so far, but a rumble in my stomach told me that, more than a new myth, I needed the toaster oven on sale for $19.99. I walked through the electric sliding doors and into the black night, content with my decision. I didn't care that I couldn't see three feet in front of me: in the morning I would eat a hot and wholesome meal, prepared in my brand new appliance. Tecnhology gives my life meaning.

Moustache: Ironic or Iconic?

Caesar

True story about Caesar. Caesar had a crooked nose. Caesar had one eye bigger than the other. One day Caesar got caught in a monsoon that kept him from seeing a poetry reading he really wanted to see. Caesar's sneakers got soaked all the way through. Caesar cursed while walking through puddles to the besumement of onlookers and gawkers, shocked to see Caesar out in such a storm. Caesar came home and took a shower. Caesar had a salad for dinner.

Hey, Mitsubishi, Look No Further

Mitsubishi is in trouble and needs help. According to an article at the Automotive Business Review, "Mitsubishi has been looking for auto collaborations to support its struggling business."

Now, listen here, Mitsubishi. If you're looking for some auto-collaborations, then I've got a few you might want to check out. There's one online at Thieves Jargon. There are two more coming online at SIR! Magazine. And I got a full-length manuscript I'm shopping around called Auto-Collaborations With Myself. You want to shake up the car industry? Why don't you team up with a fucking poet? That'll mess with everyone's minds. Might be a disaster for your finances, though. In poetry land, a book is successful if it sells 300 copies. So, on second thought, sorry, I'll go on auto-collaborating with myself. Meep Meep!

Mini Knows Chad's The Boss

People know I got the auto-collaboration market cornered and they are awestruck and afeerd. That's why Mini--yes, Mini, the mighty maker of cars--has shown some common sense when introducing its new Mini Clubman. It's collaborating, sure, but as this article says, it non-auto collaborating.

Bad Poem, Parte Due/Part Deux

D'INDEPENDENCE

You slept with rapid preparation
for the world in Benkelman, NE,
even as I said, awake! and stuck
fried potatoes in your veins.

The direction of Cokeville was Wyoming.
You drew the rodeo pioneer
in a seat belt on the day
they celebrated our large fatherland.

House mortgages, conversion vans!
The open thing of this road,
the freedom to be taken,
all these stars, and more.

Independence, KS,
was a small house on the meadow.
You were hungry. I didn't stop.
I pretended not to see the lights.

Bad Old Poem, Babelfished From English to Italian to French to English and Edited

D'INDEPENDENCE

You slept beyond smallest,
restoring food with rapid preparation
for the world in Benkelman, NE,
even if I said, awake!, in Benkelman,
four years following.

Struck in the veins with my fried potatoes
all the direction of Cokeville,
I'm in Wyoming, where you drew twice
with the rodeo pioneer from celebration day
and rolled on the belt of safety
for turning of the colpevolezza
of our large fatherland.

The point of our house mortgages
was to buy this van of conversion!
That and the open thing of this road of all,
the whole freedom to be taken,
all these stars of zillion finally more.

But then conked Independence,
of Kansas, place of small house on the meadow.
Now you have hunger and want to go to house.
What house? I will not stop. We will not stop.
We don't even see any lights.

I'm Not The Only Bearded Chad Reynolds Poet

Here's another one. Watch him read his poem "The Man with the Mike in his Hand." Behold.

Other Chad Reynoldses

According to the first page of a Google search for my name, I am 60% of the Chad Reynoldses on the web. Here are some other Chad Reynoldses:

The Hot Rodder Chad Reynolds

The Mt. Union Footballer Chad Reynolds

The AKA Tackleberry Chad Reynolds

Dungeons and Dragons Chad Reynolds

The Fabricator Chad Reynolds

Hyperquake CEO Chad Reynolds

Deltona High Chad Reynolds

Cincinnati Facebook Chad Reynolds

6'8'' Forward Chad Reynolds

Saskatoon Musician Chad Reynolds

Caddie Chad Reynolds

The Bodyguard Chad Reynolds

Assistant Coach Chad Reynolds

Sergeant Chad Reynolds

Sirens!

"So they sent their ravishing voices out across the air / and the heart inside me throbbed to listen longer."

Lorem ipsum...

...vim ut utroque mandamus intellegebat, ut eam omittam ancillae sadipscing, per et eius soluta veritus.