Entry One: Welcome to 65536.

How do I begin this?

Is this even relevant? It’s doubtful, and this is probably meaningless and pointless, but what isn’t? 

I mean, look, most of life is pointless and lacking in meaning, but should that stop me? It probably will, but for now I’m going to try and write and see if there’s any reason, or point, or grand cosmic plan guiding my pen. 

And I scribble slowly on a piece of pulp paper. How long will this last?

We will call this an introduction. Maybe I can give a little insight as to why I have decided, in 2021 (Spring, or close to it), to start a blog in an era where blogs are DEAD.

Again, pointless. But I persist.

Call me Cody. Cody Taylor. Hi, and hello, how are you? 

Here’s a quick sketch of me, the Me writing this post.

I guess you could say that I’m a Hillbilly Hipster, a rural Punk stranded in 65536, Missouri.

A town that is nothing more than a rhinestone on the gaudy buckle of the Bible’s belt. Trump’s America. 

I hate it here.

Please send rescue, S.O.S. Fucking Help! 

Here in 65536 the Confederate flag still flies. Here in 65536 the Good Ol’ Boys run the show, control the town, and drive big trucks with loud mufflers. T

They fly Don’t Tread On Me flags from their F-150 pick-up truck’s tailgate. 

Crazy Conservative Church Ladies gossip and snipe, and talk shit behind each other's back, and then hug and smile on Sunday at the First Baptist Church. 

The Preacher behind the pulpit paints a picture of an angry God and a Jesus that hates everyone who isn’t a Republican. A Jesus who hates all of those living beyond the margins.

Did I mention I hate it here? 

Wal-Mart is the cultural center of a town that is nothing but a cultural wasteland.

A town without a bookstore, without a record store. No museums, no theatre, no live music, and one bar that sits on the outskirts of town. 

The First Baptist Church Ladies have made sure to keep the booze out of 65536 proper, and only in the county can you get a beer, a whiskey shot or glass of wine. 

Those at the First Baptist Church drink behind closed doors and then lecture on the sins of alcohol. The Church Ladies keep their sips of white wine secret, their husbands drink beer with no one the wiser, this way they all get to keep their righteous indignation on Sunday mornings. 

Did I mention I hate it here? 

65536 is a town that is rotten on the inside, but looks pretty on the outside.

The rot is deep, and I doubt anything can be done about it. 

I fucking hate it here!

But I’m stuck, and so make do with what options I have available to maintain my sanity. Which are few. The pen is my only option. The pen’s all I got. 

I play pretend and write poetry.

I decide I’m a poet.

I fantasize that I’m a writer with an ISBN #.

These delusions of grandeur keep me from going absolutely batshit bonkers. 

I stick out, like an injured thumb, here in 65536.

I listen to Killer Mike on the radio.

I spin the Melvins’ Houdini and bang my head.

I listen to Lil’ Xan and Ski Mask the Slump God, and kind of dig it.

I listen to Big Black, Pansy Division and Jay-Z. In reality I’m a poser (at 40 are you too old to worry about being a poser?)…I listen to Teenage Fanclub and Neil Young’s On the Beach.

I keep to myself and live way below poverty’s demarcation line.

I tell myself I'm a starving artist. Whatever gets you through, right?

Damn! I sound so whiny. Bitching and moaning...I groan. 

I swear I’m not as bitter as I seem. It’s just lonely being such an outcast in a rural factory town with too many used car dealerships, and 27 churches for a town of 14,213 men and women and children.

I wish I could find my tribe. Lost and alone, lonely and feeling lousy. 

Bitch, moan, groan...I swear I’ll stop.

I read the Beats, the Lost Generation, Hip Hop lyrics, Bukowski and Hunter S. Thompson. 

Jesus! I’m such a cliché. 

I read John Ashbery. 

I read Noah Cicero. 

I read Megan Boyle and Jordan Castro.

I gave up on Tao Lin (but am still trying to finish Taipei). 

And now I look like an even bigger cliché.

Does this reflect poorly on me? 

I read Sylvia Plath, Anne Sexton, John Berryman. I’ve tried to read Robert Lowell, but got bored quickly, even though I can relate to his struggles with Manic Depression. 

I want to be Sal Paradise.

I dream I'm Kerouac in the car, On the Road with Cody Pomeray. Riding along with Dean Moriarty. Dig that Neal Cassady.

So many books line the shelves in my room, lots of them still unread, and may never be read. More books than one man could ever need. 

I read.

I write.

I try to maintain a sense of identity, try to maintain my sanity without hurting myself or others. 

I sleep. I’m bored. 

Am I as boring as I feel I am?

Is that enough of an intro, does this track sound okay? I hope so.

I’m single, divorced. I’m a manic depressive and medicated.

I work with at-risk and homeless youth, 13-21 year old kids, they're my purpose. At least most of the time. 

I work as a janitor. 

I have a fucked up bladder (more on this at some other time, but not now). 

I’m poor.

Who wants to date me?

I am available.

Don’t I sound like a catch, ladies? There’s probably a reason why I’m still single. 

Homely and broke. Joke’s on me. HaHaHa! 

And we all get a good chuckle at my expense.

The only other noun in the house is my cat, Ms. Maggie. We make do and try to be grateful for what we’ve got. Sometimes we’re even happy, but not too often. At least not often enough. We do okay.

Don’t really know what else to say about myself. Has this been enough? If not, write and ask me to answer any questions you still have.

But I know no one will actually write. But here: codyta1@gmail.com. 

Send all inquiries and howdy, and how are you, via the above address.

Will you write? Probably not.

This still feels pointless and solipsistic. But I am a known solipsist and all I know, really, is what is inside my muddled mind. 

Meaningless. I persist.

Am I manic?

Will this be my only message? Will I come again, and will I write more?

Maybe.

Probably.

I hope so.

This has been fun, I guess?

Hope to see you again soon, are you out there? 

Send word.

And I exit stage left and duck behind the curtain call.

I’ve been way too honest with you. I blush and am a little embarrassed. Why did I say all that?

Please don’t judge too harshly.

I take a bow.