As the summer is coming closer to the finish line, I’ve been diligently working on figuring out what’s going to make the cut for the follow-up to Plain Clothes Hamburglar. I’m really excited about all that I’ve been sifting through and tightening up. The new collection will likely amount to 60-65 pieces pared down from over 250. If I do it right, that should be the cream of the crop. There are some real weirdos in this bunch, things like characters and circumstance.

There are going to be a couple of readings coming up in August — the 11th in Des Moines at Rogue Planet Music with Yasmina Din Madden, Justin Carter and Jeanette Tran and then Aug. 13 in Iowa City with Sara Wainscott and Margaret Yapp. I will probably find somewhere to do something the 12th too, in between. Come hang the fuck out. I will be reading mostly new pieces to see if they’re worth a damn.

Lastly, I sent out postcard No. 120 of the year today. I have so much fun doing these and I hope that they’re bringing joy to people at the other end of the mailbox. I collage away at the front and throw something great that I read that day on the backside. If you want one of these, just email me at moellernightsinc@gmail.com. You’re likely gonna want one of these. They’re fun and I like making them so just hit me up. Keep me busy. — The Hamburglar

As I’m figuring out what’s going to try and make the cut for the follow-up to Plain Clothes Hamburglar, I’ve been going through the hundreds of pieces that didn’t make it into the first book, fiddling with them and seeing if that makes any difference. I think I’ve banged some of them into better shape and I’m going to start posting those here as I prep the next batch of things I’ve been cooking on.

PREPARE FOR THE SCRAPS

In the land of old money, christ herself is a bashful honey, handing out Jell-O shots to the 20-handicappers at the outing. In the valley of the devil, with the spun asses and the listing agents, it’s easier to fit in. The vain are believable as roosters and hens, slobber-bellied and sleep deprived. Wherever we go next, we will need to be okay with warm beer and crusty urinals, I do believe. I will need to be ready for your sorries to smell like a dead tooth. You should be prepared for scraps, for a distorted proof of concept and the original yawn you turned down. Our hands will prune and our faces will stay the way they look when all the ice cream graveyards are full and we have to cremate another sundae.

I want to say that it’s only been since January 2nd of this year that Richard Edwards has been a pain in my ass, but that’s shortchange. He wrote a song in or around 2008 entitled “Broadripple Is Burning” and he’s been an utter nuisance since then. Little did I know that I would like it. Little did I know that it would get worse. Little did I know that it would steep and quake and come to the point of actually captivating me in a way that I’d never before been able to experience. I have this thing where I think I’m grinding songs down to their essence and then I won’t need them anymore, because I’ve extracted it all from them. The listens, the insane number of listens, in a row, back to back, incessant listens, mind-fucking numbers of listens, full on infatuation, the infestation of a song on my poor body. But this confounded new song “Fuck” — from Edwards’ INCREDIBLE new record — Nepo Babies Take Manhattan — is grinding ME down. It’s getting me in a way that doesn’t compute in normal ways. I’m not overly attached to the general emotion of it. Or am I? I’m not overly involved with the sentiment but I think I am. I haven’t had the experience that occurs within this overwhelmingly beautiful sad song (though I’m not even sure I feel sad when I listen to it, which is the best way to feel sad, I’d wager), but there’s something here in this hypnotizing microcosm that makes me feel like I’ve lived in these waters. Edwards has written a piece of music that belittles other attempts at capturing the quiet nastiness of connection’s residue. There is monstrous pain oozing through this song, but it’s met particle for particle by the most compassionate shoulder and a tiny voice that maybe says, we get it, this is fair, this is good for you in the most human ways disappointment can be good for an animal. The fixation of longing and missing in “Fuck” is mesmerizing and I find the whole endeavor exhilarating in unknown new ways of feeling like we really are as delightfully simple and fragile as we need to be to make it through this shell game and not lose our heads. All of our restless motions and the people we share them with come to roost right here where the blood pumps through our slumping monitors. It’s all a big fuck. And there’s something for everyone in the act.

**PS :: NEPO BABIES TAKE MANHATTAN and PLAIN CLOTHES HAMBURGLAR MUST be fam.

**PPS :: SOME PLAIN CLOTHES HAMBURGLAR HOUSEKEEPING ::

If you’d like to occasionally get a fun postcard with some fun words on it from me, just to have some good mail for once, email me your address :: moellernightsinc@gmail.com.

Friends.

I haven’t used this platform all that much, not just in a long while, but really at all. I think that’s going to change out of necessity. Most days now, I’m looking for something brighter out of this dark stammer. I look to my crutches. I look to my friends. I look to something like the sky. I’m trying to find a breath in the blue, if that even means anything. I think it does.

Most days I question the helium and the brakes. I question where everything lies and what lies to me. I am uncertain of where the drain is taking us all, but I know that there is a visceral belonging that all of us hold dear and I want to be closer to it. I want to find more out there and I want to be embraced by my homies as I feel they need to be embraced more by their homies.

So, I decided that I want to start actively sending glimmers of hope into the world every single day. I went to the post office and I bought a sheet of postcard stamps and I am going to send out postcards and envelopes with fun shit in hopes that it makes others feel like they have something random to look forward to when they return to their homes or apartments or wherever every night, maybe after shenanigans and further chops busting. These weird crafty numbers are going to be arbitrary and strange and they will be clippings and quotes from cool shit that I read and absorb.

If you’d like to be in the random rotation of these little good scraps, email me your mailing address — moellernightsinc@gmail.com — and you’ll get something sometime from me and hopefully you’ll consider sending out weird shit to random pals too and we can all become a little closer and warmer.

It’s been a month since we shot the physical version of Plain Clothes Hamburglar out and into the world. Thank you to those who grabbed a pre-order copy of the little devil and thank you for reading it when it got to you. If you haven’t read it yet, good news, the book has no legs and is right where you set it down. You can approach it whenever you’d like to get after it.

For any of you friends who might still be interested in snagging one of these, and in effect making it possible for there to be a second book someday (please please cause I got more to say), we are lucky enough to have it currently available at Prairie Lights in Iowa City, IA and SOON at Powell’s in Portland!!! BUT ALSO, it’s available RIGHT HERE, at Asterism!! It’s also available on the dang Amazon, but boy we’d love it more if you grabbed it from Asterism. THANK YOU THANK YOU! Read when you can and share it around when you do if you like something. Every little bit helps!

— PCH

Preorder PLAIN CLOTHES HAMBURGLAR right here

The good folks at Rejection Letters are putting out my first ever book, Plain Clothes Hamburglar, on March 11th and I’m so very excited for it to be in the world.

Pre-orders opened up today :: GRAB IT HERE

Tell some homies if you like the lines.

THANK YOU

Going to be a lot more active here starting next week.

— Sean

The hours were longer again tonight. Sure,

they were dark, dead things, but where else

would we show our movies. Where else would

we pour one so thick and so heavy. I heard

someone yell the other day that everything

I was feeling was common, so with the guns

on the wall and hardwood drawls sliding in,

replacing the rugs by the fireplace, I decided

to watch some blond knuckle hairs curl and

brown and I tried to get rid of those thoughts.

The job got so messy though when those

thoughts had their arms and hooves and

phone numbers and thistles and seeds and so

many fucking eyes that I gave up and just

got fries instead.

Can we talk about how the elephant in the

room is a dead horse. Does it make sense

that its jockey is still holding on for dear

life, hugging imaginary turns, sensing

the straightaway and an anxious grandstand,

packed with drunkards and prophets,

tilting with the movements of flexing

muscles and phantom kicks. When that

beautiful pony winks, with her heavy

confidence, I swear that I’ve never

seen more of a sure thing in my whole

stupid life or any of the stupid lives

yet to come.

There’s no customer service anymore. They

treat us park rangers like dirty diapers,

the motherfuckers do. They never see us eat.

They make us feel like we’re sunk, down this

dirty road with the grubby lizards and the cockroaches,

with their Louis Vuitton carry-ons and their spread

eagle tanginess. I’ve got two homes and a truck. One

of the homes I can’t sleep in. My truck, I can sleep in.

I’m the master of the mixed review. I can tell you about

my walls. I know what I like. I know I like dancing

with you. I’ve never found my limitations to be the

billy clubs others think they might be, if only I were

brighter. But what do I need another head for or

another cake to blow out. Once a year is enough

and twice a day we can see double.

You can absolutely stay in our spare room

for as long as you need. Hearing yourself

say that carries the melody of being half

wasted. Doing something in good faith

assures that you will get nothing back but

cockleburs, damp towels and a trash full

of grounds. You’ve lost face trying to make

a diamond before. Just off the coast of

saying uncle, near the jawline of foolish

endeavors, you spy more coal and more

pressure. Here in the spill hour, these are

the blood shoes you wanted. You wear them

around the vultures until you’re so thin

they won’t touch you.

I mumble to relax, don’t be a rodent, don’t be a

rodent, whatever you do, don’t be a rodent. On

the nights that I’m drunk, I believe that

I’m not loved, circling the devil’s racetrack

again and again. Everyone keeps thinking

with their old salamis. Mini jaw says

beware of dog. Dog says beware of Calvin

Klein and his kisses. But it’s cash and carry.

But I packed a cooler and I dressed

appropriately. That’s half the battle, I

scream through the fog. Ambiance is my

stripper name. It means nothing to you if

you don’t pay the cover. Wave after wave

of error, time after time.

I’m a better communicator than the Goodyear

blimp, but not by much. I break out bungee

cords and the right of way, the soaring

confessions of quacks, the perpendiculars,

the verticals and horizontals. That’s all

there is to a finish. The New Yorker calls

it a long form tornado, free to a good

home. For the pretenders, we all live in

a worship and there is no sense to the

night, just dry spells and tight corners.

I’m concerned that we all turned into

George Foreman grills, pretenders or not,

lazy as shit.

A sword swallower wins by being empty, by

discovering where you sweat. We’re hardly

hollow enough when our water still weighs

out on the secular cheeseburger scale. As

shame goes, all that salt is heavy. You know

nothing about my nice soft hands. You know

nothing about my burnout. Maybe

bodies were a bad idea. Somehow we

are real. We are real sometimes. We drop like

flies when we’re not perennial. Through it

all, we are the scene with the greyish purple

corpse arm poking up out of the cemetery soil,

once again ready to take nourishment. A friend,

the other day told me that we are grave robbers

and I think he means that we are endless lions,

or that we are bound to shovel. He had only had

a few, so I listened.

Two rooms over, late into the night, my daughter

thinks she’s falling in love. Three houses over,

was a gathering. Cars lined the right side

of the boulevard. Friends were there for Kay

who had just lost her husband. Lights on at

night mean different things, all solemn, some

bearable. Faith does reside under the left

nipple, if you’re lucky. In your own way, at

your own pace, trying not to plant weeds, though

they tend to outnumber the flowers. Some people

don’t stand a fucking chance and why that is is

like trying to describe a sandwich to a horse

The hounds will appraise your value

on your weakest day, when you’re as

hollow as a cavern. When that day

arrives, the quiet rage of summer

will calmly take the head off the bear

suit it’s wearing and you will get

lost in the bags under its eyes.

It will be a tough meat to chew,

the scene of illness snaking

around the block. I know when

I saw the bottom of the ocean

for the first time, I was disappointed,

or maybe I just wasn’t ready for

it to look me back. The bottom of

the barrel can’t be different.

It’s a racket in the penthouse. Things

have changed and I haven’t, so

now it looks like I’ve changed. Bullshit

is genius when we walk alone.

I will be there next Saturday for the late

night, two dollar biscuits and gravy

advertised on the sandwich board at my

third favorite townie bar. I’m just a

man who mows his own yard and a man

who knows that if you do it backwards, nothing

gets cut. When you tell someone you’ve made

a couple of right moves in pie city,

don’t look now, but you’ve told them you’ve also

made a couple wrong moves too. I’m starved

but I ain’t blind. My prices are my prices. There

is rage demand and then there is suffering the web.

like a stoner. The clouds are bellowing last call,

ready to piss in every open dumpster. I wish I was

hungrier. I could make myself out of you. All I’d

need in one more road.

There is a faraway look in my horse eyes. They

are clipped, but they long. I can do scorpion. I can’t

do motion. I learn about lounging and the

tsk tsk of the parrot when he doesn’t want

to play you anymore. This is a period piece

on the five o’clock shadow. It doesn’t end

well. Frank O’Hara would appreciate it. He

would like Queens of the Stone Age and

And You Will Know Us By The Trail Of

Dead. He also wrote that we are all so

very very much mistaken so he might

only be into the coo of traffic and power

naps. Can we wind down while still

having teeth with jobs left to do. The

occupational therapist to the timberwolves

knows the kind of love that gets through.

I’m more aware than I’ve ever been of what

people throw out and turn down. And

I say save me some.

Years ago, a man claiming to be an old Tour

caddy parked it next to me and got to work.

He probably had six people in his head

and I think about him every other month.

He made me believe in the bounty of

slim pickings. He made me believe that

we can rest in Kool Aid. His clutter was

poetic as it tripped over itself

to no conclusion, just a greasy spectacle.

He told no one that they have a big KFC in

Cincinnati. He put the Rolling Stones in

the chimney and warbled, brother, you got

any blood? God says to Jesus, they always

give you stuff. Let me sleep while I drive on

the highway to hell. Valentine’s Day a few years

back was hot. He got a buncha roses. He woke up

with a hundred dollars. The energy of a hypochondriac

makes me thirsty. If you’re not my cup of tea, well

then we’re not going to have tea. If you lie about yesterday,

you’re weak as fuck. You can’t eat Jesus. Eat a peach. No

little boy grows up wishing to be the longest pube in the bush,

but it happens. However, I don’t think that’s this guy. He was alright.

He brought up a lot of good points.

The kid asked if I remembered her. I’d never

met her before and I told her that. She said I should

go throw my groceries in the toilet. I told her,

that wasn’t going to happen. She left my

backyard and I took my bananas, slices of colby

jack cheese and chicken breasts inside. You can

learn to eat violence. I know there’s something

to that. She saw through my bogus insides, my

bug guts. I wouldn’t have lied to her about

them, but I do lie about flying. My preferred

super power would be more nuanced, like depth

or apathy, whatever’s easier. We had us a moment

there where the little shit almost figured me

out.