spotting wilt
listen, if i’m gonna be dead later
i don’t believe in now.
there are weird feelings
all over
and it has nothing to do
with pain.
living is a sensitivity due
to the
weather.
i just happen to know
the feeling of it,
after awhile, i’m
no longer
interested.
a townhouse was blown to bits
and a woman gave birth on njtransit.
i laid on a carpet staring at
a warhol and the townhouse
is pleasant and i am not
pregnant.
what
is
the
difference
we
are
on
completely
different
wavelengths
and
i
am
just
transmitting
messages.
why would you believe in
life when you believe
in death? existence
is a contradiction
in common
sense.
nature is insulted
by our delusional
demeanor. the
trees find us
pretentious, and
the moon thinks
we are retarded.
i am in
litigation
with a
sun
set
and
my roses
are sending
me
death
threats.
the reality
is
the moment something
goes up your ass
the
whole
world
falls
apart.
“to be serious,
dead serious:
spread me down
park avenue from
a tin can”
is that
a cigarette
or a
slim jim?
i do
not
believe
i understood
the
question.
otium
to encourage
that there is a
difference
in
the experience
of time
based on
the biological state
of
a being in motion
is to encourage the notion
that time is a sprectum,
not a moment.
i am flesh mound,
a tuft of cellular
division.
i have
word tools, face
moves and two
thousand years
of nothing.
i measure with
my eye
ball,
with a green
glass
bottle tint.
i understand the
depths of sadness
i understand why you
would reject
it in public.
all we want
is the moment
of conception
to continue.
to see in an
other
the reflection
of our origin,
the orgiastic
pleasure of
beginning.
the
funny thing
about myself
is that i don’t
often
see myself
only
the things
around
me.
you can’t get
past this why
would you
i can’t imagine
why you
would.
auto-phobia
i don’t want to
make a new
world.
i want blood
not data.
this world
is a business
if you do not
grow up
you
just grow
old.
a human heart
is a portrait. no
one thinks a lion
goes
to
heaven.
we missed
out
on
meaning.
everything
is
a
web
page.
you must believe
in
the magic
of
story.
you
must
watch
it
unfolding.
love theory [three types of bonding]
(adapted from http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chemical_bond)
covalent bonding
involves the
sharing
of electrons
the positively charged
nuclei of two or more atoms
simultaneously attract the
negatively charged electrons
that are being shared
between
them.
in a so-called ‘covalent’ bond,
one or more electrons are drawn
into the space between two atomic nuclei.
the negatively charged electrons are attracted
to the positive charges of both nuclei,
instead of just their own.
this overcomes
the repulsion
between the two
positively charged
nuclei,
as this
overwhelming
attraction holds
the two nuclei
in a fixed
configuration
even though
they will
still vibrate
at
equilibrium
position.
a less often
mentioned
type of bond
is the metallic bond.
In this type of bonding,
each atom
donates one
or more electrons to
a “sea” of electrons
that
reside
between
many metal
atoms.
In this sea, each electron is free
(by virtue of its wave nature) to be
associated with a great many atoms
at once. The bond results because
the metal atoms become positively
charged
due to loss
of their electrons,
while the electrons remain
attracted to many atoms,
without being part
of
any
given
atom.
in an ionic bond, the bonding
electron is not shared at all,
but transferred.
In this type
of bond, the
outer atomic orbital
of one atom has
a vacancy
which allows
addition of
one or more
electrons.
these newly added electrons
potentially occupy a lower
energy-state (effectively
closer to more nuclear charge)
than they experience in a
different atom. Thus, one
nucleus offers a more tightly
bound position
to an electron
than does another
nucleus, with the result
that one atom may transfer
an electron to the other.
This transfer
causes one atom
to assume a
net positive charge,
and the other
to assume a
net negative charge.
For further reading, refer to: “Jane Eyre” by Charlotte Bronte
eggshell skull
you can call me
flower if you want
to. i jumped in the
river
but there
was nothing
there.
There is no
narrative
of how you arrived
Here.
“It is all relative,
i guess”
she said.
“relative to nothingness”
I replied.
and death is
the
reward
a flash full
of
stars.
I don’t give a
hoot
about everyone’s
journey.
we’re not going
through
a journey
we are dying
slowly.
these people
are hope and
they live and
burn and then
“look at those poor leaves
hanging on” the mother said
“thats supposed to be very
inspiring” (but its not) we
said.
“A picture of the
fire does not
keep us warm”
(only a fire
actually
burns.)
if my
Mind is a
Container
the rest of
the world is fuzz.
don’t talk about
magic
all meaning
is conventional and
the Internet
is the end of
language.
normalcy is the real virus
a plague on our people
the manger is melting,
please do not feed
the animal.
the syndrome is
Civilization
the symptom
is repression.
and death
is the reward
for getting
through the
absurd
other than that
All we have
is accumulated
Culture
And the conversation
You are having.
Which is only true
because
you
are
having it.
everything
will work out
for you,
but if it
doesn’t, it’s
not like
it ever
does
any
way.
my mind
does not
concern
me.
flesh joke
you will always
feel yourself
that is the only
environment
you will ever be
in.
nothing else
will ever
change
even if
everything
else
does.
this
is
how
it
goes.
you are
neither
dead
nor
alive
you have
been
fed
a lump
of
lies
and you
will
swallow
it very
slowly.
you can smile
as an occupation
i’ll pay you to
pretend
that every
thing is
fine.
the body writes
its own script and
there is no
yellow
brick
road.
only
a catheter
shoved
down
your
smallest
hole.
i love the
fact that
we will
never
arrive
at a
concrete
conclusion
there is only
just enough
time to
keep
guessing.
i just wanted to let you know
we will need
a cover
letter resume and
a writing sample.
friends are
santa clause
or jesus.
popping cherries
and cigar tubes
live in your butt.
you have to learn how
to ask a question
by receiving a
central broadcasting
system.
i have paid for
a circumcision
and my education.
there is no difference,
no reason.
palm beach is a place
where the world
loses interest.
the world is a polygon
of nothingness
you thought it was made
of stone
it is made of gas.
i think
you should know
that i know.
the world is
a beautiful loft
on the worst
block in
newark.
i can’t buy sardines,
but i’ll sell you my spit
in a jar.
once the needle is inside of you
you can feel it moving around.
a local anesthesia and
an earmarked dessert.
there is no confusion
two doctors and two nurses
will cover you in plastic.
end of story.
there are no problems
the end result
is a simple thing.
an injection,
a split second.
and when we are
done
we will have dinner
at a
fancy restaurant.
it is easier when we
find the right location
to release the medication.
the computer will relay
a simulation of information.
touch it now
you will not feel anything.
you will feel pressure
from movement inside your skin.
not pain, but pressure
talking will be a fact of
pain, and women
can take more than men.
men are babies when
it comes to pain
it is a fact of life.
it is total truth.
if a man had to have a baby
the world would feel fine
because it would be a movie
and you’d be at home
dealing with personal
issues.
i was just about to
go to bed
i don’t have the freezer
space.
i want to lift
the world.
i cannot
move
my mind
it is dead weight, one side
said to the other
i have to ask
you
something.
limited edition jerry sandusky handcuffs
hell does not
have
a
living
room.
duh
because then
you are
dead.
pet milk tv
three thousand years i don’t
give a shit
nero was
a state of missouri, hell
was there we
turned a
knob.
don’t go gambling
or stock market house buying.
a wolf in wolfs clothing is
the same as a wolf, your
mother was right, life
insurance is more
important than
life.
i withdraw
i wasn’t
in the beginning,
i don’t know why
matter made me,
i’m so tired,
you’re
so asleep. an entire
person just fell out of
my body, i’m not a woman
i cannot throw babies.
this is a theatre of air,
i looked under the curtains
nothing is there.
you will cry.
based on a common assumption of existence as curve, you are broken, battered and belly up.
you were torn and thrown out into the cold, get over being born, now you’re alone go write a book.
this is a detail of the toilet
the idea
of the
house
is constant.
windows move in front of me,
i am
enveloping
air.
i didn’t want anything
to do with dead things,
my fingers are white,
a knuckle is torn.
i don’t give
a flying fuck
if you forgot
about
death.
you are stupider
than your mothers
head if you came
out of the vagina
again.
wear a goddamn necklace.
throw all of the pennies
at the school children.
i will sell your fucking
eye lashes.
i am a goddamn
house and i mean
it.
i am talking to death.
i am in discourse with
everyone’s
inevitable
mother
bitch.
she is a cunt and she
lives in your mouth.
she explodes all
of your skin, she
spits grease in
your nose.
i am tired of her
and i have told her to
leave.
i will not let her make
me fuck her.
i will not let her
make you unhappy
my love
i love you and
death wants to
make me hate
you because
she is real and
we are not.
i am not death
and i want to
punch it, it is
before me and
i am cornered in
time.
finis (real narratives)
.
.
flowers mean nothing.
but i love
the roses.
the body as
a temple
bores me.
a world of ideas is a circulating
myth. fukuyama does not live in
new york city.
.
think deeply
for a moment
about every-
thing.
not “a” thing,
not “anything”-
but the thingness
of the word, “every
thing” or what it
could possibly
never even begin
to encompass.
you are sitting in
the middle
of
everything.
nothing is sadder
than everything.
“sadness” can
not be applied
fluently to any other
substance, the thin
layers of film and
photographs, objects
destroyed, houses
are sold, paper disintegrates
and
growing old
is
a
bitch.
nothing is sadder
than everything
is a statement
true in two ways
easy.
“nothing” is indeed, sadder
than everything, because
without life
sadness is every anything, the faint
idea of missing something
that you never had to begin
with.
the other thing you have to remember
is that you will spend a great deal of time
watching everything living
slowly die.
Other people wear their heads with an easy and absolute existence, moving seamlessly through their life adapting to any given situation. Boss figures or questionable characters are heads on a ladder of impossible income. Casual conversations are an immediate exchange of affable observations. My head is a bending sled of bricks with two fuzzy openings. Death in life is a topic from great expectations. My feet are the theme of this moment. I extract longing from my mental vocabulary.
there is nothing to refer to
other than the physical fact regarding
”what exactly is going on right now”.
Besides this
I can call the spirit
box
or
dog
and you can think
in time or hope
but all we have is
this body part.
reality is a bag of bones with brittle creases.
you have to plan for your death. you have to
clean up your mess. jesus died for these keds.
you have to wear them to bed.
the nature of life’s irrelevance can no longer be used as a safety net
i didn’t want to leave
when i
knew you
were still
awake
i didn’t
want to move
but my body
made me
walk.
one of my eyes is the
tiniest bit bigger than the other, but
i am apparently the only person
who notices.
i didn’t want to leave but the
doctors pulled me out, tucked
me in and said goodnight.
i never thought
i would do anything other
than think
i didn’t want to leave
when you
were
asleep.
everything that happened
on the day that I was born
is a ghost
that i play
when i hide
under the
sheets.
none of it
has
any
shape
other than
my
size.
i did not
want to
learn
how to speak.
i did not want to
ruin
my birthday.
a mind was
never black
or white, a
kiss is a
circle of
eyes
or blur.
i did not
want to leave
when i was
awake.
i did
not want
to leave
when i was
asleep.
not bent
the world is not
a place
to go
i’ve
never been
away
for long.
the mind
was made
to be re-made
a mental
mold of shape
or
change.
every age
is an
immediate
plane
i
never
knew
that
everyone
was going to
end
.
regarding a taxonomy of cats
To see someone crudely jump
is a pitiful
haiku.
a picture of
a chandelier
is worth as
much as a
box of hair
“Ouch”
he said:
as he thought of
the green pastures
of England.
“Ouch.”
romeo/juliet object
i cried all morning
for your beauty
(wearing my red plastic
sunglasses to hide my longing)
once, you were
where i was,
kneeling, naked
downloading dramas
in a world of armchairs
and thick
white
excuses.
skin smeared and eyes
tattered, laying as loafs
would for hours
or days
on end.
aloof, now, with springs in your neck
i am a man made in your memory,
born out of the blue into
you
you
refuse to
understand
anything
ugly-
(you fit well into
this space
inside me)
this severed split
(a heap of mow, a
coward fruit)
is where we meet
(a lonely cruise
a crippled malt)
but you, as a point of a polygon
or the curve of a balloon, shape
this writhing animal of letters into
a bittersweet language, spelling
out my lazy limbs
into a serene nuisance
with no agenda,
a void of commas.
i had never felt the color
of absolute nudity
until i touched you,
full of a soft hello.
the roots where you bury,
the beveled in, deep caress of
your history, beckons me as a ship,
unanchored and curving,
crashing into the softest ocean.
you considered me fertile soil, i
won you in a whores lottery. i can
bury your empty casket and we
can grow
the most tender
garden.
(no one, not even my family,
would ever go as far as to
move my cadillac in the morning)
thank you for feeding the meter my dear,
for this i will birth you the sweetest flower.
you and last night (people will talk)
i had a beautiful dream
about you last night.
you were my size, we
were hiding- moving
from room to room
and sliding over
one another, never
in sync, and all of a sudden
you fell in love with me.
and everything worked out,
happily ever after.
(i’m not sure if
you noticed
how similar our
eyes are)
maybe not in
their shape
but in the way
that they look
outside, on the exterior
or towards an other-
not in
the way that they
appear
but in the way that
they move, sharp
and sudden
slow or subtle, wide with wonder.
and you were nice
to me, and you were
sweet and you were
younger, or any
age, never born
or barely grown-
either way. it did
not matter.
and
we worked it out,
as we were, happy
in the mind i’ve
made- the way
i’ve imagined us
as an idea
or an invention, a
centrifugal action .
i was happy knowing
you in the way that
i was able to.
i don’t have to tell you
everything.
my reasons are
private and personal.
i’m in love with you.
(what makes you think so)
and i will not
contact you.
i cannot depend on
you. i will continue,
of course to think
of you. {i prefer to remain as remote as possible}
a person does not fall in love
that fast
or that often.
(there are some things you cannot be scientific about)
you weren’t worried about my condition were you/ a superficial flesh wound (like the mind)/ searching the registrars and records and what not/ i refuse to be held accountable for
what you said before.
about cream being lighter than milk
(that wasn’t completely accurate)
i am attempting to be honest.
i feel silly acting coy.
i am not
telling you anything
more than i need to.
(i should let you know that i still think about you, basically daily. what this means, is that i let you fill a space- and that space has nothing to do with you (directly) but merely means that I have spaces that needed to be filled, and I chose you to fill them. I do not expect you to actually occupy these spaces. I do not demand nor require your participation in my desire. I have accepted the width of the world, insomuch that I do not expect others to think of me the thoughts i think of myself, and likewise- i do not expect the thoughts i think of you to be easily understood as actual or symmetrical, and as such, these spaces you have filled in me will become me, removed from you, as you will be forgotten, that is, unless, you someday say hello. Time organizes our awareness of relation, just as space expands to encompass an ever-widening lust for experience.)
i really miss you.
have a nice day.
(i can’t stand you)
i need you.
i don’t want you.
preserving pangea
we drew a gentle map,
some fingerprints left
a few islands adrift,
a tertiary area of any
either and or.
i marked out some
subtle boundaries, you said
several smart things. i can’t
keep the seas separate
though- {a breeze
cannot
forget how to blow} but
despite all of these elements:
in our cartography of touch and sense,
i still see the whole world unraveled
around the islands you were used to.
it’s irrelevant, i know
to claim that
pluto isn’t
a planet anymore.
(since neither
is earth (it never was)
and who
cares so much anyway, regarding
categories for such immensity?)
space
is defined by
where s moves
towards e.
you are entropy, trapped in gravity,
(you mean things to me) = {meaning is momentary}
i would never want
to organize
my universe
with a taxonomy
of tautologies.
i would never expect
that the world would
be round
unless
i felt
like it
should
be.
how to kill a person quickly
touch them, with their origin (ever so slightly)
relate to them the root of
all meaning, suffered through
a form of gazing (look at me)
speak, but only as a means of entry.
start the silence at the very moment
when it seems as if you’ve said
something.
explain in tender detail
the means by which
they exist as nothing.
ignore them.
delete them.
close the room, leave
them longing.
immediate
execution
merely requires
absolute
dismissal.
(life is perceptual)
you have a history, a chronological
sequence of buttons or zippers
a wardrobe of embarrassing memories.
you were never like this, now you are
now you’re not- where else can
you go?
you have no one
to talk to.
talking was an
invention intended
to end human
alienation.
we have detached
ourselves from
our language.
we speak through
these syllabic machines, an immediate
distortion of me as “me”- devices
of reversal and
destruction which turn you
into they, and then
(in the blink of an eye)
nobody.
a set of sentences
sent to you can
not relate
the movements
of my veins in
the same manner
as our bodies when
laid
across
each
other.
-you are
a metaphor
for
me
and i
am
a
simile-
{please do
not kill
me.}
(talk to me.)
tooth-ache (syntax as a form of contact)
i will always force
myself to
let you maintain
an insistent distance-
(a number of heads
that fall out of focus
between us)
you are syncopated
throughout
this loose and scattered spray
of lovers, (a sequence of syllables
is structured through grammar:
a combinatorial system
built upon a network
of inter-dependent phonemic
units-
(you are not
a part
of my sentence-
instead, suffused in
the syntax).
if we were together
words would collapse
into a stuttered sequence
of errors.
a single sound can
only describe
a frugal and fleeting
emotion, i am aware
of the analytical
nature of your
temper, i refuse
to articulate
the nature
of my agenda,
i prefer
to double
over, {ophelia’s lever}
pardon me for
the immediacy
of my overzealous
and haphazard
nature.
i would not
mind another
message but
am fully
comfortable
if you
decide
to
vanish.
restraining order
i’ve been painting gray
speech in the slowest
time.
my darling and i
grew picket fences
with oxycontin halos,
the tiny tender outlines
of this automatic lifestyle.
i read the bible in the
bathroom every
morning when
i cut my fingernails.
i threw my brain through
the window
and wrote a speech
about the faucet, my
lover grew two panels
of glass in her garden
and i have been washing
them with the television.
i have never received
roses without instructions
on how to interpret them,
all of my children
bought their smiles
from a tender merchant, who told them-
“we were born through
a delicate process (packets
of charisma dissolved into
babies
born beautiful).
all of our
begonias grow in
the same direction,
planted recently
in the textbook
garden.
i spend my week
ends thinking about
my week
days
and tomorrow
i will borrow
a circus.
(once, i remembered what “flys” were, now-
they are such a nuisance, i fear for my children
and hide them in blankets.)
i have canceled my subscription to “readers digest”.
my wife said it would damage my armrest.
{ . (period) . }
i have to let go of
your eyes.
my fingers are all sweaty
and our irises are both
two endless- i didn’t
want to drop them-
i could tell that we
were nervous
eyes were all over
the place and i lost
track of our distance
but i reminded myself
of the solid nature
of the table or our
chairs and
i was- i am-
i am confident that
rooms can be called
offices
and i am comfortable
calling cartoons
conversations
and i don’t even
really like
robert louis
stevenson.
i loosened my palms
let them
let go of
your eyes.
i did not want to drop them.
i was concerned
that i might drop
them if i get nervous-
(you were nervous)
and one of my briefest
affections was designed
for this- i adore the
way in which
you faint
so easily-
how your mind
can move
so simply
from a million
miles per hour
to a lofty
and slow
reading
of dead or dying
literature
but i won’t allow
myself to miss
this since
your eyes
were never
designed
for mine
anyway
and i can look
at everything
perfectly since
i can see
anything i
want to
see
anywhere
that it
might
be
whenever i
close
your
eyes.
i cannot
write poems
about you
anymore.
and that was
sad for me.
(for a few seconds)
since i enjoyed imagining you.
but i don’t want
to invent an ideal
and i do not want
anyone to be sad
ever
again
and i’d rather we all just
make pretend
and
i dropped
your
eyes
and you kicked
them gently
like
the softest
can
against the
longest
curb
until
all
we
were
were
doors.
and my eyes see
fine- they were
wet today, briefly
when placed on the
ledge by
the doorway- and i looked
outside
and the sky
is full of eyes
i cannot see through them
though
they are lazy clouds,
dripping all over the place,
a shroud for the
stars, a million
tiny metaphors
and our shoes
bumped once
(beneath the table)
and that is
the only
time that
we
have
touched.
(and that is enough
for me to learn
the
definition
of
closure)
antiretroviral cocktails (thoughts culled from an orgasmic instant)
if i poured
my legs, as liquid
into a furnace and baked
them, i would let you
paint them since
we met on
the internet
and communication
is a canvas and my
body is an
instrument.
(i will let you play it)
you drew bruises on the
calender, kept a record
of light scrawled on the
mirror. constellations
were called cityscapes
and cum was dried on
my shoulder.
(this is all the
after-math, after
all and there were
hours left un-
accounted for)
(when i waited
and read
advertisements
or listened to
myself imagining
you-
but i was pleased
to greet you as you walked
across 7th avenue.
as i told you of how
i felt
like a prostitute
waiting for you, strutting
soft and silent stanzas, standing on the corner
batting my lashes.
but i ended up
paying for the
martinis anyway
(and i did enjoy the dumplings, but
i hid the caviar in a napkin in my pocket
and, later, threw it away secretly
into the garbage)
and all the while
i withheld an
omniscient approach
to personality
as a dynamic
and malleable
apparatus because
i can define myself
according to the
weather or one of
several variations of
the “calender”
(yr clocks, yr wrist or
the arbitrary idea of number)
and thus am
immediately malleable
and perfectly in-
calculable.
and
you were
beautiful.
(brown leather burlap wrist bands, greasy brown hair, tucked in polyester, sleeves rolled up to the shoulder)
and
neutral seating
arrangements were
prepared in order to
abbreviate
the nature
of our awkward and
impossible postures.
(but this is all inconsequential, i looked at myself in the mirror while you were in the bathroom)
later,
pynchon was groped
between us since
lot 49 was in my levis
and my american burlap
belt made in mexico broke
when you hurried to
disrobe on the roof and
i remember seeing a child
running along a sidewalk
from a hundred miles above
when you nearly pushed
me over the balcony and i
was breathing rather heavily
since your beard was brushing
abruptly against the nape of my
ink splattered brando and desire
was called a fire escape
since your room had a red
light on and i met
you by a diner
that has been
demolished
and re-built
several
times
in the
past
year
or
so
and
(my fingers replaced
my eyes, and sounds started
to seem like leaves, a tree
of words i read instead
of speaking, letters masquerading
as a means of touch or
changing)
there aren’t many
other words to scrape
against the day since
it was in all honesty,
just an elongated
form of
foreplay
and
that is why
i will only
choose to
remember
“red”, {a small
playing card with rounded
corners that i found
on the sidewalk
when you met me
and wrote “a nice day”
on it while you were
in the shower and i hid
it in one of your dressers}
or
the belt, which
after being broken
was re-attached to
itself with a stapler
and of course, the
curvature of your
demeanor, which
i can easily remember
by observing the
way dust collects
on
a gutter
or the
tenor of patsy cline’s
long
forgotten
piano. (she never learned how to play, y’know.)
(realism’s eternal room) grinds my throat against the kitchen floor
.
.
.
i know how not to do
stupid actions. i do not
walk up the staircase
holding ladders. i sent
you a vanilla creature
and you spammed him.
i do not want you
to
strangle
me
because
it
is
stupid.
i never sent you
any
suitcases.
you never bought
me any
flowers.
all of your words
were recommended
by others, and i don’t
know how to light fires.
you’re a klutz, two eyes
of almonds and a gut.
i had to convince
the earth
to kick
reality
out
of
the
house
at the end
of the day, i prefer
not to even dwell on
you, because i am
watching double
rainbows on youtube,
which is a great deal
more satisfying, if i may
say so.
life is a
yellow
yoo-hoo.
.
it is incredibly beautiful.
.
you are not a part of this conversation
and then you finally find the person, buried beneath all of their contraptions, some thriving- jiggly little creature, laying in bed next to you, next to the digital red dotted clock, with a humid, flat morning breaking through the window. no one wants to live with so many animals, all of their bindings growing thin lines of wear and pagination, no one lives with novels until they’ve read them.
you use you. (mad elephant/mad logic)
a voice is grown through an interactive magazine. The reading is spoken through the act of watching, when ones eyes pass over the page, weighty lexical ink splotches of logic. The magazine is a flat lie, a fabricated image invented by dead time. A voice is grown outside of the organs that filter its production. The voice drains down, across the page, picking up pieces of rhetoric and straining them gently through the bodily function. Sperm is the limit of a protrusion. Speech was once spoken, a drifting casual harmonic- stuttered through the person when present with a human.
then we reach into the history- a history of the moments that led up to the present. Then, we remember nothing, touching humans, a tearing promise.
I
have
inherited
the
liberty
of
ending
this
sentence.
one year’s old
pain exists.
it is that, that arched
monument, a veined
collision of abruptly
disfigured illusions.
when i was seven
years old, i wanted
to buy several
balloons and let
them go
in the parking
lot where
all of the boys
hung out.
i did not know
how to make
something
explode.
i had to learn
how to hide in
the neighbors
shed, stealing
gas to blow
up heads.
i had to grind
my teeth against
a kid collapsed
by the swing
set.
pain was that-
the tree outside
of recess where
a tube was caught
in my underpants.
it was doing something
and someone saying
that one should be
ridiculed for the doing
of something.
some things are
structured in such
a way as to encourage
the disavowal of
newness.
the child should
be in awe
for a decade
or two.
a child knows
what to do.
“i don’t mind it”
here is a screen-shot of the screaming horse with the screaming lips in the screaming females video “i don’t mind it”-
there is some type of perfection in being something screaming.
new video is late and i’m exhausted, premiering somewhere after monday. almost finished compressing. losing sleep.
here is a screen-shot of the screaming horse with the screaming lips in the screaming females video “i don’t mind it”-
have fun today i’m tired.
soft open
my body is built from bones and that is the way a curb works. All of us have this rule of bones, the way we walk with a rigid network of toes clamping against a feeble ground, the system of reactions that we exhibit while waiting for a toilet or overhearing a conversation, the moment when one realizes they need to exit. With others surrounding sounding easy escapes, she says someone louder with a certain rigid contour. Everyone is a rhythm, rewinding all our past motions repeating a living searching for repetition. A single bridge offers us an excuse to end this outdoor conversation, I am standing on the corner and you are growing without knowing where to go or how to grow. And then we have the streets again, I know where we live and I know how roads work. You are studying chemistry and I am creating excuses for chemicals. You are driving listening to music chewing on chex mix and suddenly I hear you laughing and it inspires a smile. A man with softer eyes behind A man with softer ankles says something to me about his feelings but he has too many bandages. I want to write a treatise across his shoulders but he lends his conversations to a wire when his lover is lost in massachusetts. And that space is so cramped that I can’t even pretend to find out where you fit, sandwiches of magazines crash apart this smoking chevy illumina- four seats full of soft hard thread driving in jersey on the highway and that’s night moving, open mouth screaming.
{stutter} (love as the lover)
the head
is an organ of
immediate
mirroring.
(the memory of
the image of an
eye diverting the
other into a
center.)
the head is bi-sected
sense and two tens
down from the torso,
a newspaper and a canister
of clay on the ledge by the
window.
(two open sockets need
multiple mirages, a projected
self assemblage of neural
disembodiment)
divorce is a perfect logic for
the doubling of an object, since
all of these entanglements are
merely sets and hemispheric
biases.
(i wanted you, you who
can only be called you by me, to
call me “him”, so that instead of
being all of these, i’s and you’s or
me’s, i could have said something
along the lines of truth, that is-
there is
more
of me,
a bodily
bag of bones laying
beside me.
instead, i only hear you
hearing
me, layering and funneling
my own mis-deeds. i was
born by one body merged
with four worlds, i was dropped
out and doubled up, you were
whole
and
other
and
immediately
over.
you are
a body breathing,
i am
time expanding.
<p style="text-align:right;"
screaming females- i don’t mind it (official music video)
I’m not sure if i’m supposed to do this, maybe it’s redundant- but here’s my new video, again- finally finished. It’s already been released on BlankTV, and due to this I couldn’t personally post it until just now. I cleaned up the edges and so this is a minor variant, tweaked some of the coloring and brushed out some detritus. If you haven’t seen it yet, I hope you enjoy it!
Additionally, here’s two scraps from the production process, a screen shot of one of the heads and a nice little penis Marissa drew on my computer after I showed her the video in her room at Meat Town. I’ve never had so much fun, I basically carry around popcorn in my pocket.
Also, this is the first time any of my work has gotten featured on any websites, so that’s pretty exciting. Here are two links to the posts in Time Out NY and the Village Voice which gave very nice write ups.
I love this band so fucking much, and it was such a pleasure to make an atari game with marissa, jarett and king mike. i just want to throw my face all over them.
the mother vehicle (a better place)
The mother is a warm core of cartilage, a vertical system of nutrients whose body acts as a conductor of electric sympathy or limited warning. The body of the mother is a picture of her original fetus, a note card labeled with genetic ingredients attached to the root of a recycled flower, a plant whose purpose is understood as an embodied symbol of perfect birth or un-conscious burial.
The head of the mother sands away frail paint from weathered cabinets, restoring the opacity of “white” towards an original afternoon, either of salons or empty lots, disorganized barriers of daily movements and plastic sandwiches. We use an automatic highway to open the distance between two parallel mattresses, as morning can be described as a vehicle of negated night, (the act of waking is an act of rejection). The hollowed out woman has numerous deviations, love is considered a harmonic duplication of the personal iris, as my shape remembers its impression, leaving the mother as a torn braille code of isolated fingers or physical mutations. Slumber is a liminal exit, (mouths which say “no” while one is sleeping)
All of the objects that line her perimeter are marked by an incoherent comprehension of gravity’s container. Cereal is designed to be suctioned through a chain of instruments, a cylindrical shell of concave basins hooped through the digestive process. Systems of belief are mobiles of occasional play, a storage container chaining together a collection of physical signs which are understood as silent metaphors for bone.
The mother blends her body with a plot of fertile soil, planning the growth of thin, soft sentences according to her daily grammar schedule. The mother is only a temporal cycle, a frame of forms defined by the absence of the universe or a thin tuft of cellular material. The kitchen is the threshold of consumption, an area defining “casual” or an affirmation of impossible questions. She is a structure of immediate material, a mass of in-decipherable quotations and heaven as a necessary limitation.
-
verbal flayed.
the world can be a moral vacuum.
children grow up
and will
discover
what
they
want
to.
we glorify the most minor
of volumes, i said sound,
virtual.
life is
interpolated with a
sequence of symbolic problems.
( i am curious about this divot )
that are all individually identified and internalized
within a spectrum of interdependent identificatory templates
i left a messy love over
there.
the individual is in the midst of all of this
tethered and tarnished by various forms of experience
an image of people turning into paint by numbers.
space is shape, (inescapable)
how can you stare at something
and then
tear it down, the idea
itself
immediately
destroyed?
leaves are always only
and.
research in motion
i do not call my skin magic. yours how
ever, is. out of only space, you give
soft form and color, health in dense
sprouts of hair, the throat that gulps
or yawns a force. you are as much
an only as i though, a tuft of sense
sleeping on your side.
moss is a memory i remind
myself of, an electron
slumber of limbs overlapping.
matter is a word that is never
worth its weight. flesh calls
matter familiar, but other bones
are only elevators, recursive
mirrors of colored action.
you wake me with pictures of the
earth, naming the forests with
funnels of breath. i do not have
any images of your fingers, you
have a bulletin board full of
photos and adjectives. i become
a contoured skull, a white hole
balanced on the surface of the
universe. you as earth, a sculpted
ball, warped my torso when we
last met.
found thought
Do you have a low self-esteem or a high one? personally i dont really know what i have i mean i tell everyone im awsome and i guess i believe it myself but i always feel empty inside and i honestly dont know why.My teacher was to busy today so she couldnt tell the guidance councelor about my poem but she’ll probably tell her tomorrow i keep getting this feeling that whenevr the guidance councelor does come to see me that she’ll pull me out of math class and we have this class in school called group guidance were they stick classes of 7th graders and the guidance councelor talks about different issues like up until now we’ve been learning about bullying and tomorrow we’re gonna start talking about self-esteem so i guess thats gonna be interesting.My mom says that some of my family members could see preminitions you know stuff like that and it sorta happens to me especially when i sleep i dont have dreams anymore and when ever i do dream its always about something and eventually it’ll come true.Sometimes i wish i can read peoples emotions cuz it’ll be easier for me to understand others especially this girl in my class i know something must have happend to her and she’s my friend so it’s only natural for me to want to help her but she never tells anyone anything.I think i need to separate myself from my friends i hate the fact that their constantky on me i mean i guess it’s my fault for telling the how i feel ive learned my lesson on speaking my mind and all that ever does is fuck me over BIG TIME.My mother taught me well she taught me how do be independent i think she taight me to well i dont depend on anyone not even my closest friend well i cant actually depend on my parents because i know damn well im more of an adult then them,i dont ask for help no matter how much i might need it, and im ant-social i mean i guess id respond if you talked to me but if im not in the mood ill ignore you and im REALLY good at doing that.I guess im stubborn and all i do is read i write poetry to get my mind off of things and i paint when im depressed but no ones noticed yet my parent think they know my weakness but i dont have one at least i dont think i do my sub-dad’s all like i know your weakness all we have to do is take away the things you love NOT!!! YOU CAN STRIP ME NUDE BUT AS LONG AS I HAVE MY THOUGHTS YOU’LL NEVER WIN STUPID FUCK!!! my god like really how stupid is that i think ive been waiting for someone to save me but i also think i dont want to be touched.Im a failure as a daughter im failing my classes and i cant be perfect like my mother wants me to be i have no freedom and thats why i think s the out most reason why i can NEVER EVER be in a proper relationship i hate it when all guys wanna do is hold your habd evry second i feel like im caged and i HATE it!!! my mom will never understand how i feel even if i decide to tell her or not.I have a journal were i write every fight every bad thing that happens in my life in perfect detail and when i die or before i die im going to do my absolute best to get that and my poems published.I just remebered a couple of days ago it was something when i was like 8 my cousin was living with us at the time and i remember us playing a really fun card game we were always playing this game then one day when i asked him he said that we had to kiss first and at first i was kinda scared so i refused but everytime i asked he said the same thing so i guess i gave in and everytime after that whenever i wanted to play the game with him we had to make out first and im just wondering is this molestation to?is it my fault cuz i gave in? and does kissing him for playing a game make me a whore or whatever you call it?
my breathing patterns are the second melody I have to detail.
My mouth is not functioning in an optimal manner. The mouth I have embedded inside of me is not a picture of a mouth or a diagram, it is a fleshy interval of teeth and heavy tongues that composes language through a complex series of operations. My mouth is frequently a destruction of my innards.
Do not fret about the future. The stability of income and/or the enjoyable nature of ones frivolous lifestyle will eventually be sufficient and satisfactory on some level. A difficulty in definition arises from the world as a massive terrestrial projection. Small talk amongst thieves or politicians in courtyards is adequate fodder for a million mistaken illusions of honesty and accuracy. Do not be taken in by the natural speech of others. Not all of life is a performance, flesh is a biological function of the self collapsed at the center. I walk into a room in a particular zone of time because it is either public or i know the people intimately. Last night i entered numerous private residences with the permission of the dwellers there due to a long term form of causal acquaintance. I can speak easily with my body.
timed flesh (welcome to alphabet bars)
out from here a better man-Fairy Old Boy told me that I was lazy. You agree with the fairy. From this day, however, you shall see that I can bend my back like a good fellow. Good-bye, and, many thanks for your kindness.”
Can you click on the letters of the alphabet in the right order? you’ve got seconds to do it. play abc countdown easy. Abckids may refer to. abckids australia, a childrens programming block run by australian broadcasting corporation abc kids channel, a former digital. Alphabet printables include letter and alphabet tracing pages, mazes, dottodots, and alphabet coloring pages. Skip over navigation. time for kids kids middot subscribe. magazine customer service middot about the magazine middot news middot homework helper middot games middot magazine. search. Alphabet books have both delighted and instructed children for centuries. as more books were created for the entertainment and dification of middot children, .. Welcome to alphabet bars, one of londons leading independent bar operators. all our sites are unique and offer something a little different, .. Click the big green
arrow to hear the alphabet.
hear the alphabet in spanish one letter at
a the alphabet song english the alphabet song english.
Singapore the september alphabet media, love alphabet lists.
here are a bunch ive put together
just
for fun.
warrior and a mythical bear
Though this can lead to an excessive number of gift cards in the grab bag game as a way of giving little gifts such as are found in Where
in my dream i had a different name
I am trying to watch the universe but I
keep getting distracted by my math homework.
It is narrated by James Earl Jones and I can’t
hear his narration because the dishwasher is
washing its dishes, cleaning our knives
and our forks and our spoons. And I am trying
To watch the universe, elation, since an endless
field grew out from under me a moment ago and
My head became a cave full of echoes.
The universe is this broken down eye socket
connected to a nervous apparatus clinging to the
banister on the stair well, trying not to break the mirror
hanging on the corner of the kitchens corridor.
The universe I saved for you was run over
by a car like a dog or like a road and it stayed
in its original shape but it was flatter than before.
I read this rounded image to you over the telephone and you
told me my universe was too late, that another one
was being born tomorrow which would almost certainly
be rounder and less likely to involve math homework.
I knew you wouldn’t watch my universe with me, it’s
too big to see anyway and I’m just tripping over my own
legs trying to walk with my hands or look with my speech
and I have an envelope, brand new, that I will send to you
full of pictures of James Earl Jones. And I hope you
keep it somewhere, somewhere safe and sweet.
that’s future stupid
“I have been dating this guy for only about a week now. We have been talking every single day for HOURS, and sometimes over the phone pulled “all nighters”. We were pretty much already in love before our relationship became official. On Friday night, he called me around 2:30 AM, and we talked for about an hour. In around half an hour into our phone conversation, I made a mistake by telling him “I don’t think you love me anymore” ever since Friday, we have been fighting. It is now Sunday. I wanted to make things better by putting my profile picture of me and him, and later yesterday night he called me saying things like : “dude wtf, all my friends are texting me saying look at her profile picture”. He also tells me now that he does not “love” me like he used to, and that he just really truely likes me. I feel like I have kinda lost the “spark” through our relationship, and now I just…”
you know how to land on your feet
(a brief, personal update, sent to myself via e-mail)
when emily was ten
she hid her past in a drawer
(don’t worry about a thing
it all works out in the end)
i didn’t like those two sentences so i
went for a walk, came back and wrote
this. actually, to be honest, i didn’t write this,
i wrote an e-mail and sent
it, but now i’ll write this again.
i do not know what emily hid in the drawer. This,
being the ruse of the poem, of course. i am attempting to
discuss the nature of those unknowns, like the head
on a long day after sleeping till noon, maybe
a shell wrapped in black cloth, a hand
on your neck or tomorrow or almost
any
thing
at all.
listed below is the theme of this
poem.
{the problem of naming
results in the past, since you, as the
reader, do not know what was hidden
in the drawer, nor do i, as the writer,
since i am not her} so we can only name the past
in the present-past tense, quite a clever trick
i must admit.
this, being the goal of the theme of the
poem, to begin:
to write
about objects in drawers, (especially hard
when one
does not know what they are)
and yet it is incredibly difficult
to write
a good
poem
when the only person
you love
is your
self.
for the sake of conversation, we will
omit any unknowns, merely labeling
our lack as the past for the present is
fleeting passing presents and please,
please stay with us, there’s more,
i swear we’re closer to the future
(the
past was a present hid inside
a drawer) most of this is *fluff*
of course, verbal manure.
the door of the drawer had a hole
for a key which she kept in
a drawer in her room at her
house where she lived, okay? I’ll
admit, it’s longwinded.
the question of course, than becomes
more than what is in the drawer,
instead, what happens to the past, does
life overlap, linger and collapse?
age is a shape, a circle or cone
a single dimension of movement
a single passing second.
(i want to take a moment to remind you, that if,
indeed- you are living in the present, and yet for some
reason you have not recently vomited, i think we are having
a problem) but
the present is
an object, we toss and twist
between us. i wrote of a recent incident
but never finished the sentence.
emily hid something in a drawer,
long after, emily came to the city,
put the key in the drawer, forgetting
the secret she hid in the armoire
turned the key in the lock, placed
the spokes on their lips, but i’m telling you
seriously, that lock was glued shut we couldn’t get
in. this is
a work in
progress.
(can’t put the key in the drawer.)
