Monday, June 29, 2009

prayer (a notapoem)

I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by
____madness, starving hysterical naked,
dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn
____looking for an angry fix,

______Howl, Allen Ginsberg

untitled, sylvain-emmanuel

whatsoever God who makes too few blue roses: could it be that there is a reason for all those nights i tried to sleep bashing my head against the wall to stop the sound of mania (feed.f*ck.stab.murder.write.drink.hate.again.repeat.again.repeatrepeatrepeatrepeat) , for all this life feeling caged and animaled sharpening my teeth against prayer books hating you for alleverything it's your fault you bastard (and remorseless sadness with no (other) reason (but) to be, so that i seethe with anger every 12 minutes if i am left unhugged, and quite the opposite and my jaw tight like a beartrap dry mouth can't say yes or no when asked every time it hits- if you must know, it's like holding back gravity, like jumping off the diving board and willing yourself to suspend- you'd have an easier time stopping time than stopping the motion of my brain pulsates and speaks of itself and eats the little bones of chickens smiling the whole time and mouthing to me when no one else is looking: eff you boy, is there a reason ?

whatsoever God who knows there is nothing true except for gravity, and i feel soo much better knowing i am not terrible to have faught, but lucky to have occasionally won, and no matter what you say i maintain my shadow is darker than yours and bolder, and right in front of my eyes wanders off to join the others and kicks me in my sleep so i wake tight-fisted and contracted muscles in my side hurt and i put a pillow between my knees life feels like bone-on-bone action, is there a reason ? better yet a route off the trail, god dear goodness, dear reason for the unsubstantial misbelief that everything in life is holding me back from some tremendous wonderfulness i can't find touch grasp grapple with in the night as i stumble back to bed for more dreams - whatsoever God, who knows my stomach cramps if i think of breasts and the smell of women and their lips on my hands and their noises and sounds and she was always scared when i put my hand around her neck a f*cking reason _ after all this time ?

(and of course) i collapse after into a (nonerotic) exhaustion, quite unlike anyother thing, like recovering from fever, three times this week i've left the window of my car down i can't sit still can't eatdrink play half a scale on the piano and walk out with the lights on water running what was your name again?, yes i'm sorry yes you did just tell me, where what are we? yes yes collapse and soo tired, see everything as texture, like fabric, reasons for that too, and for creativity and this writing is soo blah blah blah bullshit i hate myself for it stop reading you bastards reasons for that too and if i just fall and disappear maybe on the other side of some needed rainbow (why is there never air, the next rainbow i find i'm going to inhale so my intestines are yellow and red blue green violet whatever) if i disappear maybe on the other side of

just quiet please.
just a moment's worth.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

raging lamb

with the absolute heart of the poem of life butchered out of their own
___bodies good to eat a thousand years.

______Howl, Allen Ginsberg

cell phone pocket portraits, Jim Joe
courtesy tiny vices

- the bookends of our too-few-flowered days
- another problematic story with no start. Just beginning in the middle with you brushing your teeth, behind a steering wheel, hungry on ____your couch with no reason why
- the too-distant memories of the tea that still tastes the same
- i cannot tolerate being cast
- she asks cash or credit? and i clench my jaw tight it is soo hard to speak sometimes
- i have not known the best minds of my generation. I have done nothing of that sort.
- Concentrate on the headlights. the low-fi grey and the white line. anywhere it leads that spells _f_a_r_ will do.
- f*ck you i am attached to connection,
____and the gaps between people is murdering me (murder to me) (murdered me)
- have sullen-faced faked a laughing noise. (till my head comes off
- and i'd jump from the 2nd floor balcony only enough so the pain has icing on it. the delicious tang of masochism in the cathedral
- the concepts i struggle with cripple me. i am no man i know.
- dear god: i'm going to leave you. Here's my ring. I'll take my chances with annihilation to your barren scrag of a life. Sign the papers, I've ____called the cab already. Remember to eat right.
- once upon a time we were all soo beautiful. Remember when I told you I'd put a big red-bow on the world and give it to you?
- if by way of fire-ritual, catharsis or a bottle of crack.rum.novacaine you can exorcise me, please, i beg you with the smell of someone who is ____soo close to death their shadow hugs them,

______(how strange the sound
______how strange the sound)

- here; sip the water.
- untouched i merge with tables and bleed ink.
- it is too cold to be out here.
- i stare as she smokes [how far i am]
- of everyone i could have become... this?
- my body makes a mess. dust is dead skin, my floor is a mist of it. and fallen hair. tissues of snot and semen. half-moon nails. saliva around ____my mouth. i am slowly coming apart. gravity has abandoned me. (or i it)
- i cannot reconcile myself to that darkness again.
- someone with a mouthful of seritonin please tongue-kiss me (or spit it in my face- i'll take what i can)
- my skin is yellow. patchy. aged. my pictures are soo far away. (there is a world with a red bow. where is the bow?, help me look)
- seriously though, how boring is this conversation?
____she stares at me.
____everyday we talk about it. __i'm bored.
____you're bored? we're trying to help you fix this!
____a decade long i've needed a fix no god or mechanic could give me.
- your love would have been safe with me.
- this moon is soo unreal. have you always wore that look?
- a few more of these days i will be more robot than man.
- the carousel.
- of course there is no reason for any of it. (and another leaf falls)
- in the other room i hear a voice but it is not speaking to me.

______(how strange the sound)

Saturday, June 27, 2009

5 motionless morning pieces

all sizes, chicagojulieelizabeth

____1. romance
the first thing he notices is there's sand in his hair. it feels gritty. his lips are dry and he thinks it might be wrong to open them. he breathes out his nose. his body emits a strange sound, like a fan just turned on. she's still asleep. even wind feels far away. god it's cold. and blue. his stupor fades and he starts to feel his back, strained a little to fit the contours of her body. she's still asleep. she fell asleep first. a car passes by on the road. it sounds huge. gargantuan. an untimely earthquake. he sits up, opens his mouth and inhales deeply. counts till 21, 22, 23, exhales in a huge gasp. she turns onto her front and makes a little noise. he'd wake her, but can't think why. he rubs his hands through his hair and shakes out some of the sand. sleeping by the side of the road, jesus. he spends the next 14 minutes staring at the dark inky green of a small pile of bottles. glass always feels soo unreal, he doesn't dare touch them. or his face. or her. a gust of wind passes, her hair would be indistinguishable from the other weeds. yellow and scraggly and a little bit stiff. he rubs his eyes which water for no reason. another car, another earthquake. he'd stand up and go find a tree to pee by, but it's too much effort.

____2. sarabande
the morning is bright. hints of yellow. like lemons. like sorbet. it's fresh, like crushed up ice. it's like a dog that wants to play with you and jumps at your feet. like a friendly baby. it sits outside my window, panting softly with its paws out. i open my blinds a little and slide open the window. smells like a tomb here, yesyes, of course, welcome in. welcome, come in come inalready. i sit on my couch and write and do my very best to ignore myself and take pleasure in it.
____my eyes sting from too little sleep. from grievances i can't pinpoint. i hate morning, i hate it.

____3. gymnopedie
he can't think what to do when he wakes up. there's no real ritual to anything. he lies there and stares at his piano a while. why he has a piano besides his bed is another story. involves too much geometry that story, don't worry about it. he stares at his piano. freshly dusted it shines. a personal black hole. a too-large music box. the dreamsicle. a 10-fingered dance. the chorister gatherer... like someone picking flowers (which i've never done) or walking by the beach collecting sea-shells. he plays my funny valentine and sings in a throaty morning voice that doesn't hit a single note straight-on. then he stops and slouches on his chair. (if only time could do the same).

____4. prelude in c# minor
coffee sounds funny when you brew it. like peeing. she likes her feet on the floor. only when the floor's not too dirty. right now she can feel little bits of things underfoot. sticking to her soles and in between her toes or whatever. still. it makes movement real. (at least more real). (at least makes it an imagineable possibility). she hugs herself a little. the sun's behind clouds so the morning air is white. saintly. like milk diluted with water. or a skyfull of hospital closets. somewhere a car beeps. she wants to hop up on the counter. (at least take her teamug and throw it like a fastball into the front door). instead she paces in front of the fridge. the one-arm of a metronome. she won't have clocks in her house she hates the ticktick. why won't the dishes do themselves already? her face is pale. i'll brush my teeth. that will make time pass a little. [she goes].

when we were small we'd wake early and take the flimsy plastic container full of cookies. watch music videos on tv. i can't remember how my feet looked back then, i know my hands looked similar. there's a picture, just one, of someone's face, my hands holding her hair up. i know it's my hand. it's a strange thing to know. it takes a strange belief, an irrational certainty. like that magic exists. or god. or giant squid.
____my friend has a mannequin in her room. what a strange thing to let into your space. like a materialised ghost. it's only time away from turning into a real-person. it'll just ask for food. and take up space on the couch. and wear slightly awkward pants and contribute to the sounds of the night.
____- she's the third to.
____- what?
____- kiss me.
____- ____but not really. they keep kissing my lips, but off to the side of them a little. what does it mean?
____- who's done it?
____- everyone i speak to. when they walk past.
____- dude i don't know what you're talking about.

when i was young the alarm would beep. i'd get up. put on my uniform and run for the train. i was late always late. i don't have an alarm anymore. and when i wake up,


untitled, Caesar Sebastian

____1. buffer
Ashley's online so i feel less alone when i walk into my room. there's something about coming home to my empty bedroom at 3am that makes me... regret going out at all. isn't silence vast at 3am? and playing music seems wrong. undressing seems awkward. i feel like i'm disturbing an invisible dragon that lives in here when i'm out. it's a whole world my empty room at 3am. honestly, i feel agoraphobic, which makes no sense. (but sense i suppose is not a requirement.


__(a) it's not god's fault Q. at least, not all of it. you can't be displeased at the Pacific Ocean everytime you wish it might rain. it is what it is. assuage the hostility. curtail the apathy.

__(b) stop hating yourself. i know you have no idea how to do that. i know it's too embedded in your unconscious decisions and beliefs- but you just have to. have to. kill the paranoiac.

____3. (nocturne)
god my eyes sting. my ankles and feet hurt a little. i feel ashamed. foolish. i can't understand why. it's normal though. i feel this way everytime i go out. it's not pleasant. i'm soo tired my eyes sting and hurt. if i went to bed though, they wouldn't be soo accomodating. i lean my head on my shoulder, so my neck and head are perpendicular. i close my eyes and fall asleep for a minute or two. i wake up the same person. the same night(early morning). the same everything. even time has barely nudged. i feel entrapped a little.

4. prayer
dear god i hate you i hate your dammit guts and i don't know why and i wish i didn't because i love blueberries and dictionaries. i want to wreck myself to the very core and break bones and fracture hugs, but then i catch myself. and i bite myself soo hard it hurts. and i always feel like i'm falling. and i swear too much nowadays and have no confidence in myself (and mostly also in you) and i think neither of us is very good at counting the beats when we box-step. and you're not heairng me dear god, you're not. i got out a deck of cards and spelled it out. i wrote it on the fridge door. i'm a tryer. i'm trying. i just want you to know that ok? that i'm dizzy as hell from slamming my head up against whateverything. look slowly, every collision you see a jumble of words fall out. kiss me, that's what i need. dear god, i'd knife you to get a minute of silence do you know that? (where is the tomorrow i'm always looking for? where?

Friday, June 26, 2009

thoughts (fragments)

i won't wake you up.

___Oh My Stars, A Weather

untitled, unbendablemight

you look sensational! she says. i smile.
- so do you.
- sensational. sensational! it's amazing. you look sensational!
- so do you. [she doesn't really. i'm lying]


i'm listening to A Weather at 3am. looking at pictures on flickr. doing nothing. it's wonderful. what a wonderful moment. life is totally kick-ass.


remember when life was airports for breakfast and anxiety for brushing your teeth with?
my how far.


- no Q. no! dude, i've got you pegged.
- ?
- you need more serotonin. that's all.
- you know it's a blurry thick line between thinking patterns and neuro-physio-chemistry right?
- right. and how long has it been?
- ...
- right. that long. [i sip my coffee. at midnight. the heater is heating my back. i nod]
- you'd be a whole new man.
- [what a far-fetched dream]


dear morning: take it off. seriously. just roll back over. later, wake up and have a bagel. we're doing fine here.

Wednesday, June 24, 2009


mom decided to clean out the garage. i came home to find some boxes in the corner of my room, dusting up the place. mostly they were full of CDs. books. things i didn't want or didn't know what to do with. So here i am throwing things out, deciding what CDs need to be uploaded onto my drive (and who can live without Bon Jovi's greatest hits?). oh jeez: i see a burnt CD in a clear case.

________♥ Jigglie

i knew this would turn up sooner or later. i leave it on the table awhile to decide if i'm going to throw it out straight away or if i want to remind myself what's on it. ... _... _... __... __...

there's a number of folders on the disc. i pick the most dangerous looking one: videos. i'm not sure i'm not sure i'm not sure. there's a file called piano. well. that seems innocuous enough. at very least i think i know what it is.

the person in this video is long gone. it's weird to look at a ghost. i know some of you will be quite transported when/if you watch this. it is a place that i think is special to many of us. Anjie i know loved to lie down under this piano. Martha had a plastic chair she'd place next to me (pretty much where the camera is). Luis was only recently walking around there. Gol tried her darnest to sneak me in to play this piano. it took three years before i got my hands on it.

there's two things i can say about the person in this video. (1) he really had no idea what was about to hit him. (2) he'd never been soo happy in all his life as this day, and... if i had to pick a day to have died, this would have been the day. the moment.
________(and i don't want to tell you why).

(i just wanted this saved somewhere in binary form. i'm gonna snap the disc in 12, 11, 10... 9 ..

Sunday, June 21, 2009

thoughts (fragments)

i represent the voice of reason. the good advice of ex-girlfriends with good intentions; and the mothers that stayed up at night hoping you would sort it out. i represent sunrise and sunset- the reconstruction of opportunity. i represent the nearness of memory (and its distance). i am the spirit of cold noses as you walk through streets in winter. i do not wear leather shoes or scarves. i represent the voice of madness. the union of unplayed musical instruments. i am the pause button. if you spell me out you get _r e s e t_. i do not sparkle in the sun or threaten in the evening. if you hug someone you can feel me. you can meet me when you sense the feel of your heartbeat inside your own body. i like clouds, i recommend you look at them more often. i represent the dreams your father had of you before you were born, when you were his princess and his king. i represent the potential energy of unopened books in libraries. i represent the sweat of dancing. i represent the shaking and chilling before you take your anxiety medication and fall asleep. i represent the life we never knew we always had. i am the spirit of forgivness. i like to hear people singing. i am the instruction manual you always wished someone had handed out at the beginning. i am the phrase you'll never forget. i am in every first-kiss that matters, and every goodbye hug that breaks a heart. i represent the heave of breasts. if you listen to me you'll ignore the shaky ground. you'll forget the missing letters. i represent the end credits of fate. i always thought you were awesome. we all do.

she leans on the coffee machine. i know she's leaving in 8 days, i really should have done this long ago. her green eyes are softer on me tonight. she's usually more challenging, tonight she smiles softly. she's just tired. as long as i keep looking at her face i can't stop. i'm confused by it. her hair alone is more miraculous than Moses. the line of patrons grows behind me but i ignore it. i like our universe better. she does too. are you gonna get me a coffee or what?
- what do you want?
- that's a long-answer question.
- have all night.
- let's start with stability then.
[behind me someone sighs and says oh god, give me a break]

the next day my therapist tells me: you might be addicted to connection.
- is that a problem?
- yeah. it means something.
- everything means something.
- this means you're lacking something.
- i'm lacking a lot of things.
- i agree. so you are addicted to connection?
- i am a connection-whore, i sniff the sand off rocks and smoke the air of coffee-shops for it.
[she stares]

for a moment i think maybe history has taken off running without me again. damn. i scratch my head. she'll be back i decide. she always is. for some reason that comforts me today.

Friday, June 19, 2009



Today is the day i bought those pants. The day it rained a little in the afternoon and i sat and waited it out. The day i had one cup of tea and no coffee. The day i wore a red sweater. A day between incredi(terri)ble. That day. Today is the day I carried a pen. The day I didn't lose my keys. The day i wore comfortable socks. spoke to a tall girl. the sun came, but left. Today, i'm still here. Today i looked at my watch. drove a car. talked about nothing. listened to nothing. ate lunch once. broke nothing. judged myself. heard music. felt (in)complete(ly). Today i kicked no rocks. thought very little. Hope is a thing i need to do less of, and today i did less of it. Today is one day i didn't shower in the morning. didn't shave. didn't notice myself in the mirror. Wore boots. walked in wet streets. had no one to call. called them. missed no one. missed them alot. Enjoyed: sun , rain , the ocean , sushi , electronica , the blue ink of my pen , pea-coats , silence in the car with my friend tapping beats with his feet , children dancing in coffee shops , being human. Today i did nothing. felt great about it. (also terrible). got confused. couldn't control. tried. won and lost. forgot which.
____Today i sat one seat away from the girl with the beautiful legs. watched a 13-year-old in a cowboy hat smoke. saw the streetlights come on. wished i was someone-(no one)else. couldn't make sense. loved a little a lot. Today i sought a relief i could not define. wanted to swim in autumn. high-fived. loved the colour red of my sweater. tried. carried a pen. Today i sought nothing. missed the mark. (and didn't mind where i ended up).
____Today i loved this song.

Monday, June 15, 2009

now. (an orgasm)

i feel like iz on.

if i clench my jaw, close my eyes, i can will spectacle to seep from the air. [smiles deliciously]

it's ok to feel footless. without bottom or footing. floating. fleeting.
if you must know, your soul has no need for foundation.

turn the music up. _run faster. _have another. _die later.

caring is a thing i don't care to do.

some nights, for no reason at all_ ... _it must be music that induces it, or the scent of heavy artificially heated air, motionless objects and their anchored shadows, _i __s_w_o_o_n. _for no reason at all. my body tingles with a strange pleasure. (must be the music) (and the shapes of) (and i am not feeling at all, no feelings, just this... medley of sensation) it is soo massive. soo huge. i feel too alive(never alive)(gone)(soo far gone)(always soo far gone)soo rooted. it is soo wonderful.

dear alleverything:
i have discovered i cannot swallow you whole. so i must pick at you. one leaf mandarin little-girl at a time.

if i close my eyes i can dance on the inside without moving. it is the strangest (non)sensation.

hi. wanna talk?

eventually everything will matter more and not-at-all simultaneously. convergence. where shadows meet the bulb. shaking hands as hello and goodbye simultaneously. event horizons.

almond meal pancakes with molasses and honey. eggs. tea. on skype my sister stares at me and shakes her head: you're still an idiot. we laugh. (hi life. welcome back.

i turn my car off. Q, remember, you actually don't care about any(one(thing. screw i feel soo much lighter.

we take the wrong turn. come out the wrong side. on the bridge but headed the opposite way. there is fire above the bridge. a sunken sun, diving headfirst into tomorrow. too many colours, it hurts a little. wow. i'm glad we got it wrong. he nods y_eah.

Sunday, June 14, 2009

Monday 2:48pm

unbroken speech,
you tricked me on shaky ground

____Rusty Nails, Moderat

her office is full of colour. mostly purple. some pink. three couches, striped pink and purple. i know this for a fact: when you fall in love with the colour pink (or purple), you fall hard. it's an obsession. Wagner is the same. you don't listen to Wagner, you adore him. you don't just like the colour pink/purple, you try to absorb it.
she's nice. pinkish knit sweater. blonde hair. f*ck, how many times have i been through this in the last ten years? she smiles.

"it must be hard to always be trying to escape yourself?"
"yes! that's it exactly.
[she nods]
have you read the Orestes?"
"uhm... no, ... what is that?"
[she gives an uncertain look]
it's... uhm... it'sabookdonworryboutit."

we talk about thoughts. the random-thought-generating-machine in my head somewhere. synthesizes thoughts out of the blue. maybe it's my subconscious. who knows. it's there. takes three morsels of air (it steals breath from my lungs), stitches it into a thread of memory, kisses it one last time, and smiles deleriously as it sends it off. i recieve it like a sharp stab of beauty and pain. twitch. my thoughts are related to feelings. it's messy. i nod. i'm not trying to impress her, so i speak normally, i say what i mean. in other words, i use the words that are most accurate. equanimity. inexorable. words like that. i've learnt recently that in most day-to-day conversations, it's best to not speak accurately.

she smiles. we'll sort it out, ok? [i nod]. i can't lie, i do feel better.


a week ago, in a dream, i dreamt i awoke from my sleep, it was morning. the air had perhaps grown viscous. i had trouble sucking in breath. i inhaled, i was filled with something foreign. not air. it was thick and incredible. the hairs of dandelions. rose petals. it move throughout me. like a silk tie slipping into my capillaries. my chest was a marble tree. i gasped. glass houses. once-were-clouds. the snow in Hamburg. white ceramic. bed sheets. trasparent tulips dreaming their way througout me. a river worth of wetness. a fresh cold- it was sunrise. i had inhaled the start of a new thing. the Introit. i believed i was a pearl. the moon in third person. hindsight. vanilla icecream. tinsel. the white catepillar i kept in a jar for a week when i was 6. jogging in the rain. i gasped and heaved. empty. completely full of nothing. and nothing is full of soo much. soo many miracles.

"but you know Ash, it's when you have nothing, when you have nothing at all, and you pray... those words have soo much meaning. soo much sincerity. and when everything's fine... it's just... a thing you do."


my jeans are new. lighblue. the colour of sky. they're tight. soo it feels like i am enveloped in it. any moment now i'll ascend. my sweater is a white woolen knit. i am a cloud too.


coffee has clouds in it. music is just air.
to the best of my knowledge, my body is comprised of liquified geraniums, incoherent dreams, yearnings fragile as baby's hands. inside i am dark- i know this because the colours i see when i close my eyes are. i am told i am full of organs. i think i am full of the giant squid that live at the dark bottom of far-off oceans that pirates would be scared of.

i think life is a cape. surrounded on all sides by extraordinary things words are too ordinary to describe. i think life is the exception to the rule. like love. like gravity. like water. like first kisses. like seeing satellites when you're looking for shooting stars. like inspiration- which never happens supposedly but always does. to someone. somewhere. i think happiness is a dream of myself i'll one day realize was always true(est). i am troubled. but i believe in magic. i know myself to be unimportant when compared to mountains. trees are soo humble. i am not done slamming myself up against Monday afternoons. up against cinema screens. the last lines of books. i am not done staring at lips thinking now? __now? _now? now? i am not done questioning every second's motives. kicking every rock just to be sure. staring at every greenlight twice- just to be sure. i'm not done smiling at people in case they smile back.

paintings are single strokes at a time. your favourite sentence just words strung together. the name you call when you're lonely just made of letters. shapes. sounds. atoms.

experience is just a scroll. laundry can be done at anytime.

when i sleep i am everywhere. i am scared of morning everyday.

i am not done poking my soul to make it speak its mind. i am not done slapping my thoughts. i am not done evoking my hands to play. i am not done looking.

i hate this feel-good emotional hippie-crap:
but i am not done discovering the best ways to be human.
i am not done discovering miracles.
i am not done gleaning life's best corners.
i am not done finding the-best-song-ever.
and i'm certainly not done singing it at the top of my lungs while driving the stupidest car in the world.

(god help me with the rest(consequences))

Saturday, June 13, 2009

thoughts (fragments)

the Firemen and the Devil, Hollis Brown Thornton

i walk back towards my car. in my head i'm composing the presentation i have to give next week. "Cohen's quadripartite division to justify property is a consequence not soo much of taxonomy, but of the fundamental difficulty of assigning a definition to it [property]. Most scholars have had no choice but to approach the topic multitudiniously, because single-faceted approaches have left unacceptable gaps. The crux of the problem is that the law has been constructed to manage relationships between persons- the rights and duties and obligations of persons. Property being an inanimate object, and occasionally an incorporeal construct, presents a problem of relationships. How do we incorporate physicalities into a our legal structure? A preliminary proposition is to define ownership of property as the right to exclude others from 'it'. Such a right... "

it is nice to be lost in thoughts that are soo seperate from myself. but of course, the ignition is turned. i am filled with repugnance. i am hating my car nowadays. it's only a matter of time till i get rid of it. (and the property-train-of-thought finally reaches its destination with an exhalation).


in my head i play out scenes. fantasies. i am certain that nothing in the future will ever happen as expected. as planned. sometimes it will be better beyond all conception. you get what you want, but in a way you never could have imagined. at a time you weren't preparing for it. othertimes... well. disasters. tragedies. those... intimate little genocides just for you. so these scenes- everytime i imagine something in my head... a phonecall about a bookdeal, __a conversation, all things i need to hear right now, said aloud, real, __installing a stereo into my next(new) car, __i say goodbye to that particular course of events. if i imagine it, i have destroyed the possibility of it happening in that way. perhaps i will hear those things, but not at the restaraunt i had imagined. not phrased the way they are in my head. she won't be wearing that dress. she may not be wearing a dress at all. she may be wearing a pale yellow knit with light-grey tracksuit pants. we may be in my bedroom sitting on a yellow couch. she may preface it by holding her hair in a great heap with one hand. (possibility extinguished). it may be a he. he may say it at O'Hare International Airport, with his hand holding my elbow, looking me intently in the face, searching for the whole genealogy of that moment (which over tea i'll tell him and his wife later). that situation will never exist again.

it makes me sad. sometimes i consciously stop myself from dreaming. you limit your possibilities by imaginging them ahead of time. Q, don't do it. let them exist as possibilities.


i'm listening to the long version of Life in a Glasshouse. with the long horn intro. a demented jazz band. Thom Yorke's long high-pitched syllables. from the street, the night looks into houses with the lights on. plush white carpets. kids toys scattered everywhere. televisions on mute, but still on. the gorgeous brown inside glass bottles. the red eyes of desperate men. lonely women. rebellious teenagers. micro hifi stereos. vases that haven't been dusted in too long. in black underwear, impersonating swimming motions on plush white carpets, inbetween drunk texts. the smell of dogs. the comatose fish in their water-tombs. barely a bubble. the whhirrss of heaters. the click of toasters. late night nibbles. under blankets, still awake, mumbling prayers. hands with nothing to touch. vinyl kitchen counters. white lights scare my soul back into a cave. pour another. another. the red eyes of delighted teens. of miserable divorcees. of depressives with and without cause to be. the friendless. the stressed. the thrill-seekers. family portraits look fake, too much time has passed, who are these people? on the fridge something slips out from under a magnet, falls to the floor. blue pens that don't work under bare feet. soundless feet taking soundless steps around mute homes. like sown-up lips except for the light in the living room window illuminating the grass on the lawn. the too far gone. pour another, another. heaving for breath. this is (is?) life. night. now. before. again. never. tomorrow. who the f*ck knows. who? another. another. (rolls off the white couch onto the carpet. laugh until my head comes off). her house. the computer-mouse is greasy. flip through television channels on mute. mindlessly. thumbs declaring mutiny. pornography at 3am is the realm of desperate men. a sickly conclusion on your belly. the scrape of a tissue. wretch. another, another. pour another. who knows, who? the joy-seekers. the spin-the-bottle teens. the girl's night out come back home. the calm. the skeletons of the day. the bones of our play. the dregs of our stay. pee again. laugh until my head comes off (he swims on the white carpet in his underwear). who knows, who?

_________(night smiles and walks away)

Friday, June 12, 2009

6 romances (mikrokosmos)

The Manhattan Project, mikecole

the conversation carried itself.
maneuvered not around, but through the silences;
delighting in them, __eyestares growing to fill them.

fatigue is erotic. all irresistible urges are.
that feeling like falling massive distances in short times.
your body swooning into another form.
sssshhhhh, baby.

____3. (nocturne)
the music is on.
behind the closed door a television too.
outside it rains. or not. maybe it's just wind.
a car's headlights knifing the night.
it is soo quiet.

____4. (rewrite)
a good morning. good coffee. the windows down the right amount,
just enough air. a few green lights. parking nearby. pens don't leak here.
dreams stay confined to their realm: only your breaths and your insomniac hands
and your touchyfeely hair my face is buried in know where. here shadows don't creak.

____5. (short-circuit)
my brain's window is open.
nonstop gust of air.
i can't hear a thing.
can't open eyes.

having no one to whisper to
is murder.

Thursday, June 11, 2009

words intended to conceal their true meaning

untitled, _isa.mar

if i don't shave. that should work. wear dark tinted glasses. oversized clothing. underneath fabric and tinted plastic and proteinous fibres of hair- i can live under that. i can speak in doggerel. when people say how are you? i can respond

____dark is the night
____light is light because
____why fright in its supposed
____ceaseless delight, right?

and i'm basking in the sun because it's cold in the shadows. squinting and looking up and thinking to myself fff*ck while sighing simultaneously.

i could just learn a new language. respond to everyone in Ancient Norse. In Homeric Greek. maybe 1920's sailor slang. i can wear white and blue striped nautical tshirts with white caps. i can shave my hair down. (no no no. too Taxi Driver) best to avoid big demonstrations. small ones are ok. tattoos. cuts. evenings spent drunk on dark rum that you don't tell anyone about. just lie on the carpet in your underwear, heaving to breathe, making swimming motions.

speak in poetry. how are you?
me? how am i?

____smoke has a way doesn't it?
____like slow conversation, slow comfortable conversation.
____smoke is like a Mozart melody:
____perfectly balanced. nuanced and symetrical.
____comfortable in its own skinlessness.
____transparent. noise and smoke. incorporeal.
____bound to disappear. ok with that. smiles at you on its way out the door.
____objects have been known to gasp, to lean in towards
____the right melody. smoke has silky fingers, touches you as it passes.
____long fingers. androgynous. but entirely sexual. a whisper in your ear.
____thoroughly machinating.
____dark suited men in a cabal meeting. a coven of mute witches.
____i confess my sins to wolves.

what the eff are you talking about?
yyes. yees. yess. (perfect)

____with your kiss my life begins.
____you're spring to me. (sing it Nina. say it say it say it)

____i don't believe in empty rooms.
____shadows plotting. a Macbeth on the floor shaped like my chair. like my coffee table.
____outlines of crowns scare me.
____the air is in intrigue. my lungs give me a worried glance. yes yes. i know i know.
____the air is seducing the walls, the roof. everything is slowly crawling inwards.
____objects floating. weight is variable. time, space... liquid concepts. malleable.

____wild is the wind.
____wild is the wind.
____wild is the wind. (sing it Nina. say it say it say it)

speaking in poetry. i think that's the answer. how to hide best. thoroughly. all the ideas, none of the facts. perfect.

____in another room the tv mumbles to itself.
____ostentatious attention seeking sycophant if you ask me.
____i want a violin. i want to see with my own eyes something created.
____touch it with my fingers (if you want smoke i can be smoke)
____(or dream. let me be unreal to you. unreal is best,
____let me disappear.
____i won't stay long.
____sweet Thames, ignore this song.
____sweet dames, flow along.
____sweet dame, it's been far too long.

has anyone else seen a possibility for another life? i have playing cards. physics equations. time. space (in vector coordinates, i can describe any point in the universe. <x,y,z,t>) gravity. probabilities. statistical variance. margin of error. shuffle em out. shufflem en deal em out. let's go somewhere here there's a combination. a re-start button. at least a pause. maybe a self-destruct switch. oh that would be sweet right? boom. oops.

anyway, has anyone found it? what you say?, convert to spherical polar coordinates? yes yes. clever. partial differentiate, too many variables. consider yourself stationary and the universe is moving. yes. me in the river. the river moving. me stationary. yes. that sounds about right. what colour is the water? of course it matters! is it night?, is it dark? Black lake, black boat, two black, cut-paper people. Where do the black trees go that drink here? it's Plath, keep up. i cannot restart the universe if i do not know what colour the universe moving around me is.
(i am listening to Arvo Part. there are no words. how can i transmute myself into Silentium?, anyone know? just my fingers?... i could live with that. i could stick them in my ear when i felt alone. loud. sad. distant. it could transport me. into space where there is no sound. where there is black because there is no light. where i could sit in darkness and it wouldn't be night. i don't understand that. i am saying too much, too much. i am disregarding my own method. shame shame. (Plath, take us home:

Cold worlds shake from the oar.
The spirit of blackness is in us, it is in the fishes.
A snag is lifting a valedictory, pale hand;

Stars open among the lilies.
Are you not blinded by such expressionless sirens?
This is the silence of astounded souls.

Wednesday, June 10, 2009

heads of damage

i see them sitting at a table and i freak out. completely. i don't know why, i just give an involuntary wave and turn around and walk away. sit at another table. get my books out. breakout into a little sweat. finally, (deep breathing exercises Q, deep breathing exercises) calm down enough to walk back over, don't offer an excuse, just sit down. one is braver than the others,
____- where have you been? __all semester i mean, what's up with you?
[i don't really have a good answer to this]
____- i _don't _know.
[they're not convinced]
____- seriously, i don't know what's up with you, but you need to sort it out ok? you wanna fail outta law school?
____- he won't fail [that's someone else piping in]
____- fine, not fail. but you wanna do badly?
____- no.
[too many eyes. the sun is shining too bright in this corner. i hate this corner. i hate this ____]


there's been an unprecedented incoherence in the structure of spacetime. i mean it. a complete disorder. i cannot understand structure. it's been a haze. weeks of it. if i know where i am, i don't know when. if i can tell the time, i'm probably late somewhere. i don't even know what i'm doing. (where have you been all semester?, seriously... what have you been doing?) ok. okokok, i admit it: it's a mess. a real mess. i haven't had it this bad in a long time.


objects manage to mark out their volume pretty effectively. i'm impressed with their ability to do that. stationary shadows are the hallmark of a strong sense of self. yesyes.


this chair hasn't been behind this table for over a year. it's a terrible combination. like you and i. great in theory, but never works in practise. for one thing, i have to lower the chair too far down to fit under the table. for another, it reminds me of the past. of 2007. it's unacceptable. anything that reminds me of the past ought to be lost.


you know one day i'm actually going to think up something worth writing about. not the half-formed half-unlived lives(life) of confused mispersonalities who struggle just to decipher morning, and concentrate soo hard on just the next step (pick a shirt. find car keys. pick up bag. decide between large or medium coffee). screw people like that. ("everyone's like that!, Q, we're all like that, you're a little more extreme, but it's the same for everyone". eff that, no they're not. she gives me a worried glance.)

honestly though. it's going to come to me. a way to write about stuff people care about. like... romance or something. inspirational quotes. whatever. i'll use small words. it's called 'commonality'. when people communicate they respond strongly to commonalities in one another. mirroring body language. matching speech tones and patterns (as well as slang/vernacular is a great start). similar tastes, ideas- obviously. don't use words like transubstantiate. it breeds difference. people feel awkward if you say temerity instead of audacity. sometimes people try and challenge me to the synonym game. it's not a good idea.

talkative. loquacious. garrulous. prattler.

sycophant. toady. obsequious. servile. flatterer.

sooner or later. i'll stitch up all these images into a tasteless motley of chapters and blow-up this whole writing thing once and for all.


i'm not caring about very much right now.
i don't know why.
it's not good.

Tuesday, June 9, 2009

objects (mikrokosmos)

since feeling is first who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you;

wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world

my blood approves, and kisses are a better fatethan wisdom lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry—the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other:then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

____ee cummings

the car is missing a tail-light. not to worry. plastic can remedied. it drives on in the night, making a clickclick sound everytime a left-hand-turn is signalled; there is a sound but no flashing light. just that sound. and the purr of a little engine. a pod on a road. satellites in orbit no one but lovers staring into the sky might see.

wearing boots is like driving an off-road vehicle. it suddenly becomes agreeable to walk across mud and grass. to take delight in hearing little puddles in the gravel crunch and squirm underfoot.

the bow-tie preferentially tilts to the right. one ear constantly to the sky. it's just checking if it might rain. if the sun is at its zenith. if there are birds what they are saying. it seems small. a little ribbon around a little neck. an elaborate noose. but it is beautiful. like a button-nose on a baby. or an old lady's one functional eye, widely evaluating you. every other woman that passes me adjusts it, but it is stubborn. turns again. a screwed up eye. off in the distance, there on the shoal, you can see the children laughing. how far.

twirling the pen was a bad idea. i was aware it had a tendency to leak, now there are little bulbous blue stars all over the table and my papers. my hands are blue. i rub my fingers together, spreading the colour so i have a light tinge of atmosphere. i imagine myself ethereal. incorporeal. transcending. dissolving. 'Mike, what are you doing?'____i'm startled. i turn my head slowly from side to side, gesturing who knows as i rub my fingers into the shaft of the pen.

she pulls the tie out from under my v-neck sweater. she turns, dragging me by my leash across the dancefloor. eventually she stops and i land with my front to her back. she is holding my tie over her shoulder. i breath into her hair a little. then i take a step back. sip my Redbull. she turns to face me.

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

thoughts (fragments)

For this releefe much thankes: 'Tis bitter cold,
13: And I am sicke at heart.

untitled, .littlegirlblue

in a little pouch in my car i have $300. a blue pen. a single condom. it's my self-destruct button. i'm uncomfortable with it there. it's like a smile in the dark as i drive home. it's my rum/vodka/weed/party/coke/hookers/fun/diediedieihateyou money. like i said, i'm uncomfortable with it there. sometimes i hear it snicker at me you don't have the balls. i think about this. maybe it's right. maybe i don't.
____it's important i give myself room to explode... if i need to. there's two ways it can go. ex/im(plode. i'm taking the latter course.
i turn the corner. home. get out Q. get out Q. get out Q. __get out Q.

(still nothing).

then i get out. air. fresh. exhale. safe. maybe.


___- you are! you're totally a social butterfly, you're everywhere. you talk to everyone.
___- ...
___- admit it.
___- i am.
___- done.
___- ___you going out tomorrow?
___- i don't know, you?
___- yeah. (i have to).
___- have to? why have to?
___- you either have a clique, or a girlboyfriend. if you have a clique, then you do that thing you do wit yo peeps at dat place you do it at. if you have a B, then you just chill wit dem. if you gots neither, then you better get your social butterfly wings on because you're not gonna get some peeps or a specialsomebody any other way.
___- ...
___- ...
___- that makes me sad.
___- it's the saddest thing.
___- doesn't it tire you out?
___ [i feel like i'm going to throw up]
___- doesn't it?
___- i feel like i'm going to throw up.
___- that good huh?
___- yeah. that good.


there's something in the air. ominous. i don't know i don't know. something's off. the rhythm of our communication is off. something like that maybe. i can't tell what's wrong. but it's there. in the start of Hamlet, like that. we're being circled by ghosts and creeps. i am gripping the steering wheel tighter when i drive - i don't know if that means anything or not.

i can't study. can't sit still. haven't been working out. don't trust the rain. all i do is talktalktalk my way through everyanything. laugh and charm. jokes, all jokes. here take this, from yesterday:

___- Doestoevsky? really?
___- whh, yeah, is that weird?
___- no no, not at all i love Notes from the Underground.
___- oh _ my _ god! you've read it?
___- dude, i've never seen someone stick it to Socrates like our good friend Fyodor.
___- you're ccrazzy!
___[people keep saying this to me recently]
______and Africa, you've been to Africa you said right?
___- yeah.
___- me too! i travelled up the East coast.
___- did you live through a genocide?
___- what? no!
___- ok, then you haven't been to Africa.
___[she's shocked, but then laughs]
___- hey, it's not a true African experience unless you're on one side or the other of a massacre.
___- i can't even believe what you're saying right now! [she laughs as she says this] well someone in a village went missing while i was there, does that count?
___- no! this is Africa we're talking about. the bodycount has to be in the millions.
___- oh i get it, you watch a lot of South Park don't you?
___- wwwait. no, seriously, how'd you divine that?
___- your sense of humour. it's obvious.
___- i do actually.
___- Southpark and early Russian existentialism. i like your style.
___- when the French took it over it got soo pretentious ya know?, not like in the good ol' days.
___[she laughs, shaking her head]
___- who are YOU?
___[i wish i knew sweetheart. i wish i knew]

today the same (subsitute: desecrating graves and zombie movies for Africa- with Lenin and Chairman Mao thrown in for Fyodor). i'm trying to laugh it off. what's really happening here (whatever it is). the end of Donnie Darko, that's what i think it is, what with that plane disappearing and everything the other day, on CNN. it's the end of the universe, it must be. (catch that? that's the start of a joke-sequence).

there is a sadness developing. i think that's what it is. the best way to hide it is to laugh. to wear ties to school. to be a dandy. to be outrageous. to finish class and have dinner with a friend. coffee with another. tea with a third. drive around for a while. finally, yes, someone else. late night? spontaneous? let's get to-go and walk? suresuresure. don't want to go home. nothing wrong, it's just there's something waiting for me. not sure. it's in the car, snickering at me on the drive home. in my empty room. hidden inside the guts of my silent piano. the shadows. all that.


no one's really hung out with me in this room. i don't know why this upsets me, but it's starting to. it seems like that's what friends do. they hang atchyo crib. or you at theirs. my couch is soo comfortable. lying down, it can fit two. me, and the person in my arms. i have a few chairs. we could watch movies. i have a wonderful library, we could flip through William Blake: AN INTRODUCTION or BECKETT: the complete short stories or GQ from 2007. we could chit chat and scribble in our notebooks arguing over itunes. ('Q, no more Shostakovich, ok? we're all bummed out now, you happy?'). We could watch movies. huddle on the couch around my laptop. go carry the flatscreen from the living room into my room. hey, no, don't leave. you could all get in my bed, hug one another, spoon, whatever. i'll play piano for you. lullabies? those annoying little Mozart sonatas that run up and down the keyboard? Bach and his too serious harmonies. film music? the Amelie soundtrack. i don't mean to be presumptuous, but people always seemed to enjoy it in the past... if it'd please you i'm happy to. if you want.

(i want Martha.

mostly because she can sit on a couch on the opposite side of the room and i still feel loved. and i don't have to talk to her, and i'm tired of talking. acting. charming. performing. i'd like to sit, and eat my breakfast and be lost in my own thoughts, and for Mar to gesture it's time to leave with her chin, and me nod. and we walk down the terraces. like everyday could be friday brunch. always. just stuck on track 2005.

and in any case, Mar always liked to listen to me play.
and she has the smallest hands. which i found soothing.

oh baby. )


laugh until my head comes off.

dance you f*cker dance you f*cker (donchya dare donchya dare)

(radiohead always gets it.