Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Blind, strolling puking

Oh, concrete sleek like woman’s
thigh do you both give me such
a sigh as I can’t help but think of the climb
up. Spiraling from the flat, cold ground
towards the twinkling horizon
--smog, moon, vapor, plane and cloud--
spitting without remorse. Front row goose
bumps never forgetting your croon, oh I love your
pipes, wires, frames, windows and walls.
So why do I linger in this dead city of my
birth when life awaits me just beyond that silver
ghost swallowing clouds. Beautiful strangers emancipating the gene pools of
reticent DNA yearnings. I don’t care about the sand moats
and light people strolling in guardian--buttery, potato bread hamburgers
and milkshakes shacked, shackled, bagged, banged and bombed.
This schizo-electric nonsense of vagabond strolling I find
so consoling that inner-rhymes, twined around lines like lips on fingers
seeking to hush the great babble have no dime for
the great parking meter. A space without a car. You mad
yellow taxi warriors, this ride’s intense. How can I ever
fall back upon my musty, olive pillow when now the taste
of cement falls from my tongue like the raining
debris of your billowing plume, oh fuck, where are the
words with which I may lasso your raw, untamed
beauty. "Guess what," I think, "they’ll never come."
And that’s why these streets honk and blink and scream and swagger--
we’re all just mad suburban, subway Pentecostals
sucking snake poison and wine--crying, spilling, bleeding puke-fucking
your name in a divine frenzy, apple-eating madness.
New York,
I fucking love you.

Tuesday, August 24, 2010

A Drunk Facebook Conversation with Mom, Seriously

Did you know that being alive is weird


Seriously, we have ascended from nothingness...quite odd

were did you here that

No one told me, I've thought it since I was about 9.

wow sorry

Being a physical thing is just kinda icky. It's like I can still feel the slime of the womb and the afterbirth dripping off me.
Seriously, I used to be an EGG!

i want to ask you if when scott comes next weed if you will take him out to one of your spots

what the fuck is that...I used to be an egg

we all on earth were an agg

I know...and that's weird

that is how its done

Doesn't make it not weirs

well ya but evey thing starts as an egg

The only reason I didn't bleed into nothingness is because someone's sperm landed on me...fucking yucky.

that is true

So, Scott who?

jeannine an scott jr. from cleveland
they are comming next week for 5 days

depends on if I'm free...I work all week

will be here late tuesday
im having a bbq on sat.the 4th

ok ill let you get back to what your doing


ok ill let you get back to what your doing

I'll try and make it out for the bbq...ask scott jr if he does any drugs and I'll at least hook him up

bye now
his drug is beer

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Toilet Bowl Kingdom

Even on the toilet, I am a hyperlink. I am a reference. I am a Resident Evil ball cap. I am a pair of Adidas shorts. I am a pair of Armani eyeglasses. I am the book that is in my hands. I flip back to the beginning to remember where my eyes have come from. It, like me, suffers from nightmares. I no longer have to make the same inquiry: Muss es sein? Smelling the shit below me, I know: Es muss sein!

I flush the toilet and my greasy, black rot descends into the subterranean tunnels of our forgotten DNA. We are obsessed with space—physical not outer—this is not science-fiction. However, our obsession for outer space derives from our obsession with physical space. Nothing more than an obsession with being. With Form. To be. To am. I? Architecture is the true poetry. The true universal language. That’s why even our shit has temples. Daedalian mazes of ceramic, copper, cement—complicated city-wide networks reserved for the mythological journey.

The first step is the call to adventure, which originates in my bowels. I feel it. It aches. It desires release, freedom, journey. I refuse the call. I need to type this sentence, or read this page. I ignore the primal rumbling within. Then I drink more coffee. Its magic aids the journey. The java juice has sent its spell into the intestinal tract. I cannot avoid the call any longer. I leave my desk. Travelling through the comfortable space of my house, I finally arrive to its threshold. I leave the known world and enter the dark, unruly animal reality. There is nothing humane in this space.

Sitting upon the porcelain throne, the belly of the whale is summoned. It is ordered to release the traveler from its flesh prison. The whale obeys. The shit has finally entered the stage of initiation and embarks upon the road of trials. In the end, it too must return to the source. It becomes one with the flow of life, one with the water that irrigates us all. Only now the water is filthy, broken and old. It is age.

Finally, it arrives at the treatment center where new, but good chemicals are introduced into the water. Like the phoenix, it reduces to proverbial ash. It is reborn. It is clean. It is ready to begin the journey once more. Over and over again, our tentacles extend and root through space. In every direction. We are a mass. A billion eye-balled ton of arms and legs and hairs like cilia and flagella and radiating, golden streams of piss sometimes red like a blood rainbow and gopher-like burrowing, shit tentacles. Forget neither the billions of tadpole children that men launch into space nor the dripping microcosmic eggs of women that when combined explode into space and time like a billion big bangs. We are flesh webs. We are form. We are space. We are obsessed.

Only the architects understand. Or, sometimes, the photographer—but only the ones who truly understand the idea of negative space as well as its marriage to form. The butter and the knife. The cleaving of potential. The blossoming and withering of being. Occasionally, but less likely, stands the poet. However, writers are too obsessed with crafting. They do not understand the purpose of nothing—of silence. They try too hard to construct. To define. They rarely linger in ambiguity. They may encircle from a distance, but how many write to unwind? To unthread? To free. No. They…
hide 1


and space. 2

Save a few, 3

Izzy Darlow knew. 5

Even the lyricist poet 8

knew. In lateral movements—obsessed with the dance through 13

space, he found Fibbonacci’s great 8

orchestra of room. 5

He found the 3

spiral 2

Out 1

to 1
…the end—everything reaching out in every direction—swirling through time and the eternal—swirling like the shit below me spinning to its maze of pipe and water—swirling through space—becoming, again. All is one. And it stinks like a mother fucker.
Do you hear the cries of my city? Do you hear my screaming the nothing of me, am?

I return to my coffee as if nothing has ever happened, but that shit was monumental. As a child, I could have never experienced such profundity from such barbarism, but the geometry has invaded me. Layers and layers of lines invaded the circulatory electricity of my brain—pattern shadowing pattern. Neural pathways mocking the bloodlines that delivered them life, which they repaid with understanding. All this time online, I am becoming the net I surf. I am finally emerging through the animal cocoon of modernity. I am becoming the pattern itself. The evolution has begun. Mergers and connections. Space, repeating, reaching out. Plumbing, streets, blueprints, brains, networks, and deltas. I am the hyperlink. I am

space itself.

Wednesday, May 05, 2010


We are meant to create. To decide. Our minds charged with fragmentation. We are the tools of the sculptor. We, the hands of clay. Like tiny nanobots, we crawl through the folds of reality confronting the Monster of endless possibilities. We must make decisions. Every decision devours a morsel of the Monster. Our lives literally cutting it down to size.

Unfortunately, we rarely make decisions anymore. We linger and consume. The Monster has invaded our psyches and folded us inside-out. We now consume ourselves. Sly. Devious. Its strategy is winning. Harbored in this metaphysical malaise, we have abandoned our course. Navigational override. How many days can I spend in bed, drinking coffee, and watching On-Demand Television? Season one consumed in a day. The night consumed by season two.

My consumption now consumes me. Even in this repetition of thought I have consumed more time and wasted space. Wasted paper. Digital paper. Composed on Word. The delete button would be too easy. I need to burn my things and head to France. Not France per se—as a matter of fact and necessity—but France because it’s new. I have never visited that land. Never breathed its air. Felts its sun. Stumbled in its moonlight. Loved its women and tasted their flesh. Never sipped its espresso. Never smelled its dust on a book scribbled with an alien scribble. Never ventured through its space. I’m too busy lingering. Lying on this bed. Lying to myself and the cosmos. I need to create a path by killing possibilities. This, I fear, is not a life, but a game of Othello on a scale beyond comprehension. Am I a soldier of the game who has refused its move? A smooth disc of conquest that never set a squadron in the field, nor the division of a battle know?

When shall I find myself in that Copenhagen cafĂ© with .73-cents to my name after purchasing that last morning coffee? Maybe bumming a cigarette, even though I’ve given up smoking. Then, in broken Spanish, because our native languages do not mix, discussing terms with the manager (he studied abroad; I bought a cd to impress an exchange student). Food for work? comida, uh, trabajo... Motioning with my hands to symbolize: I will wash dishes. Symbolic motions supporting frail words like Atlas supporting a frail world. Have we always needed a father figure? A symbol of protection, strength, and providence? Where did it come from?

Was it the Monster’s invention? Did that thing of a million tentacles and eyes devise our need for Dad? For in father’s absence all except the most intrepid explorers are too frightened to go beyond the fence. Is that what I need to fight this battle—a father? Do I need a phantasm of security cloaking my eyes from the horrible truth? Is that why I cling to this bed—for the security of my blanket and its warmth. A shell within a shell. Walls and ceilings on the outside. Bed spreads and sheets insulating me on the inside. They do call it a comforter. I even wear pajamas. Soft ones that sooth my flesh. Another layer atop another. Skin to hold my billions of cells together. Else I might spin off my spinal axis and disintegrate—like a universe spiraling out of control. Did the Monster skin this universe like a small carp? Are we spiraling out or simply falling to pieces within its digestive tract—torn asunder by remorseless enzymes? What about cultures, geography, and municipal architecture? Layer on top of layer. A shell within a shell within a shell within a shell within a shell.

Nation. Culture. State. City. Suburb. Community. Block. Street. House. Blanket. Flesh.

How do I emerge? Have our cocoons turned against us? At what point did the cocoon decide to revolt. "Why serve this fragile, helpless thing inside," it must have thought.

“I am the protector,” said the cocoon, “I am the strength. I am the support. I am the bringer of change. I am master. I am Atlas.”

And, at this revelation, the cocoon evolved. It grew new layers of repression. Those layers soon needed sustenance. It started production of enzymes. We became food. The entire world benighted by the silenced screams of the butterflies, no more. Dinner for the leviathan.

Here, in bed, in my plain white tee and flannel pajama pants—my favorite asylum attire—dissolving in time, like baby lamb in boil. Chunks of meat spilling through time. I need to transform in order to evolve. Adapt. Destroy the cocoon. I must become a cancer. I must eat back. I must emerge. I must remain in motion—forever choosing and destroying possibility. I must defeat the monster. I must become and become again. I must eliminate all options. The board will be mine. But what color is my piece?

Thursday, March 04, 2010


Just what do you think you can do to this great wall of indifference? Just what kind of an impact do you think you can make?

It will have its way.

Enjoy your oxygen mask on the fall down.

Saturday, February 27, 2010

The Islanders

I'm a rare breed of the human creature--one of a select few born onto an island. And only those of us born to these tiny, isolated islands can see them.

Us islanders, we rely on empty rum bottles and parchment. We suck that devil juice down until our stomachs churn, explode. Only then can we reach out.

Digging our nails into curdled puddles of vomit and blood (our quills and our ink), we write our notes and cast them into the onyx rolling sea of the dead; it's murky, like thick, salty mud.

And sooner or later the great ooze carries our words to the next islander.

He or she retrieves the foul-smelling epistle and finds solace in knowing they are not alone.

Then they pay it forward, with dead leaves and spit.

Friday, February 12, 2010

Downloaded: Paratactic Pterodactyls

"...Am blossoming withered paper
wrinkles." Ink flowers trampled
under cellophane silhouettes looking
for shiny plastic airwaves. Smiles
haunt. Screwdrivers and water
bottles make no sense. Heidegger confuses,
which pushes buttons. Meditate on
spiritual mediations. No point, really.
Peasants run and hide. Pizzas unfolding
boxes and cybernetic connections. Touch me,
please. I am more than unwrapped
technology with a magic marker psyche. Listen close
and you can hear me quake, rumble
buildings. Fall. Becoming. We. Unite.
Such small things, the folds in wrinkled
ink. Narratives consumed, repackaged, readjusted,
and sold anew. Shifting pastiche. Sliding.
Where am I on the chessboard now? Downloaded.
Digitized. Hypnotized. Lobotomized. Choking on ash
and rose petals. Compartments compartmentalize.
We are the great shoe box. Fading Kodak captures,
what's the point? Slipped on ice. Broke the reptile's
tail-bone and fooled the evolutionary wizard.
I'm still mud-soaked and gilled, swimming lazy
creek currents yonder. Soil ascension, purple cloth
and incense. Bells chiming, AUM. Wax and feathers
fly. Oceans below. Oceans above. Only light melts.
Only I fall. Stripped wallpaper hanging on the butcher's
hook. The woman sauntered to the table; marbled street cafe; a
man, in black, offered her a light; she inhaled; smiled.
Espressos came. The sun swallowed them whole.
More ash. Like Devil's snow. A pair of shoes sit. Old men wander the icy
streets at dawn. Their bebop rhythm and spirits bopped out.
The starry dynamo turned out to be a pinball machine, cheap
with Pepsi and fries. Glycerin fat-soaked hearts sliding
through rusted plumbing. A young girl picked some flowers
from her mother's garden. Kites sailed. This
cannot end, no matter how bizarre. It shifts and twists until
it cannot shift no more and folds into its
folds. The book completed decides to read itself. Mad that its
true readers seek high-speed downloads. The sentence
pauses from itself to smell the flowers described on the
page. It's spring. The garden grows in the
next paragraph. It says to the book (itself), "I
Am blossoming withered paper
wrinkles." Ink flowers trampled
under cellophane silhouettes looking
for shiny plastic airwaves. Smiles