If we tear it all down things will work. Work in the sense of hard thinking and rules but no rules and lots of play. Tear it all down. Not in the sense of starting over (starting over would result in eventually tearing it all down again), but in starting something new. What new? Tear what down? He said tear it all down and I smiled because he means nothing when he speaks about his passion. Liable to say anything I keep my mouth closed waiting for him to breathe. Yes breathe he says is what we all should do. Learn to use our space our breath. The tone of his voice will slightly rise and that is when you know he means what he says. Even if he means nothing he means it. His convictions are not always thought through but that is what draws me closer. He convinces me that my darkish sandy brown hair hard and wiry turns him on. The subtle shape I have to work so hard to maintain caught his fancy and now when he leaves me my body yearns for more caresses. A pain worth enduring his departures signal the incredible anxiety and anticipation of comfortable return. A return that results in an exchange of skin and debauchery capable of making Sade proud. He likes to joke around and imbues my ink with facetious but always genuine mischief. It is and has been now for a while time to radicalize the established preconceptions of morality. I need to warp minds and invest myself wholly to a cause that may not effect anything right away but could perhaps eventually pave the way for developments in...what I ask? The arts my friend my love of the wind and cadence aglow. Everything for art is
ubiquitous. Convention is stasis and awaits its day of judgment. Think battle of Titans think Zeus' rebellion. And you are Zeus I presume? Well the problem is labels are a problem so try not to think in terms of names
but think of rebellion. Dada and the likes, all that crap. Anti-art the only true art because...He is so passionate but he found my ear on the pillow. The curves of the pinna what a fetishizer.
Calculatingly cold. His manifesto complains of the ways in which popular media is not art because anything popular to him is media i.e. propagandistic agenda has influenced our line of thought so much that it has become controlling. This notion is nothing new but he wants to enucleate it from the highfalutin texts that while he admires he also knows that they are essentially inaccessible (unfortunately we agree). I say you are crazy what about cheap escapism but he says down the drain! So I bite him and continue reading. This novel approach to creating nothing I find intriguing if not a bit pretentious but the risk he is willing to undertake forces me to fall so complacently into his arms. He will run into the street exclaiming his love for Piaroa but no one listens. He will yell I want to make love to this body standing next to me then everyone turns their head. How we all crave a dose of exhibitionism and willingly condemn as soon as we drink it. It is too easy to hate what you secretly love he mutters as if the thought were not completely formulated. But sometimes you have to speak instinctively because the world is about
location location location. And reaction. So you know. And I think that out loud. We were late for everything that day.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
How My Afternoon Goes
Middle of August, give or take eleven. Been on a high, canting all over any state'll have me. A few featherheads left for the picking, they know it's been coming. Sing song, beg, whatever, I'd tail on out of here if I knew it would do me good, but it won't. Seen it lately, all those stories recounted year after year, water flowing in and out of the ears, time to stick to your laurels they say, I try to pay it heed. Out at sea, the boats approach, many more to come, and we wonder if they'll let all those immigrants stay, no longer a horse stable. A couple buddies of mine asked me a question about departure, I honestly replied Thailand might be the answer. They all laughed and dragged on, I seriously slouched in a corner, wrestling with my own demons. Then s(he( walked through the door, but this manifestation could've been any engendered being.
come everything off it
leave me where be
deceptive misguidance
in need of a bath stay clean
And there it was, the punctilious prescription, in no shape or form comparable to anything political. I'd never seen anything so hideously attractive, and mind you, I've seen it all. Everyone in the room knew the mystical connection was formed prior to our eyes catching in a conflagration of exchanged passion. I don't believe in heavenly fate, but this was written by some deity (terrible movie), it was prescribed like I said, and no dystopic fix of mine was going to sway me otherwise. And they all tried. They all said we had business in Idaho, or that Cabral was on the phone talking Bissau freedom and the have youse caboose smoke chatter blather; that it was near time to leave, that another city was in need of our words. I couldn't believe they were actually convinced they could get me out of here. Not with the utter perfection standing amongst the swine, I had a mindset now, a focus. No more perambulating, idle pondering or silly drool. It was dark water free, I was a pencil with infinite lead can't you tell? All scribbles that would probably make sense to something that itself was incapable of making comprehensible statements to us lesser things, but that's irrelevant considering we ARE lesser things, thus it would be pointless to dwell on my scribbles, nonetheless, I could do it forever if I so chose, but I don't. I had better things in mind. Did I succeed? Here was how the conversation went on end:
And I suppose you mean for me to stay here while bombs are made and planted while serious things happen in serious places and shoes get sold for millions produced by meager hands while phones go off unanswered even if someone’s always at the other end while hopes are deemed too foolish pride is a thing of the past bags are made of leather chicken coups are taken advantage of for food coffee tastes like mud being awake is a question constant while time ticks on but never is and all the cute girls have boyfriends all the smart ones think I'm dumb and I am while everything that matters is nothing but nothing is all I care about and you think you're something well no we're nothing and that is nowadays a thing that's special.
We've been married now my immaculate conception and me four hundred years and hoping to conquer Spain in the morning. Give or take it all.
come everything off it
leave me where be
deceptive misguidance
in need of a bath stay clean
And there it was, the punctilious prescription, in no shape or form comparable to anything political. I'd never seen anything so hideously attractive, and mind you, I've seen it all. Everyone in the room knew the mystical connection was formed prior to our eyes catching in a conflagration of exchanged passion. I don't believe in heavenly fate, but this was written by some deity (terrible movie), it was prescribed like I said, and no dystopic fix of mine was going to sway me otherwise. And they all tried. They all said we had business in Idaho, or that Cabral was on the phone talking Bissau freedom and the have youse caboose smoke chatter blather; that it was near time to leave, that another city was in need of our words. I couldn't believe they were actually convinced they could get me out of here. Not with the utter perfection standing amongst the swine, I had a mindset now, a focus. No more perambulating, idle pondering or silly drool. It was dark water free, I was a pencil with infinite lead can't you tell? All scribbles that would probably make sense to something that itself was incapable of making comprehensible statements to us lesser things, but that's irrelevant considering we ARE lesser things, thus it would be pointless to dwell on my scribbles, nonetheless, I could do it forever if I so chose, but I don't. I had better things in mind. Did I succeed? Here was how the conversation went on end:
And I suppose you mean for me to stay here while bombs are made and planted while serious things happen in serious places and shoes get sold for millions produced by meager hands while phones go off unanswered even if someone’s always at the other end while hopes are deemed too foolish pride is a thing of the past bags are made of leather chicken coups are taken advantage of for food coffee tastes like mud being awake is a question constant while time ticks on but never is and all the cute girls have boyfriends all the smart ones think I'm dumb and I am while everything that matters is nothing but nothing is all I care about and you think you're something well no we're nothing and that is nowadays a thing that's special.
We've been married now my immaculate conception and me four hundred years and hoping to conquer Spain in the morning. Give or take it all.
Almost an Entire Day of Fiction
5 am
Sleep drool invades my chin, and I’m up. It’s that time anyway, to get stuff done. This little room where I sleep gets easily congested, so it isn’t hard leaving my bed. Shower doesn’t get very hot, so it’s easy to wake up. I don’t have much in the fridge, so it isn’t hard to convince myself I should get out of the apartment. I hate leaving, but no reason to stay is compelling enough to do so, thus my departure.
Sidewalk feels especially hard today. My shoes are wearing down. Not having a car will do this to your shoes. In this city. Where am I going? Invariably lulled by the awful music emanating from traffic, walking in no particular direction, I think coffee makes sense. There’s a little place two blocks up, one to the left. Despite the humid heat, hot caffeine is my current destination.
Noon
Last year I was in Berlin for a few days with my mother and younger brother. We walked a lot and had good beer and ate schnitzel, played cards in the hotel room at night, overall thoroughly enjoying the city. One day we went to a museum where there was an exhibit of ancient Japanese samurai armor. Although I’ve always liked reading various manga and watching anime, along with the classic Mizoguchi samurai films (fuck Kurosawa, though not really, but I don’t care for him like I do the other Japanese greats), I didn’t really care about going to the exhibit. But since my younger brother could hardly ever be convinced into checking out a museum, unless firearms were involved, the exhibit interested him enough to go. While we were perusing the numerous variations of war adornments, my brother and I struck up a conversation about Mongolia and England, the Opium wars, imperialism, libraries, and it occurred to me that despite my brother’s resilience to “intellectualism,” something passed down to us automatically by our parents seeing as how they are both professors involved in literary theory, he was nonetheless very intelligent.
I was thinking about what to eat for lunch, remembering this odd museum memory, when my phone vibrated in my pants. It was my brother calling. I answered, said hello, told my brother about the memory I remembered, and he told me he didn’t mean to call me, but accidentally hit the button when he went over my name in his address book. I said fine, and hung up.
4 pm
Today has been a good day. Very productive on the writing front. Means to say things have been found. I never like to write things down on paper before I type them into my computer, but today I got really involved in a recently purchased notebook. The computer was in my bedroom, and while I was having an afternoon coffee, I didn’t feel like getting off the couch to get it (the computer), and a fortuitous pencil was on the coffee table, so I started writing in the notebook. It was refreshing. I’d always thought writing with a pencil was so typical, and I really hate the transcribing, the automatic editing that occurs when you transfer something from paper to digital. You invariably change things, but I find when I type on the computer that my thought process leads directly to the correct thing to say. This isn’t because I’m some genius, my writing is rarely published, I’m actually not even sure how I support myself, but because I take so long to actually write anything. I’m not in the camp that believes a constant stream of writing, forcing yourself to write everyday will eventually produce results. I conjure up all my words in my head, sculpting and rearranging all the time, forgetting too. This is my process, so that when it’s time to write, the editing has all taken place. Yes a word or two, a sentence here or there, adjustments all take place after being typed, but whenever I’ve attempted to “free write” or write on paper first, I’ve either scrapped completely what was written, or morphed it so much once I typed it that the exercise always proves fruitless.
Sleep drool invades my chin, and I’m up. It’s that time anyway, to get stuff done. This little room where I sleep gets easily congested, so it isn’t hard leaving my bed. Shower doesn’t get very hot, so it’s easy to wake up. I don’t have much in the fridge, so it isn’t hard to convince myself I should get out of the apartment. I hate leaving, but no reason to stay is compelling enough to do so, thus my departure.
Sidewalk feels especially hard today. My shoes are wearing down. Not having a car will do this to your shoes. In this city. Where am I going? Invariably lulled by the awful music emanating from traffic, walking in no particular direction, I think coffee makes sense. There’s a little place two blocks up, one to the left. Despite the humid heat, hot caffeine is my current destination.
Noon
Last year I was in Berlin for a few days with my mother and younger brother. We walked a lot and had good beer and ate schnitzel, played cards in the hotel room at night, overall thoroughly enjoying the city. One day we went to a museum where there was an exhibit of ancient Japanese samurai armor. Although I’ve always liked reading various manga and watching anime, along with the classic Mizoguchi samurai films (fuck Kurosawa, though not really, but I don’t care for him like I do the other Japanese greats), I didn’t really care about going to the exhibit. But since my younger brother could hardly ever be convinced into checking out a museum, unless firearms were involved, the exhibit interested him enough to go. While we were perusing the numerous variations of war adornments, my brother and I struck up a conversation about Mongolia and England, the Opium wars, imperialism, libraries, and it occurred to me that despite my brother’s resilience to “intellectualism,” something passed down to us automatically by our parents seeing as how they are both professors involved in literary theory, he was nonetheless very intelligent.
I was thinking about what to eat for lunch, remembering this odd museum memory, when my phone vibrated in my pants. It was my brother calling. I answered, said hello, told my brother about the memory I remembered, and he told me he didn’t mean to call me, but accidentally hit the button when he went over my name in his address book. I said fine, and hung up.
4 pm
Today has been a good day. Very productive on the writing front. Means to say things have been found. I never like to write things down on paper before I type them into my computer, but today I got really involved in a recently purchased notebook. The computer was in my bedroom, and while I was having an afternoon coffee, I didn’t feel like getting off the couch to get it (the computer), and a fortuitous pencil was on the coffee table, so I started writing in the notebook. It was refreshing. I’d always thought writing with a pencil was so typical, and I really hate the transcribing, the automatic editing that occurs when you transfer something from paper to digital. You invariably change things, but I find when I type on the computer that my thought process leads directly to the correct thing to say. This isn’t because I’m some genius, my writing is rarely published, I’m actually not even sure how I support myself, but because I take so long to actually write anything. I’m not in the camp that believes a constant stream of writing, forcing yourself to write everyday will eventually produce results. I conjure up all my words in my head, sculpting and rearranging all the time, forgetting too. This is my process, so that when it’s time to write, the editing has all taken place. Yes a word or two, a sentence here or there, adjustments all take place after being typed, but whenever I’ve attempted to “free write” or write on paper first, I’ve either scrapped completely what was written, or morphed it so much once I typed it that the exercise always proves fruitless.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Ruminations of Be
I am
and was and is and I
I am not
and was not is not and I
am and am not and not am not knot
I was was not is am not was
today you are you are your other I
yesterday sees you and my was are not displaced
a distaste yesterday my own you and other I will not be
what I see you are not a was is I not having every thing
self center slit and shift reflections of being inside me
of being me thru you and you never was not my own
question reflection wanting
body sex a possession ours not ever being
but always seen being not
in all this glass and light being more than just division
was is are this light and glass not more but is as was when
projected reflection leaves less than fragments are not was
I you being and might not
and was and is and I
I am not
and was not is not and I
am and am not and not am not knot
I was was not is am not was
today you are you are your other I
yesterday sees you and my was are not displaced
a distaste yesterday my own you and other I will not be
what I see you are not a was is I not having every thing
self center slit and shift reflections of being inside me
of being me thru you and you never was not my own
question reflection wanting
body sex a possession ours not ever being
but always seen being not
in all this glass and light being more than just division
was is are this light and glass not more but is as was when
projected reflection leaves less than fragments are not was
I you being and might not
Homophobia
despite my low key tone and the gas light that flooded this beverage outpost out in the middle of nowhere, he approached me with a pen in ear and a moustache like Dali. this isn't in my bag of tricks exactly when he started talking about being cool like lando calrissian, but I listen to anyone who speaks like he knows what he's talking about, even when it's rubbish and I don't agree how can you tell someone who's so right he's wrong if I in fact am wrong? oh no not one of these people the bartender said underneath his breath but I heard, and retorted what kind of people, he said you know them, so I slapped two dollar bills on the bar and slipped out of the joint flying towards who knows where with this you know who, them. now I'm not one for star wars I just seen the films but I don't like to judge a man and holding down a conversation has never proven too difficult for me, so we parked the car on a dock and sat on the roof talking all sorts of things. when he asked for a match I grew excited and asked what are we burning but grew just a tad disheartened when the answer was brown. this isn't something I indulge in too much but I said what the hell and mixed in a little of my stuff and well, the night was almost complete. that is until talk drifted far and I had to stop him mid speech and tell him that I love all but I'm not in love with all and the bells would have to ring loud for me to do what I figure he wants me to do and as of now they're only slightly tolling, but that's mostly because there's a church down the road though I’d be lying if I said he wasn’t handsome. he apologized and I said it’s nothing to be sorry for and we spoke a little more but called it a night when he yawned, so I dropped him off he said interesting evening and I agreed, he thanked me for the medicine and I said anytime, shake of the hands and I don't think I've ever seen him again, unless he unconsciously stepped through a dream of mine...
Tuesday, February 8, 2011
New Bejesus
These are things. That come up occasionally memory banks wise and addled by, well, you of course.
The Ballad Of Cochabamba
Beneath the cynical incrustations of many years an instinct stirred to look
into the unusual case of this boy and find out what made him the most
detested boy in school
The doctors suffering from exhaustion of consumerism and diverticulitis
deny restrained fragility
Doctor Bacon was at his desk
One evening after a dance they agreed to marry, and he wrote a long letter
about her to his mother
Properly overarching racetrack paranoid secretaries patrol migrant trade with accuracy
Promote with vaulting ambition meeting in metros, meanwhile reviving your
credible, slight, heart of glass
It was good here--the American Riviera and all that, if there were ever time to enjoy it. The handsome, well-dressed people in the room, the lovely boys and girls, and the--well, the lovely boys and girls. You couldn't have everything.
Cancer condition complications sounded like a parliament investigation
Fitzcarraldo's obsession leaves Fitzgerald's economist looking like an Ice Palace
A film adaptation of This Side of Paradise on the way! Good Jupiter-reach for multiculturalism, viva la muerte!
The Ballad Of Cochabamba
Beneath the cynical incrustations of many years an instinct stirred to look
into the unusual case of this boy and find out what made him the most
detested boy in school
The doctors suffering from exhaustion of consumerism and diverticulitis
deny restrained fragility
Doctor Bacon was at his desk
One evening after a dance they agreed to marry, and he wrote a long letter
about her to his mother
Properly overarching racetrack paranoid secretaries patrol migrant trade with accuracy
Promote with vaulting ambition meeting in metros, meanwhile reviving your
credible, slight, heart of glass
It was good here--the American Riviera and all that, if there were ever time to enjoy it. The handsome, well-dressed people in the room, the lovely boys and girls, and the--well, the lovely boys and girls. You couldn't have everything.
Cancer condition complications sounded like a parliament investigation
Fitzcarraldo's obsession leaves Fitzgerald's economist looking like an Ice Palace
A film adaptation of This Side of Paradise on the way! Good Jupiter-reach for multiculturalism, viva la muerte!
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