your sacramental ligature
makes blindspots of horizons
mockeries of the future
and heresies of love
July 10th, 2005, 11:06 pm

there's nothing in smoke that can't be

such bitterness
child's spite

take your love put it in the ground

lukewarm ginger ale

daisies living from fingertips

deathshrouds and dandelions

take your love and spit on it

wash the sins, love, wash the tripe

watch me go from far away watch the daisies sprout from fingertips

bland dialogues of seperation


is cheap

they say

enough to starve a poor man

ends the emaciated


set free

captured again

love futility

hate futility

ginger steps the ice, firefly

ginger touch the waters calm

soundly rap your head, boy

on a potted plants demise

taste again the obvious

taste again the bitter

crash on a return trip

like a fast before a funeral

truth in a cup of lye

shave all your hair off with great care get it all every follicle every crumb every dead bit and put
it in the ground

put your skin in the ground walk around in bonesuit harmony play the child dead suck up to god almighty
give peace a chance clatter footsteps glitter eyes lens concrete dumptruck synth hardcore tumbledown
rickshaw paddywagon THAT is clean that is filth you pig you animal you whore you bait tackle draw the unlucky
ones the downtrodden half living spittle jawed boyscout failures draw the dead buffalo, the wandering earwigs
the more than you can handle grownup problem rabies


it is so

and we
the lucky

cast the sublime
for lust


lost in a
entwined and sticky summers

to be the truth



to see the lie in hindsight
unearthed, flourescent

live a little
die a little
to give up
to put your sweat and salt in the ground
put your sting in the ground
put your skin in the ground
put your truth in the ground
to take your love
and put it in the ground

to walk away


the lucky
harbor the sublime

lust and
may not bind us
I fall into myself.
Like a fever.
Like a spider round a meal.

my arms are not my own.
my dreams exceed my desires
and the web is plucked
and I hum sticky sweet
and I promise all earnest and prim
not to humble you with my greed.

But sometimes
I eat the air
from all lungs at once
and the web is plucked
and I hum sticky sweet
and I promise all smoke and fury
to eat your eyes last.
The Learned are ever critical of their times. Thus, I am ever suspicious of critique that reeks too much of fashion, and find myself willfully tumbling down the rabbit hole of post modern critiques of critiques.(for what am I, if I must be "honest" with you, dear reader, but a passing fashion? A standing wave of cliche stapled to history with bits of ego? A product of my times, eh, Herr Doctor?) Suspicion, I told myself. If anything could be gleaned from this filthy quagmire, from this cemetery precipice, from this post enlightenment pre apocalypse intersection, suspicion! Doubt! There is something to rely on. There is your answer. Unsatisfying, maybe. Difficult! Obtuse! And all the more compelling, all the more convincing for its nihilist flavor.

"Chaos, as I am sure you have heard, is a ladder, but so too is evolution. Lifted up from the dregs of biology into cultural evolution we came to see what nothing else could see. Some foolishly believed this was a gift."

Bleak Theory

But there is nothing satisfying in suspicion. Oh, oh, don't misunderstand. One could project a certain persona based on certain philosophical conclusions, adopt a certain stylistic manner, and, say, have a lot of sex. Dominate certain social interactions. Exchange many a significant glance with the in-group, and make a general profit in the rarefied currency of craft beer sipping wannabe misfits. But if that were enough it wouldn't be enough.
In situ the vapor can spurt monitor light light light volume recline me like a snakeskin shedding vastness corridor wormhole facetious she said drink frustrate quagmire dream thistle fast car rancour blanket ceaseless resistance breakface whelm the xylophone eat balance carve faces in ghost flesh monochrome sparse tear vanquished violence faction taste blue nonentities grasping hardon collider succulence gash kiloton insensate wormwood feasts on integrity on your tourniquet wrist failures ridiculing mirrors radical maladjusted entire giving fingers to innocence to faith to shadow gods and lucky stars and wandering knuckleboned hairdressers with bowstring kneecapped bonnet faced hornet feet tongues like winter honey voices your name drawn surreal in vinegar tiger tailgate tones tying knots filling slots denying costs coveting loss while eating moss in a vacant lot filled with jumbled mumbling stumbling warblers dinners here the winners tear and fear failure fire entire mobs of napalm rainbow shame on the low down town clown discussing your remains over shark red water spin dry to feed fodder lobster claws and hidden middens drink from finger pails chew finger nails reap meager wages for eager pages die slow deaths for toast clefts palace prince meat steamy fence post street swap the blood clots religion pigeons hide fidgeting children from mock stocking cots and my eyes narrow at farrow fields all dead fawned and lack furrowed all grim signed and hack burrowed tunnel rats swing hatchet songs fling wretched wrongs dance dance dance they scream and burn and we laugh and laugh because we don't know the difference because we forgot our umbrellas because we cannot bear the open air or the world's ten thousand tiny wet eyes
a fierce awareness of the potential for loss
I would mistake myself inside out and turn corners to points. A sea of bones in clattering cacophony. Dry, retch, let the Good Men escape with their briefcases and fresh ironed faces- smooth from nose to chin, lipless prisons for mouths, hands held palm up to show the smiles sewn along life-lines silent and mumbling narrators every handshake a deadfish kiss.

The Good Men tell you this is all lies. The Good Men come to you on your first night. Your first sleep. Maybe you're clutched in a new Mother's arms, maybe you're in a crib, a manger, a taxi cab, an airplane, a bombed out office building that used to sell insurance, a mud hut, under the open sky. The Good Men come to you on your first night, your first sleep, invisible halos, eyes of blinding empty, smile lipped palms raised in greeting.

An eye rolls down a spiral staircase and a man four thousand miles away clutches his head in vertigo.

I saw myself in red. Antlered and skull faced. Wielding a scepter woven from lives, threads stretching off to every horizon. Overwhelming sense of approach. Ever increasing, ever increasing in it's rate of increase, but never. Quite. Arriving. Madness lies in that gap- our inheritance, our specter, our inspiration and our doom.

Awake and leap to the floor. Turn on all the lights. Clutch myself. Tear at my clothes, my hair, my skin, dig nails into flesh, pace and snort and punch the walls, the furniture. Waves of chills and goosepimpled skin. I hold my head in shaking hands. The Fear is visceral. Nothing is familiar though I know it should be. It should be. I should be. I should be, but I know I'm not. I'm not. I know I should b

Hello I

Jun. 7th, 2015 09:30 pm
dreamed one thousand times of one thousand inverted eyes dotting a tongue like synesthetic taste buds. Your disco ball skin dance full throttle straddling me leather nights thrumming subsonic a mailman whistling. A dog barking. A fish gasping on orange shag carpet. Tiny globes of water reflecting the world, threads, synthetic polymer. One hand gnarled arthritic tremor grasping the other all elastic flushed life glow.

I remember

Something important. I stop. I touch the walls. I go outside and breathe. I linger in bed and bury my face in pillows. I gleefully. I gleefully. I suffer a brief episode of existential dread(this is how I know I am not ill). I consider a small yellow spider on my leg.

There is a bit of the
now what.
And it deserves consideration. Of course.

Nothing changes, when everything changes. No, no- everything changes when- no... Change is like a box of- no.

It's not that my... Problems? Disappeared. It's not that I've settled everything. It's not that I'm ha- oh. Oh. Oh no.

What curse is this!? Happiness? Satisfaction!? Preposterous! I'll not be one of those saccharine fools flouncing around with a grin eyes all a twinkle... Or. Well.

I suppose I will.

Not to worry. The gaping hole left in my hyperbolic angst will simply have to be filled with something else. After all, the ache of longing, sexual frustration, abject loneliness, and corrosive ennui are so last decade.

I still have a bottomless well of existential dread! That should be enough for a few blog entries at least.
Be still and count your breaths.

Some complain of losing count. Tell them to start with one. Only when you can reliably count to one should two be attempted.

Nothing special is achieved by counting higher or more accurately, anyway, one is enough. Not that there's anything wrong with ten.

The World glistens in mirror black. Traffic lightshow. Commute as performance art. I swear I've seen this in a movie I swear to no it's real real grime under tire real severed heads real haunted house real androgynous giants ten foot at shoulder pink skinned and leering tongues curled round profanities too pleasant for their poison.

What light! What subtle color is robbed of us? What rare apprehension eclipsed! Tripping on the ghosts of future selves. Leaving no dusty footsteps. Eating the past.

But still. Still. In order to consider properly. Cultivate consideration. Measure. Deliberate. Decide.

Remember the difference between trivial and nontrivial. Remember the danger of assuming that you or anyone else is a rational actor.
Remember that instrumental reason... That instrumental reason is in a prehistoric state. That you you eukaryotic colony, residue, substrate, ancestor!

At our best, most noble sublimity. We are cave painters.
I gave official notice in Helvetica Neue. Terse and crisply polite. Use mirror language in official responses, words like renew, terminate, reside, communicate, inform, deposit. Words like bondage. Magic scrolls. Sealed by signature, by a close touch, this was me, I was here, really I was! Use two stamps because hasn't the rate increased. It must have? It always does. Use two stamps to be sure. Be sure.

My equanimity is rarely in doubt. Like most people I stumble from one divine faux pas to another, like most people I writhe in anxious paroxysms- from time to time. For brief periods. Like anyone else I have my. Moments. I've been there.

But when I've decided, and isn't that the trick, when I've decided, really, not in the sense of choosing pickles over rats though, I would. Y'know. Go with the pickles. But

The world asks: shouldn't you be nervous?

And at first I agree! Yes! Yes I should be nervous! Why am I not nervous!? And I become quite excited for a moment maybe rubbing my beard and dragging tangles out of my hair and even getting up! Getting up and pacing! Then

I remember that I'm not, in fact, nervous. I remember that this is interesting but not panic worthy, that I am not-nervous for very good reasons.

Part of it must be luck. Or at least. Chance. I'm less excitable than most people I meet, I don't often reach the high spirits of others when exposed to identical stimuli. I don't often reach the apparent lows either. So that's nice, or not, depending-

Part of it is that I made this decision already. I put that letter in that mailbox months ago. I put that letter in mailboxes all over the east. In Tupelo. In New York. In some valley in Virginia. On the Gulf at night. Sinking in sand. Dead tired hotel in Maryland. At sunsets and sunrises. I sealed that envelope already, on your couch that-one-day, sun cut to bars through window shades. I moved out of this apartment soon after signing the lease. Now. Now I finally stop paying rent.

I'm not nervous about moving because I've already moved. What's changing is how often I get to go... Home.
Next month I'm moving. Moving. This will be the third time I've left this City, my birthplace, my coming-of-age story. All my firsts happened here and most of my seconds. I came back each time for different reasons, for the same reasons, for practicality and love. For familiarity. For the ocean. The salt. The sting of old losses. For sore lips. For mute brick and rotted iron. For the second oldest high school in the nation. The statues- for Our Lady of Victory, standing since 1891. For Longfellow, sitting in his chair since 1888. Even for the Lobsterman, more recently added in 1977. For the alien egg christmas lights strung up in the trees. For that evil wind which begins in November and blows through March, hateful, desiccating, punishment for our brief seaside summers.

I'm being pulled south. By the most. Most. Delicious entanglement. I have no reservations- and I am a stranger to this, this unified, sense of. Yes. It is quite wonderful to be this sort of stranger.

Long, rambling, and inconsistent )


Nov. 15th, 2014 09:41 pm
Richard Dawkins:

He's referring to computers and networking here, but the point reaches further- Stephen Baxter in... I think one of the 'Manifold' books imagined the early quark soup universe vibrant with life, societies rising flourishing dying in nano(pico?)seconds... subjectivities... fidelity + fecundity + variation + selection pressure = life. Quarks or carbon or billion year sequence of lightning strikes-
I don't seem to write as much when I'm happy. Maybe I should start drinking more.

all aboard

Oct. 20th, 2014 10:53 pm
arc between. the door wedged. open. naked singularity. hope. happily ever now. semi permeable membranes. remember. knuckles. counting hand lines. finding in darkness. finding hands in darkness. finding hands and eyelashes in darkness. rapt tongued. surrender. embarkation. witnesses to our own. our own. our own. toward. falling up. consuming consummation. click rings. sleep sighs. dream witness. nest of limbs. real. real. curve and bite. truth hissing teakettle. discover. witness.


Sep. 15th, 2014 10:38 pm
Toward the end of a critique of Buddhism(I have arguments, but he isn't all wrong), this

And later, "...the retroactive teleology of love."


Sep. 8th, 2014 05:10 pm

Communing with the natures. Up, up, and up. Green canopied. Sun shadows. The day was perfect at seventy° and dry. There were three snakes, all of a species, something pretty I don't know the name of. Were they poisonous? Probably not, they're rare round these parts. The first two wanted nothing to do with humans, but number three posed trailside and watched me. Tasted me in the air. Motionless, no not exactly... Intensely still. Purposeful.

Later, sitting on a rock watching mountains. Wondering why faraway things look blue while S. set up shots. Gleam off metal camera casing. Perfect little clicks. If you leave a shutter open too long everything goes white, you know, and this is called exposure.

Peeing in the woods. Scrambling down small cliffs to hide from trail view. Perching over a steep incline and leaning on sun warmed granite. A hornet lands a half foot from, you know, the source, and my fear of splashing myself with urine overcomes my fear of hornets. I remain still. Calm.

Summitting past rusted skeleton tower. Boarded up gray. A ladder begging to maim. Standing before cairn and sign proclaiming elevation. Cliffside, hanging my legs over air. It should be strange to be above trees. I smoke, enjoy it, watch a big blue dragonfly hunt.

Something higher, next time. Feel the need to get well above the tree line. The largest around here is one mile high and there are patches of snow in shadowed ravines through the summer. Not sure if the body could handle it, but I did well with this shorter excursion. Pushed myself. And I'm not sore yet...
Poet Patricia Lockwood Dreams of Roasted Pturkeydactyls

2 p.m.: I sit in my backyard eating a chicken sandwich and sighing tragically after every bite. The sandwich is as cold as the universe. Here's the thing. I don't need to be rich, I just need to make enough money so that I can sometimes eat at one of those places that makes your sandwich hot for you. I don't know why but it seems so hard to make your sandwich hot at home, even though it should be easy.
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