1
I have no memory of being anything other than what I am in the moment
now: indivisibly helpless and cruel-minded.
Here on rot-stinking shores, diseased with shipwreck,
I abandon hope
a floatless boat,
a flightless bird
with wings for swimming,
a cash-colored imagination, gathering
all that was in one place
indifferent,
piece by puzzling piece, inept and true to life,
choice no longer waiting for itself to divide
into choices made by time alone
to desecrate all that is and was; here,
a focused beam of apathy melts
tragedy into history, big ideas
into empty punctuation.
Is it a virtue to speak without speech? a sin to walk without walking?
My back is behind me for good enough reasons
and I do respect the tide, despite the redundance
2
of life,
I sit and I sit as if all this were
nothing
more than a foggy mirror, my testes throbbing
ancient songs of seasons deep
in throes of repeating
last year (you remember what happened,
risking life for a moment of Good,
looking for God
in the least understood).
Frustration, capsizing
waves of blissful head-shaking,
love-making…
“Man overboard!” Eternity yells
its reflection aloft. I’ve been here before,
in all this embrace, repeating the words
made flesh to myself
in the dark and in time,
deaf already and losing my sight
3
in time, as if it were meant to be so, like bacon cooking in its own
white fat, thrashing in mortal thoughts that
pop and splash on everything around
but the eggs,
whose white shells await war-crack release,
a fragile inner peace-plop
lost in the recipe now and forever
as causality (a simple faith in the sense of things
we know we don’t possess) is
there in the eggs as in rain, covering streets
in sloppy-wet kisses,
numbing the feeling that “more” is good,
not a pathetic word ignored when
Art speaks volumes in favor of bad,
in favor of less,
in favor of nothing that can be said
4
but I seem to have more dreams
when I sit up in bed unasleep,
kept awake by an incantation:
howsandwhysandwhosandwhatwhensandwhysandwheresandwhatwhysandwhosandwheresandwhenwhosandwhatsandwhysandwhen(repeat ad infinitum)as nightmare flames ignite my soul, daydream embers
keep it warm, lighting wherever I am in vain
with lack to the point that I cannot breathe.
Nonetheless, the seat is mine.
There’s no one else unless you count my Self,
the “somewhere-else-as-always” of me,
the indistinct point of a desperate plea for help
and love on sand of plenty
as waters rising flood the city,
buses colliding with horses on pavement,
loose teeth tugged until off they come
tumbling, threading displacement among
the many, a rush to the end of whatever began
when we didn’t exist, and I wasn’t here,
yelling my head off as if someone would listen
5
“Chaos offers us healthy disorder.
A dose of destruction is good for the system
when taken with water, but the wet can’t be helped.
They will always be wet and before I forget,
vanity breeds rats on Sundays
to drown on Mondays
and that’s how the mirror stays clean.”
*This is an experiment. It's essentially 3 separate poems I tried lacing together, but I didn't think it was smooth enough to not keep the numbering, which I'm attracted to anyway.
On rainy, autumn days I get nostalgic. 
Rorschach
Sigmund Freud's sofa. So fucking DECADENT. I would say terrible things on this couch.
My own personal sofa. I've taken many noteworthy naps here.
The Earth from Above exhibit is going to be in NYC from May 1st to June 29th this year.
In 9th grade, my history teacher engaged our class in a Capitalism vs. Communism debate where he was pro-Communism and the class was pro-Capitalism. In retrospect, this was an incredibly stupid exercise, although I remember making the argument that Communism doesn't allow for Michael Jordans or Dominic Wilkenses or Larry Birds or Spud Webbs (I was really into basketball at the time). On the contrary, Communism allows for Vladimir Putin, who is apparently a Judo master with a black belt and is beginning to market that fact.
Couple, 2004
This weekend, my roommates and I started watching the Up Series. It's a series of documentary films following a group of British children as they grow up. They were selected at the age of seven from schools all over England, attempting to get a representative sample from all social classes, and every seven years, the students are interviewed again. The original director believed that the social classes in England were so strict, that they would effectively determine the type of people each of the children would grow up to be.
hey everyone, today is josh's birthday. three cheers for his parents having a special moment many years and nine months ago!
This blunt and forthright form of storytelling is perhaps best exemplified in the story arc of shotgun toting stickup boy Omar Little (Michael K. Williams). Loosely based on the real exploits of Baltimore stickup boy Donnie Andrews and others , Omar, elegant and charismatic, robs drug dealers. While he does occasionally let some of his profits slip back to the needy in his community, he's no Robin Hood and banks most of what he takes, viewing his work as a profession like any other. In one memorable scene he is excoriated by a self righteous defense attorney for preying on the misguided and disadvantaged youth who work in the Baltimore drug trade; Omar narrows his eyes and retorts "Just like you, man. I got the shotgun, you got the briefcase."
In search of worms,
