Aphorisms for Myself

Listen, get rid of your blond hair.
Listen, nature is a love story about violence.
Listen, the glitch of motorbikes is necessary.
Listen, Dennis Hopper is not on that roof anymore in his cowboy hat.
Listen, how many generations of flies in each summer of humanity?
Listen, the stoplights seem to know what they're doing.
Listen, listen.

(Read fast.
Don't understand.
There's nothing to understand.
The mirror tells you
everything.)

What can the guidebook show you about Costa Rica?
You'll never find any legs in this book.
Madness is the only way to chart new ideas,
Insight comes as a frenzy.
Thinking can barely move a thought across a page
but that thought could roll the whole world.


You and the mirror have a confidential relationship,
the intimacy of a prisoner and his visitor across the glass.
The pure eyes of the mirror
will be whatever you are.
A mirror,
it remembers nothing.
It testifies nothing.

You need to make yourself
into some kind of desirable sexual product
otherwise, what are you? Why are you here?

That girls' dress is so pretty.
She must not need anybody..

The flower is it's own art;
The flower flowing into
it's body
imagining itself into
such a beautiful thing.

Nature is a series of catastrophes
which somehow caused us to happen.
Did anybody ever think so hard
as nature thinking us forth?
Or was it pure time?
Time gave the accidental collisions
of atoms falling in love with each other
a place to hook up.

It is impossible to waste time.
Time is always lived.
You can never not live it
unless you're dead,
Then time is moot.

All we really do is waste time
in the most creative ways we can think up..
Time is all there is.
Time put us under this sky to ask why,
to investigate and archive the circumstances of our being,
The upkeep of memory; these seem to be our chores.

Why does that girl wear her smile that way?
Why does she have that personality?
As if the world were mud
and each day should be a coat
laid at her feet?

That woman with the basket on her bike riding down Bleecker,
from her lovely white loft to her lovely glass office,
the heart on her shirt held firm by her breasts.
She must be happy. Her skirt is blowing in the wind.
She must be happy. If anyone is, it's got to be her.

A hawk tore a pigeon apart on the church roof today.
He flew across the sky carrying it in his claws,
it's red heart all ripped across it's chest.