You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
You must change your life.
10 February 2014
Eating Breakfast at the Table in 257 12th St Brooklyn NY 11215
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
I have wasted my life.
07 February 2014
LIFE'S WORK
- a play on words
Writer Struggling at the Page:
What the hell did John Donne
do all day?
It didn't matter.
He woke up
and he was Donne.
Writer Struggling at the Page:
What the hell did John Donne
do all day?
It didn't matter.
He woke up
and he was Donne.
She carries suspicions about the dark ocean waves, the intended meanings
of their slosh and tackle,
the way they fold and unfold themselves and mop up the moon's kindred gravity.
She's never been given an explanation for this, only heresay and conjecture.
Still, it is her favorite thing to do to go down to the pier and speculate.
She renounces any expertise, sending her incorrect sentimentality into the waves.
She is the back of a playing card, the side that represents mystery, anonymity.
The one without a face.
of their slosh and tackle,
the way they fold and unfold themselves and mop up the moon's kindred gravity.
She's never been given an explanation for this, only heresay and conjecture.
Still, it is her favorite thing to do to go down to the pier and speculate.
She renounces any expertise, sending her incorrect sentimentality into the waves.
She is the back of a playing card, the side that represents mystery, anonymity.
The one without a face.
05 February 2014
Pop Culture Reference
I am fully antic.
The Carlisle Luxury Time-Piece awaits
your wrist, just as the pencil-thin mustache
vanishes from your lip,
indicating renewed sobriety
and the total diminishment of artistic merit.
Jellyrolls appear in the snowbank,
lovingly mended by the winds of anomaly.
Gruesome dismemberments of logic snorkle
through a razor-reef of air-quoting fingers.
I stand in solidarity with the many
faces I've assumed throughout
my non-union lifespan.
The airport terminal, wearing a pair
of Android's wings, receives the lesser men,
the ones who have cried
at the athletic shoe's slogan
and in the dim light of flagship's marquee.
Towers clang, ruffling up the cowlick
at the back of the raven's neckhair and
I am morbidly regretful as the shockwaves
of denial parse the quick evacuations
of daylight. A squirrel clambers up
the spine of a drainpipe beneath
the reawakened night, which caps the sky
like a blight. Refusals of pained love cry out
into fugitive moons offering little more
than the abandoned light
of the 12 Chambered Hours in return.
A crucial blizzard shucks the clouds
as the great blade of the plow
bullies the slush to the sides of the road.
My refined stupidity makes an appearence
in the wake of an especially poignant birthday.
Fireworks startle the atmosphere
and souvenir kazoos are fellated
in next week's very special episode,
which was filmed before a live studio
audience comprised entirely of
disinterested and foreign-tongued manques.
The broom of the fire's longevity crumples
our aborted template and lobs it
into the sewage wastebasket.
I should've died that day in Paris
but my hat was too far askance.
The malleable heartscape
of a doughy blonde carries her
to the apex of Mulholland,
where the phallic clocktowers deny recollection
of any antecedents in medieval numbers.
Somebody has to take dictation
for the insane, however,
I plead Sanity, Your Honor:
this man was required to receive
the benefit of death at my hands:
A blind man better understands
the cold chamber's embrace.
Senorita falls to the dust in her finest serape.
Deserts abound beyond the fringes
of the unschooled township
of Bonewater, New Mexico,
Est. 1803 on a tepid foundation
of impassioned misinformation.
In the old Spanish Mission
I hear the Clergy murmuring:
Forgive us this day our daily bread
as we forgive those who trespass against us
forever and ever Amen.
The Carlisle Luxury Time-Piece awaits
your wrist, just as the pencil-thin mustache
vanishes from your lip,
indicating renewed sobriety
and the total diminishment of artistic merit.
Jellyrolls appear in the snowbank,
lovingly mended by the winds of anomaly.
Gruesome dismemberments of logic snorkle
through a razor-reef of air-quoting fingers.
I stand in solidarity with the many
faces I've assumed throughout
my non-union lifespan.
The airport terminal, wearing a pair
of Android's wings, receives the lesser men,
the ones who have cried
at the athletic shoe's slogan
and in the dim light of flagship's marquee.
Towers clang, ruffling up the cowlick
at the back of the raven's neckhair and
I am morbidly regretful as the shockwaves
of denial parse the quick evacuations
of daylight. A squirrel clambers up
the spine of a drainpipe beneath
the reawakened night, which caps the sky
like a blight. Refusals of pained love cry out
into fugitive moons offering little more
than the abandoned light
of the 12 Chambered Hours in return.
A crucial blizzard shucks the clouds
as the great blade of the plow
bullies the slush to the sides of the road.
My refined stupidity makes an appearence
in the wake of an especially poignant birthday.
Fireworks startle the atmosphere
and souvenir kazoos are fellated
in next week's very special episode,
which was filmed before a live studio
audience comprised entirely of
disinterested and foreign-tongued manques.
The broom of the fire's longevity crumples
our aborted template and lobs it
into the sewage wastebasket.
I should've died that day in Paris
but my hat was too far askance.
The malleable heartscape
of a doughy blonde carries her
to the apex of Mulholland,
where the phallic clocktowers deny recollection
of any antecedents in medieval numbers.
Somebody has to take dictation
for the insane, however,
I plead Sanity, Your Honor:
this man was required to receive
the benefit of death at my hands:
A blind man better understands
the cold chamber's embrace.
Senorita falls to the dust in her finest serape.
Deserts abound beyond the fringes
of the unschooled township
of Bonewater, New Mexico,
Est. 1803 on a tepid foundation
of impassioned misinformation.
In the old Spanish Mission
I hear the Clergy murmuring:
Forgive us this day our daily bread
as we forgive those who trespass against us
forever and ever Amen.
04 February 2014
Reasons For Living - January 2014
Movies
Blackfish
The Joneses
JFK
Mister Lonely (Partial)
Julien Donkey Boy (Partial)
Before and After Dinner (Documentary on Andre Gregory)
TV Shows
Mad Men (entire series)
Orange is the New Black (Ep 1)
House of Cards (Ep 1)
Wonder Years (Ep 1, 2, 3)
Books
Libra - Don Delillo
The Wild Swans at Coole - Yeats
Taipei - Tao Lin
Plays
Circle Mirror Transformation - Annie Baker
The House at Falling Hanging - Frank O'Hara
The Mystery Chef Mystery: A Play for Two Pianos - James Schuyler
Our Late Night - Wallace Shawn
Women of Manhattan - John Patrick Shanley
Infrared - Mac Wellman
Blackfish
The Joneses
JFK
Mister Lonely (Partial)
Julien Donkey Boy (Partial)
Before and After Dinner (Documentary on Andre Gregory)
TV Shows
Mad Men (entire series)
Orange is the New Black (Ep 1)
House of Cards (Ep 1)
Wonder Years (Ep 1, 2, 3)
Books
Libra - Don Delillo
The Wild Swans at Coole - Yeats
Taipei - Tao Lin
Plays
Circle Mirror Transformation - Annie Baker
The House at Falling Hanging - Frank O'Hara
The Mystery Chef Mystery: A Play for Two Pianos - James Schuyler
Our Late Night - Wallace Shawn
Women of Manhattan - John Patrick Shanley
Infrared - Mac Wellman
The Snow
The snow outside is so beautiful
I wish I could write a poem describing it
So well that it would be there
later if I needed it.
The snow is bunched in ample tufts,
held in the fingers of the branches. The snow shoots
in streaks close to the window screen. Further away,
the snow dawdles down to the yard in clumps.
We are going under again.
There is no one in the room with me.
The bed is white and so is the wall.
I try to keep them that way but it is hard.
Oh, it is hard. The snow enacts its great migration,
the entire white country of the sky
landing softly on the brown and grey earth
like a blanket. The little white envelope of your
text appears on my screen. I've yet
to open it. I received a package:
My mom has sent me another harmonica
for my birthday. I am being gently held
hostage by the snow. I haven't left
the white desk beneath my white loft-bed
for a week. The snow looks harrowed as it falls
a tribe of mothers searching for lost children.
We were supposed to Skype later, but I don't
really want to. I have talked to no one
but the waiter all day. I like it that way.
Off in the distance, the city has been
partially erased by snow. I am trying to learn
to be a simpler man, to say simple things in simple ways,
to not invent complexity in the attempt to understand
things that cannot be understood.
Warned of others who were buried under their efforts
to figure it all out, I'm doing my best
to simplify, to let my mind be silent like
The mouths of the creatures closed by the snow.
I've been given a simple life
and I want to see it through.
Spring is rounding
the horizon. Little by little,
the snow will melt, and the world will once again
begin trying to explain itself.
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