Aug 26

samsara in the age of the missed connector

I was superman
when she needed clark kent
Not into wasting time
i jumped out the window
which really was a telephone booth
-
All that ends
isn’t all that’s real
-
So as i turned
again into clark kent
all on the way down
I didn’t bother to look back up
-
My death didn’t happen
with richard dawkins
on the sidewalk
standing over me
knowing it all
Because my death didn’t happen
with richard dawkins at all
-
Death came
delivered
like a horses head
severed at the neck
It’s blood a pool in bed
-
No one saw
eternity reflected
when the sheets were lifted
Because death
didn’t stop us
We all rode again

denver/charlotte


1
Apr 25

the other night i went with jo to oberlin so she could dig up all her dead cats. 

she buried them in a garden that wasn’t hers. 

the trip wasn’t a success. we were chased out of the garden for trespassing. 

last night i ran over a bicyclist while driving a childhood friend’s mercedes benz through manhattan.

it caused a multi-car pile-up. the cyclist was arrested.

i was wearing swim floaties around my arms. a child involved in the accident asked me why i was wearing them. i told her i was improving on the design.

manhattan then turned into farmland and central african rebels stepped from a toyota pickup outfitted with a large machine gun in the back. they walked past dying fruit trees and approached the mercedes as i tried to turn around.

the rebels got to the driver’s side window and said nothing. they all opened fire.

i felt the bullets, not go into my skin, but i felt the bullets settle into my body. they were warm. i felt like my life hadn’t been long enough. i woke up before i died.


Mar 31

excerpt from scenes and songs in no particular order but these

over a brook

the lord

in every episode:

 

the body cold

the dirt removed

the shovel

against an ash

its bark

in diamonds

from age

 

no prayer

but from the jays

from above

the morning

with sun

the lake

frozen

the clouds

thin, low

cars in the distance

one hopes

they’re on their way

to work or vacation

or both

 

on the lake

men

they want

to catch fish

maybe perch

and with each breath

we witness

a thought

unsaid

or a need

that will

never be met

 

nothing here

to see but

the cold body

we dressed

based on time

in the best

we could find

hair in place

shoes shined

and on right.

nothing here

to see but

the cold body

dropped

into the earth

 

face down.

 

papa’s on the porch

his belly full

his head empty

he’ll watch

the whole thing

and will ask

with his body

for someone

anyone

to say

a word or more

and if

no one does

we’ll all

stand above

the body

and watch

the men fish

hoping

to see

someone catch something

 

and the jays

and the cars

have their way

with our heads

 

there are no tears

when the wicked

find your heart

 

so this is the funeral

with no words

of honor

no pride

 

it’s just

the way

it was meant

to be

pecked apart

just the way

it was meant

to be

to rot

without rise

just the way

they said

it wasn’t meant

to be

 

and when the ice melts

and the lake smiles

in ripples

insects on the surface

call fish to jump

open mouth

towards the wind

when the wind that

shifts last year’s leaves

the body’s theirs

 

and we clapped

when the fish

got pulled

and we clapped

when the fish

got gutted

 

and we laughed

when we

shut their eyes

and we laughed

when we shut our mouths


Nov 12

"28 dollars until the interest on my trust fund runs out."

"i wish i had a trust fund."

"who owns you?"

"sometimes i wish i didn’t own myself."

"ahh. no one owns me. no one. no one owns me."

"is that why you’re drunk and constantly passing out at the bar?"

someone else leans in and says:

"he rides a bicycle with like, like all these bags on it."

also, i told a man with a mental disability he smelled like a hippie. 


Oct 28

quick rap

freegans in the fiefdom 

freedom ain’t believable

feeding apples to the apples

until we all fall down

pick the best adjective

to describe this noun:

oogle


Oct 17

pitch

greasy luck is a television show about the travels of a 19th century whale ship from nantucket.

think of it as a cross between battlestar galactica (2004) and deadliest catch.

an epic depiction of a time when a young america was searching and fighting for a place, not only in the world market, but searching and fighting for its own identity, greasy luck is an action adventure with a heavy emphasis on “historical” “accuracy”.

the main protagonist is a young quaker, an artist, an open air painter, owen nickerson (played by ?) who wants (much like melville wanted) to travel the world in search of an honest, exotic, experience.

ray winstone, as george bourne, captains the sachem, an old, but storied vessel, sailing through the atlantic, around cape horn and deep into the heart of the pacific ocean. tim roth stars as first mate somerset.

greasy luck

the world is dangerous: the waters are deep, whales are big, profits are bigger, and men will do anything in their power to survive.

developed by myself and daniel knauf, creator of carnivale, the show is a joint production between hbo and the history channel. 

greasy luck 

10/17/12


the mast-head

"…but lulled into such an opium-like listlessness of vacant, unconscious reverie is still this absent-minded youth by the blending cadence of waves with thoughts, that at last he loses his identity; takes the mystic ocean at his feet for the visible image of that deep, blue, bottomless soul, pervading mankind and nature; and every strange, half-seen, gliding, beautiful thing that eludes him; every dimly-discovered, uprising fin of some undiscernible form, seems to him the embodiment of those elusive thoughts that only people the soul by continually flitting through it. In this enchanted mood, thy spirit ebbs away to whence it came; becomes diffused through time and space; like Cranmer’s* sprinkled Pantheistic ashes, forming at last a part of every shore the round globe over."

herman melville

moby-dick 

*

"convicted of heresy on the return of the roman church under queen mary, thomas cranmer, first protestant archbishop of canterbury, was burnt at the stake in 1556. the ashes of heretics were often scattered so that no holy relics might be preserved. the english editor, however, changed the text, thinking that melville must have confused cranmer’s martyrdom (of whose ashes nothing further is known) with the posthumous fate of wycliffe, whose body was disinterred in 1428, burnt, and its ashes cast into the swift: ‘thus this brook hath convey’d his ashes into avon; avon into severn; severn into the narrow seas; they, into the main ocean. and thus the ashes of wickcliff are the emblem of his doctrine, which now is dispersed all the world over.’ (thomas fuller, _the church-history of britain_, bk iv, sec. 53: london 1655, new edn oxford, 1845)"


other people’s politics 

Sep 04

showering’s for losers

apparently, johanna and i do not know how to properly use our shower.

our landlord, hussein, is convinced water is sneaking past two shower curtains, traveling across our bathroom floor, penetrating the vanity, penetrating the tile floor, traveling downstairs and ruining the ceiling in the bathroom.

four months ago, i suggested to hussein—if he believed in the “faulty shower curtain” hypothesis—he should buy a glass door for the shower and i would install it. he refused. 

so today i get a half-legible text from hussein. i think he was threatening to terminate our lease. so to clarify, i called him. he said, unless we learn how to take a shower properly, he would have to evict us.

he wasn’t happy when i laughed. he wasn’t happy when i tried reason. he wasn’t happy when i yelled. what would make hussein happy? money. of course. he wants me to give him money. more money. money because i do not know how to take a shower. apparently.

so, before i lost my mind, i decided to test hussein’s hypothesis. 

after work, i removed the kick-plate on the vanity to check to see if there was any water damage under it. one would think this would be the first place one would look. hussein hasn’t. there was no water damage. 

next i placed a dry towel in-between the vanity and the shower. if the curtain was a problem, water would accumulate on the towel. no brainer. after running the shower for 15 minutes, i checked the towel. no water. 

i filmed it. i filmed the fact there was no proper evidence the downstairs’ ceiling is damaged because i do not know how to shower. 

perhaps hussein wants to come over and show us how to take a proper shower?

or perhaps he should find a proper plumber.

i have never been evicted from an apartment. and if, in a few months, i were to tell you that i was evicted because i took a shower, you probably would’t fucking believe me. 

i might be paying taxes these days. i might have health insurance. paid vacations. short hair. but certainly my shower habits haven’t changed. and this incident is only further proof: we should all smell a little more like ourselves. 


Jun 23

a quick poem after reading an academic review prometheus and after watching something or other about modest mouse on pitchfork

putting chains on our tires

so we can go farther

in this weather.

and we wonder

should we have ever went to college

because the critics 

and their opinions

are boring us to rest.

their traps:

the ironic

judgmental

and negatively serious.

the thesis:

let’s piss off our hereos

our mentors

and befriend our neighbors.

build a fort without windows

we’re sick of the walls.

here’s to whatever

whenever.

you’re gorgeous



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