Wednesday, December 30, 2009


Jimmy plays a game like cricket in the field with a jagged tree bit and rocks and in many ways, Jimmy is me and the tree bit is you, and I use you to propel concentrated chunks of past among sexy blades of grass. If this is true of the very cores of us, this narrative of Jimmy/Morrison's Beloved (the tree)/Morrison (the rock), then how will we eat our eggs in the morning knowing we might never hatch any of our own?

Monday, December 28, 2009

World's Strictest Parents

God, you just want a fucking cigarette--to stick the crummy filter to your lips, slick paper gripping your skin, grind a flame from that little purple cylinder and suck in sweet tickling death with teenaged foreverness resilience.

You want to open a switchblade and expose every hole in their parenting wall. Must they insist toiling farm-labor to childly freedom-screams? No conversation as if perhaps equals on some less strenuous field? After all, remove time and there you have a playground of globular sorts (mostly water, several continents).

But their wall is solid, you see. Damn them! It's that exposed brick of the heart by which they warm their souls. Hard and old as it may be, the warmth is what is held in such high regard.

Wednesday, December 23, 2009


Post a secret. What a concept.
Post a secret, but also keep the secret. Anonymity.
This word seems rounded like a bubble we hide in it.
The wife wants her coffee cake. This I feel is warm and gooey, but also slightly crisp. I mean the wanting, not the cake.

Monday, December 21, 2009

Optic Musings in Mid-December

Parallax, the way I understand it, is the way a lower cloud rush-glides in silence beneath a cleaving trail of jet exhaust, which is stationary, though it appears that the cleave is moving and the cloud is stationary.

This particularly happens on winter afternoons in a fit of wind-gust. The sky is typically of a piercing glass sort.

On these winter afternoons, the cold cuts in angles on the face that help us visualize the moving cleave: as if a wound which dances against the atmosphere, that as it heals in the place it moves from, it slices open where it moves to.

But we realize, suddenly as if we are God, or as if we realize what God might be, parallax. And then, because the wound is stationary, not the cloud, we may heal completely.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

What You Tell Yourself: Snoring in Morse Code

Not good enough. A set of words which evokes no genuine image or emotion, does not fill the white space coagulating like leaky egg cracks, yet, always, it seems to be so.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

Silence and the Inevitable Chattiness of Such

I have nothing to say today. Oh, shit...

I believe this is the same as looking in a mirror. Try it!

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

The Most Important Thing About Windows

The edge is fantastic. What I like most is the lack of light and color--that it is mistaken for black rather than nothing--and how it cleaves me is especially satisfying.

Monday, December 7, 2009

lungs of our land

Sometimes the world's moonish, and sometimes it ain't. But when it is, it's just like you think, a silver envelope upon us, like some distant flashlight catches the wide face of our dime-world and in the shadow of Frankie's jawline we gaze upon our great oldtime movies.

But when it ain't, that's what one might call the tides. That is, a pulling of selves, like loons, upward, floating, waiting, wailing, alone, and that's how we spend most days. Being pulled.

Wednesday, December 2, 2009

And also for measure fuck your dog

There is an altogether ridged-angling of houses that are not Hill House. This will explain very much why I am so fucking angry, at you, but also as you.

Having Been

Has it been a day? Fuck you. And fuck the day's having been, too.

Tuesday, December 1, 2009

The Ubiquitous Smoking of Cigarettes

I am very embarrassed and exhausted by this falling away. Think of wordfucking like the spaces are really penises and the non-spaces are like a woman's pubic hair, ravenously rubbing. And think of this wordfucking as happening, happening, happening always always happening. Think of me as the skin of the spaces, sensitive to the attack but never vocal of it.

I feel apologetic to this end, as one who loves the oppressor might kiss him deeply and with tongue. You might shout, is the tongue necessary? To shout such a thing is understandable. But you cannot shout after asking, because the answer is yes, and it is stupid to yell about the truth. The tongue is a form of physical silence. Understand?

Good. Then you understand the source of my embarrassment, and also of my exhaustion. My mouth is sore and words become difficult. This difficulty is compounded, because of the wordfucking that is happening, happening, happening always always happening.