Wednesday, July 23, 2014


I haven't slept
for shit,
and I feel like a bat wing
held up
against the morning sun.
My existence
is like the soaped windows
of a vacant store.
I like it a lot.
I like its translucency.
Everyone looks beautiful
through soaped windows.
Everyone looks beautiful
dolled up to speak
at morning,
out of their home ape persona.
But even in those sleek suits,
those billowy dresses,
is haunted real estate.
The nicer ones
tell you about the ghosts
up front,
before you move in.
The others don't.
So the nicer haunted houses
on the block
remain single.
What a waste of possessed real estate.
Honesty must be overrated,
it wreaks such havoc.
Honesty is no friend
to dating,
or taxes.
Complete, naked honesty
is only useful
in the rarest
and most controlled
of circumstances,
rather like Polonium-239.


There should probably be a hagiography of those who whined as they were burned at the stake, to go along with that volume dedicated to the souls who pontificated. If you seriously think one book is more worth having than the other...well, then you're a terrible consumerist. You've drunk the Kool-Aid.

Tuesday, July 22, 2014


I think every time you discover a secret waterfall deep in the forest or the jungle, and you go behind it, into that dark space behind the waterfall's cascade, the waterfall's secret room, its sanctum sanctorum of shadows, that there should be a t.v. there.  And the t.v. should already be on and unconscious. As it always is.


I was trying to imagine what the perfect companion would be like.

I thought, a person like an eyelid floating in space.

A very thin eyelid.

And it would float beside you.

It would go into stores and forests with you.

And other places.

You would never cease marveling at how thin the eyelid was.

How it handled light.

Some textbooks actually say it is only one cell deep.


The urge to see one's own eyes in a dead state may be a normal urge.

One feels an intuition one could find a clarity in that: in looking into one's own dead eyes.

This is not impossible, as it might at first seem.

It is more than merely "theoretically possible."

It is wholly possible.

People have been resuscitated. While they lay there dead, someone could have filmed or photographed their gaze.

You could look at them that way. See yourself dead.

But you want the staring to occur while you are dead. You want to look at you in that state.

Is this desire a disguised desire to cheat death? Is this a childish desire?

I've been walking around in that dream state again.

There are people who decide never to speak the name of another human being again. Never to think about other human beings again. And they exist. They go on.

Yes, they must surely have the maintenance transactions we all must have with other human beings (unless they are very wealthy). But, presumably, they could reduce these to a bare minimum and emotionally seal themselves off, so that these transactions have the least possible impingement upon their consciousness.

Imagine how disastrous it would be for someone like this, if he or she were suddenly pulled into a conversation with another human being.

Even an idle conversation.

That person would just be observing the amenties of sociality.

But they could be destroying years of work in that other person, the solitaire.

I was angry at someone who wasn't there and would never be there. Again.

I take a blank piece of paper and I set it down on the long blank table and I stare at it.

Staring is the new writing?

I feel an enormous satisfaction in not writing.

Then I feel a dissatisfaction.

The one ceiling light in the upstairs bathroom was doing that crackling thing it does now when it first comes on.

I should change it, but climbing up on a chair to do so reminds me too much of my years in that gulag.

I'm joking, but not by much.

Light bulbs should have the decency to live or die. This one doesn't.

It hisses and crackles, and as I stand with my back to it, unclogging the bathtub drain with a plunger, I want to stop and listen to its voice after a while.

It begins to sound like someone talking. Someone ancient and gassy and barely alive but still...someone.

You realize how closely this ridiculous hissing sound of the light bulb (and it is one of those "modern" coily ones) resembles a human's voice.

Resemblance is everything and everything is nothing.

You realize this is the uncanny.

The dying modern light bulb finds a way to get the uncanny through to you. Because you are the uncanny. You speak its language.

It is a cosmic thing over your shoulder. A talking gas.

You should get a chair and change the bulb.

"But it's not dead yet," I think.

Delete Sad Poets

Delete sad poets.
Delete all traces
of a mental pool table
played by one
at 3 a.m.
Delete the single
Siamese fighting fish
in Walmart
in the middle of the night
blushing warm purple,
blushing more purple
than a nearby poster
for some fish food
made of fish.
How could that fish know?
How could that fish
be smart enough
to be at war with Soylent Green?
That bowl is barely
big enough
to float a single ping pong ball.
The smallest dwellings
contain the most sadness,
and these are usually
the most offensive.
Hence, blogs.
Delete yourself in the mirror,
you cactus with pet balloon poodles.
Your own mother
probably runs from you in the subway,
Unlike mine,
who calls me every hour
on the hour.
Even when I'm busy
getting  heaps of yellow chrysanthemums
thrown across my feet
in my Japanese Zero
by the beloved people,
wishing me a safe trip.
There are so many yellow flowers
I can barely read
my controls.
I can't wait to crash
out of love.
Reciprocal love.

Bill Dane

Bill Dane surprised me by sending me a link to this today.

Love it.

I traded him a link for a Robyn video.

Something in that baby voice of the vocalist with the tough words reminded me of her.