dot on the mic

past lives

2010-07-10T04:50:00.000-07:00

1.
where does the head go
not where its told to
over and over
breaking the rules
broken heart

open and closed
where does the head go
favorite places
where does the heart go
always be around
broken head

what can i tell you
not what i'm told to
over and over
breaking the promises
broken ego

started and finished
where does the heart go
away from strangers
where does the head go
old forgotten places
broken heart

how the freedom of flight in black night screams so perfectly out of the folds in each crease of the blanket of stars reaching its silken arms above me and stretching until it meets with all four corners of the sea below me, my eyes peeled wide open, mouth like a sailor, how many sirens could sing me to sleep? on a stage, in the ceiling, peeling out of a wrapper, unfurling like some wild apparition of a song i had heard once before in the throes of my youth, but the size of it is all too large and it wraps those silken arms around me, then bends itself inwards until i'm inside out and every single word is the most pristine sound. falling like rain, two yellow lines of a highway twisting upon the slate gray surface like a snake, coiling at the foot of a mirror, on the rooftops, in the walls, ripping out of an envelope, unwinding as if it were propelled by the nature of grace itself, in a perfectly calculated motion, and the clouds begin to rattle as the city takes the plunge into the siren's open hands...hands like an opera...my features, black and white, like a piano, slowly regaining color...into red mouth, chalk skin, pupils like the flash of a raven's wing, and my twig legs, planted firmly in the earth...
you can take your pills, but me, i'll take the open sky
1.
Oh! special places and the ever-present
pretentious faces
you are, at times
one and the same.

I can smell it as soon as it
begins to spoil.
forgotten meat, long left alone
those ever-present pretentious faces.

you are not the only one
to feel so alone
so leave me alone

2.
words can feel so invalid and suspicious
suspicions arise at the words i despise
three thousand hits hit all at once
a taste of oblivion, then its done
ten thousand come downs
too many interruptions to reconsider
what it once was at the start
so i turn around
hits in reverse, save the last for the first
words can feel so impolite
and freedom lies in the power of flight
black night
the perfect come down
my dear last days as the globe spins quick
words sometimes they make me sick
with every intention comes the dawn
daybreak in my fragile mind
counting now from time to time
every eggshell i step on seems to crack
three thousand hits
hit like a kiss
and your lips
open ended answers, the distraction
i missed
with every feeble attempt at this

i
saw you in the widening corner

all your angles were turning obtuse
though i tried to stop all of the bleeding
it was simply a bit too profuse

cat and mouse
i'd like to play all day
you see you've only shown me
just what i had expected.

cat and mouse games are child's play
i'd like to think that we are
far much older-
that we've outgrown such follies

PERHAPS I SHOULD
PUT MY HEART WHERE MY MOUTH IS
BEFORE THEY BOTH GO MISSING

(don't waste all of your strings)

me, the end
all the green
and your casual lack of concern
brings the bottom fairly close
to all that sits above
i just had to show my utmost care
in giving you what you deserve

telephone calls just make it
uglier
yesterday said that the
time wasn't right

devotion
maybe i'm over being loyal
maybe you can't hold
my ever-waning attentinon

its obvious, though
that the limit's been burned
me, the end
all that green
and your casual lack of concern

i can't make up my mind
once i have what i've
always wanted
i just toss it back
into the green

All My Friends Are Killers.

sometimes I think that every new party’s gonna save me

sitting in the bath when the bouncer calls, he asks me

where’d you run off to last weekend

are you gonna come tonight

love makes me sick so I wonder why they wanna touch me

my hands bloody red like the

rings around my eyes

the sun hates the sky so give me every last drop ‘til it comes

.. ..

all my friends are killers

.. ..

all my lovers are fake, they just want to own me

and stick their hands up my shirt, unbutton my pants and

have their way

all my boyfriends aren’t there

put the cash on the counter and buy me, bit by bit

it doesn’t work, love makes me sick

.. ..

and those lines cut up on the counter top aren’t even real drugs

all the drugs were done years ago

there’s none left, my arms are empty like the

weight of my head

the water is warm and my legs are so white

his voice on the phone makes me laugh like a little girl

or a woman with a gun up her skirt

.. ..

all my days are sedatives

.. ..

the ingredients aren’t right, they just form a clot

I couldn’t admit that he broke my heart

now every time they try to get inside me it simply forms a wedge

between my thighs and the door

all my lovers wanna stick their knife in me

when I say no they tell me it makes them want it more

they say I should just lay down

and try to take it like a man

end up

bleeding out

.. ..

there’s exceptions to the golden rules

drank until I couldn’t talk and added some

fast food and smoke,

in the earliest morning the moon swings on its noose, high

the bouncer wore a silver suit-

every new party’s gonna save me

all my lovers make me wanna die

all my dreams are lucid ones

.. ..

the static’s a crime

every face is a new one, you’re perfect

my legs spread open wide

the first time it ends is the next since the last

and now this is the part in the sex where I laugh

each bartender has a crooked smile

your fur coat reminds of me running fast

I’m on my couch in oblivion just wishing that

he was pushing me

.. ..

in the house its not safe

on the street its okay

freedom’s so big that it

makes me come

hard

you
is it the reason that i'm home?
how many places could i have
called home
and the very thing that is the
sense of home
could that be you?

there were so many
cities
making up the fibers of my
roads and highways that we
drove so many times
i've gone there before

and empty old times i recognize
still the same presence on the block
how pretend
i could pretend i'm pretty
while i sit with the window
rolled down
pretty is always the perfect fake
pretty is their intentional fate

LOS ANGELES
why would you spend your time looking for needles
just one time could be the only time left you just
avoid the twist of fate and let the time eat your days eat the time

I HATE WASHED UP LEFTOVER CELEBRITIES
HOW DO THEY SURVIVE ALL THESE RERUNS?
REALITY TELEVISION GAME SHOW CHALLENGES
YOU JUST KEEP PAYING FOR THEIR FOLLIES

how many times can acid be the answer

its so much easier to just have someone do it for you
but what if someone else says that its time for you to learn

it is the alternate
so much time. slow glow
i follow the trails of color
how many individual strands?
so many immaculate
this could be the catharsis
i feel it to be so
compound images lead us
to the center of a circle
how perfect the times
there is something i love
about sugar

black pools distract me from daylight
too many nights i have spent in disguise
and the times that i knew it was done
are the ones i so readily hide

its my skin i'm not willing to part with
each pore as a
piece of a
whole and

your eyes!
pierce right through
pin me down like a
paperclip
bent in all
kinds of directions

you hit all at once
its such fun
how the force knocks me down

how those black pools distract me from daylight
eyeing me through the
casual dawn
the blank day

WHERE DID THE DOPE MAN GO?
DOPE MAN YOU ARE THE EVER PRESENT

ARE THE SOUNDS TOO GOOD? ITS SICK
TOMORROW'S THE OPEN CUT ON THE

ten thousand times
over and again
never shallow
sometimes it just
eats me alive
open and mellow
cancer forlorn
today you might
swallow me whole
pretty in tangles
knots in the strands
maybe we should
tie the loose ends
until the next
big thing begins
kill the old news

open and close
my black eyes
what a benign
disease it is
what a design
to reckon with

lace stockings

stick legs

quality time

everything stops

where i saw the beginning

there now is a hole

open minded

closed eyes

waste of time

i've been awake

since sleep ran away

leaving a stain

confetti

2010-07-10T04:07:00.000-07:00

being alone in this minute is a vaccuum

one, two, three

august midwest melts in to the sun, the streets
a seascape
of the eyes of strangers, your bicycle wheels
one minute
a careful descent into dusk

it was all a long time ago, today
its okay, we'll live until tomorrow, she says

your footsteps on the steps of the bus, aviator sunglasses
seemingly hundreds of mexican restaurants and a barefoot man out there
washing the sidewalks
the space between me and their effortless swagger and
all of us caught up in it
holds the sweet ring of baba o'reilly

there's a chainsaw between me and poland
dagger between me and london

world in an icecream cone
twenty seven million miles and counting
my heart breaks to the rustling of your hair, and your dark hand
across my pillow
and the drunks out on lake street
overflowing down 32nd, right beneath my window
singing the saturday song

i wonder where everyone is right now

all of the suburbs are silent

i've got a friend in wisconsin! green fields all the way to chicago!
umbrellas on the shores of lake michigan and sheep at
the side of the roads, little mexico
dirt sky of el paso
gonna save up some money and fly

all the stars like nerve endings, lighting at random
my empty cigarette lung hanging dangerously low to a coal black slit in the
perfect oblivion
and steel drums in my head
and steel drums in my head

The Kill.

open

words i haven't seen

easy verses

cloudy nerves

platforms in memory

streets lined with perfect pitch

sidewalks like a

violin

and my empty marionette stance

woke up to an ashen world

filled the pockets with

leftover girls

leftover world

kept the candy where i could see it

kept the poison where i could feel it

and the tiny burning sun

blister in a blinding sky

dangles before ruby mouth

tastes like every day

keep the candy where i can see it

keep your heart where i can feel it

keep your head where i can kill it

leftover girls

and my empty marionette stance

wooden legs

hands held by wire

buildings like a

set of stairs

winding up the horizon

filling the skyline with

every shadow

just to taste the day

so you're mellow

i can see

hard to swallow

such a treat

i let it burn

such pleasant razorburn

and scrape

away the shallow coat

its nothing but the antidote

nothing if not in this dream

you can't erase a bruise

that stays black

today tomorrow was

yesterday

they offer me the same

uptown knows a face

and money too

pay for play, every day

offers me the same

accept that the catalyst

is in the women's hands

open

for business

open

for ingestion

always

for injection

its in the women's hands

palms smile invitingly

accept the excess runoff

until death do us part

and i knew it from the start

i would throw me away

into the women's open hands

providing runoff from the man

into palms outstretched

dissecting coils of time

giving me to mine

scratch the itch and peel away

pay for play every day

makes a sun shine

splits a sea

rips me in half

fantastic midnight found me in the

crease of your design

my paper fine skin is

chalk sliding down a bent sky

into the treacherous waters

of azul atlantic eyes

i fought the tide and found it to be

somewhat of a subtle hint

that fighting was a waste of time

can't fight the crease

of your design

so sick of spaces, its a drag

the way the arrows of desire

leave me full of exit wounds

white of the jagged moon

just piercing on through

and your design

like the scratch of blue fever

coldsweat and fire

frozen over

hurts like the heavens, it is

the red carpet, the only

acceleration

straight, no chaser

burning so good as it

goes right down

echoes and shadows

your design, and the

sultry violence

of the sky

my pupils wide like

black machines

in the fantastic midnight

static clings to my dreams

st. christopher

slick red velvet chair, lace veil
guest list reads like a bible
I’d sell out just to please the crowd
just to be in style
just kidding

club nights and alley days
sticks and stones
a most sufficient remedy

candy seems to think she had it all
until one day she ran away
and went into submission
so now how am I supposed to pretend
its okay, I’ve exhausted my resources

sugar please, make sense of this
the skies are filled with dust
I’m somewhere in between, above the earth

my sullen saint Christopher
you weren’t cut out for this
I remember the rain coming through your broken car window
the way that you cradled my brittle frame
there was so much more I had wanted to say

is guilt a reasonable result of pleasure
or pleasure a source of pain

no use in denying the ascent to space
so many smiles and sighs
I have to remind myself, sometimes
of every stretch of happiness
that brought me to this familiar plain

how many units got you to the top
how many brought you down

into the white of the wintery dusk

curling plumes, steam and smoke

feed the air with its musk

and the snow, brittle snow

falling desperately fast

pummeling the frozen earth, and

sending the dirt to its

maker

coating the deadened ground

beating it down

black heavens, suspended

in suspension, what suspense!

and the joy of the sting

and the crunch beneath my feet

never ceases to bleach

bleach the bitter, brazen, bold terrain

blot and

numb it out

sweet novacaine clouds crying

icy saline february tears

it was the language of the season

Feb. 14

the crease is right

caught in the fold

and every wrinkle like a sigh

the edges drawing near

translucent hands

paper fine skin

chalk sliding down a

bent and broken sky

all the clouds look fine tonight

every black space

each white star

both sides at once

its not enough

pulled my trigger

shot down the moon

restless sky is perfectly empty

chalk dust rains down

into the fold

mornings cut me a sliver of indifference

just so i can monopolize ignorance

the chill of wet air and the sun hanging low

over western soil and my

two feet planted firmly in the earth

the hours and minutes like a question

searching for seconds that hold the answer

suspecting the answer to be

somewhat like cancer and the

questions come down like rain

divine incisions

separating the folds in the

crease of the night

broken sky

two lights burn subtle

silver knife

the voracious arrow of mine

magnet pupil, slow spin and apple

slice through the skin and

carve about the spine

two hands

tendons stretch, the

sinews strain as my

weary fingers take the plunge and

slip between your own

your eyes

licked me clean to the bone

harsh ivory and marrow

the definitive structure

how the blue could cut through

every pretense

and time

and the distance

seemingly irrelevant

to the nature of my heart

can't write beautifully enough

to construct images of us

don't want to come across as another cliche

seems i can't pray to anything these days

lucky seven killed the cat

i'm quite sure its not so

lucky anymore

seven ate the nine

right here in bed i said

it happens all the time

seven says its getting bored

but making big plans so

rest assured

i traded seven in for a six

now its making me sick

should have been

faithful to the odds

3. sometimes all you need to remember is not to forget so those things so familiar won’t ever recede and the casual time won’t slip away except for the size of this its far too obscene to commit to the memory of it i am not the only one to simply decide not to lose we’re being accessible to the pull of possibility and a lift up, sometimes, exposing the seams to their otherwise manufactured appearance where has my childhood gone? hollywood, heroin. palm trees on the pacific coast endless road ocean tonight is the perfect oblivion.

Bang Bang
henry hudson,
you put a riddle through my vacant heart
and empty head, george washington you
filled it up
in the dirty snow before daylight savings time
I started to remember what New Jersey did for me

started to thaw

broke into an empty place, smashed out the windows
allowed all the winds to join me
watched the sun blaze its way west, watched the shadows lean crazily
went outside again and surfed a tilted sidewalk
all the way to your front porch
where I stood for a minute in awe of your tiny, fat hands

the skies were filled with a strawberry hue

and I was thinking about fifteen years ago when I would stay home from school

and how plastic and metal still turn me on

and piles of my little ponies, with their
neon hair, and gems in the stomachs of trolls, and my mother cooking
macaroni and cheese, and television static
the Yankee game on the radio, in my bed in the dark

awful river full of tug boats
the way we fooled that cop on the way to the bridge
listening to casettes we had bought at the salvation army
how the twinkling lights bore holes through the night, and the traffic

abraham lincoln
e-z pass, stop signs, driving fast
landscapers, outdoor spanish markets, changing your underwear in the lobby
she called herself Elektra; I was interested

her legs were full of holes

Burn Burn Burn
can’t ever return
thank you
mr. presidents

Coasts

We used to go for morning rides. I would wake up early and drive everyone down to the Newport Club for the 6:30 A.M. meeting. It would be just like my first day in California, driving down that hill to 32nd Street with the sun slowly climbing over an endless expanse of blue-green, palm trees towering out of the view of the car’s windows. When it was over, I would drive Kialas’ blue car all the way down the Pacific Coast Highway, lit by the newly risen sun. I’d turn the music up as loud as it could go and chain smoke menthol cigarettes. The bass rattled the entire vehicle. We would pack the car with laughter. It was a form of procrastination. No one wanted to go back to the Treatment Center for chores and morning meditation. The ocean would be to our left, and those oil refineries to the right. We would pass Main Street in Huntington and continue to where the land was flat and it seemed as if you were teetering on the edge of the water itself. Before we made it all the way to Long Beach, I would begrudgingly turn the car back around and make the reluctant drive back to Costa Mesa. For some reason, that stretch of highway always managed to invoke a certain sense of freedom. Maybe it was the wide open space. I loved to drive. I didn’t even have a license. I still don’t have one, now. The sky was always such a perfect blue, those mornings. On the way back, on the right side of the road, near the fire pits, parking lots lined with Volkswagen buses dotted the horizon, and scruffy surfer boys unloaded their surfboards and ran a finger through their hair, looking out into the waves.

My dad used to drive my brother and me down to the Jersey shore during the winter in the family’s minivan. We were young kids then. He loved to go down there when it was nearly deserted. We would either listen to the oldies on a New York City station or some dusty old classic rock cassette tapes that he had in the car. The Beach Boys were a favorite of mine. It was somewhat ironic to be listening to their sunny California surf music in the grey stillness of New Jersey winter. He would turn the music up, loud, and the three of us would sing along. Nearing Pt. Pleasant, the radio stations would fade to static and the tapes were all we had. I knew we were getting closer to the shore when a thin film of sand appeared on the sides of the road. I always wondered how it got there. The trees were different down there, too. They stood so tall and narrow along the side of the turnpike. All of the carnival rides would be abandoned, the parking lots nearly empty. The boardwalk itself never seemed to close though, and we would spend endless amounts of quarters on those claw machines that are so nearly impossible to win. The music there was like an endless circus soundtrack. My brother and I would jump up and down with joy after finally clasping a cheap stuffed animal with the machine’s metal fingers. You could never seem to win anything worthwhile, though, like those silver watches sitting haphazardly atop mounds of small, technicolor pebbles behind the glass. We would get some pizza and lemonade, probably some ice cream too, and walk up and down the wooden slats. The ocean was a cold, dim green, the sky concrete.

Prom weekend. We went to Seaside Heights, along with seemingly the entire rest of the world. I got really stoned and fell asleep on the beach. I ended up so sun burnt that it hurt to move. All of my friends were having a great time getting wasted, but my boyfriend and I couldn’t seem to stop fighting. I really wanted to go to White Castle, but I don’t think we ever ended up going. The only thing that I really remember other than that was smashing a bunch of cheerios on the hotel room floor and then trying to shove someone’s face in them. The Jersey Shore seems really dirty during the summer. All the girls are all greased up in their miniscule bikinis, with their melted makeup running down their faces. Hundreds of beach umbrellas dot the sand, and little kids run around in diapers. Shrill lifeguard whistles pierce the air, and obese, middle-aged couples balance precariously on their fold-up chairs, drinking cans of Miller Lite and reminiscing about the good old days. The seagulls scream as they swoop down to grab scraps of garbage and cigarette butts from the ground. One time I went down there with some friends and we buried this kid in the sand, and then stuck fries in his ass. Not literally his ass, but the sand above it. Those seagulls shamelessly flew right down and ate the fries while he was lying there on his stomach.

My first word was “stuck”. I mean, of course I said “Mom” and “Dad” and the typical baby drivel, but my first actual word was “stuck.” Our cat Tidbit had climbed on top of this wooden chest that we had in the dining room, and I followed her up there. My mother found me, sitting atop the chest, saying “stuck, stuck, stuck.” Spoken like a true alcoholic.

songs

2010-07-09T18:41:00.000-07:00

courtney love kept me company when i was fifteen because 1994 seemed far more appropriate than 2002. she's kind of an acid queen in this video of hole performing her valentine's day gift to kurt.
but anyway a friend of mine today told me after listening to a song garrison and i recorded that my voice reminded him of grace slick, perry farrell and kathleen hannah. and i'd have to say that those are directions worthy of going in.

music is so hard to categorize. can you put a face in front of something? give a name to a sound? there's too much inspiration out there, i get blinded by the simplicity of train wheels grinding over metal tracks, is that a song?

this

2010-07-07T01:28:00.000-07:00

crush

half-bent, fucked up

two shining slits, eyes of a rabbit

all those blue lights and our sweat

2010-06-27T07:00:00.000-07:00

there was never a plan, there was never a proven method that was supposed to fix everything. we all have our vices. las vegas jesus in l.e.d. you were strapped to the

windshield, in the back of a van on mulholland drive

down the block in austin texas there was a front yard full of bottles and mike would wear his hair in a ponytail,

please give me a chance to show you

this is an optical illusion. is it impossible to display pop art in its purest form of nihilistic kitsch war tools which one is the saint and which one is the winner

i clean my house and then put on silk pajamas smoke a million cigarettes and think about war and how much i like your

hands and remembered i could feel some bass if i felt like

phones calls and

later on the only thing i know is how good it is

a study in the obvious, what party ended up inside of this bag. things are predictable honey i know that they change they stay the same how come its sunday again how come its sunday again you're standing next to me at the show where did it

all end up, inside this bag? my metal and cancer representation of what those kids call dinner these days, i'm exhausted by the shape of you

2010-06-20T09:32:00.000-07:00

Rabbit run! That was such a fun playground, all the college kids took their shirt off. The cop just asked me for my ticket again, this time I have one. I'm writing in rainbow A.M. Easy to get photographed and published briefly when out at night, don't try really they like it more can you
See that pop art has eaten the scene, whole, spit out a zillion copies of it and that's what they are if you even know what the whole chillwave thing's about, I'm scared that all of us have finally run out, our ideas and opinions now overlap so we can't really have new ones?

Push the envelope, party people where does it go they get younger, I get old

how

2010-06-20T08:19:00.000-07:00

Why, really, and how even? I think I want things like happiness. On a dirty sunday, mexican bus cowboys want to shake my hand

2010-06-14T21:52:00.000-07:00

blue spit, psychic spit, over you on to your

head

she says many things i wonder why

into this bed again

your pretty pony's not mattering

i'm trying to do this thing, they're visiting me. all of the pennies turned bad with rust. the water won't go down anymore, is five minutes worth it

rate of the heart. the cars sound like a tide, i'm convinced that its worth it i know that its not

ok, not sure. go or stay home - which is which - who are you -

weird weekends,

ways to do it

there are indeterminable numbers of uncertainties, this is the same for all things, how often do we assess every single existing angle, not once

i have found the pockets are limitless. there's never an end. this is extraordinary to observe yet entirely different to partake in. thus is born the role of the watcher

and player, and those in between, what an astonishing spectrum

this manic-depression is predominantly comprised of a seemingly adrenaline-fueled state of heightened awareness and alertness. the rest is a coin toss. every diagnosis will be different; no two doctors will be the same. there will be disagreements; there will be references to a christian god or the way it first felt to get high, to get off, to be in high school; there will be notes

tiring of the constant archetype, yet developing it as more experience is accumulated. instead of going to the party

america, is it darwin or jesus, my question is does it matter- is there anywhere left to go? the pockets keep breeding like rabbits, or pigs. kept giving me names and phone numbers.

slows down. hits hard

metal hand

on spine

black machine eyes

dark flash of a

raven's wing pupils

the obstacle

warm teeth

enigmatic

2010-06-04T19:30:00.000-07:00

days and days will go by. we will spend time waiting.

there may not be enough time in the end for all of this waiting. we may lose our place.

where does one start, which beginning is most appropriate and can we begin at any time?

is there a certain pre-determined number of chances to be received

and does this number change if the initial results of taking such chances are too costly?

telephones will remind me that people are there. they may be different when not over wire.

every bit of cement that we walk over will be just another thing that we shared, and

you may end up on the other side of town with your hands in your pockets, and

i may still be sitting here on this curb examining the skin around my fingernails, and

if it were supposed to mean something then both of us were lost.

and this is just, i assume, how it were meant to be played out

appealingly so, as casual as a sunday afternoon, yet equally taxing nonetheless

canvas shoes, chipped nail polish, exposed flaws

times spent looking for the sun out of jacuzzi eyes, wet open pools

the various ways yours may crease at the sides while you smile or frown at me

different creases being the way to determine which rule had been broken and

giving the answers away

thinking about other people when we are together, when you look at me, who is it

what do you make of me

risings

2010-06-03T02:37:00.000-07:00

there is a piano melody canopy above this antique ceiling, no visual knowledge of its flip side but its there
now there's a sad but whimsical voice like a charm ringing out from behind all the keystrokes
now I'm Jonas
now you are the whale
in the fluff thickened air between origin and end-up the structure of reason began to unfold into
all of the buildings look bright tonight and the sky a black
hole in one
not ever knowing but wanting the same, keeping passion in mind, letting go while fingers cling on in defiance
fists clench oh blue
honey in a summer dress so
blue

24 hrs

2010-05-29T01:59:00.000-07:00

air swift in summer, sparkle breeze fancy
basement studios, wolves of metal, robotic pet, a foreign beer
subtly a perfect circle is drawn

candy cane
oh but they went that way and
bent into a cloud

I am the one who gets fat on boredom
then throws it all up, how do you
like my resistance? its reactionary,
at best. naturally the result is astronomical
at least this habit is fading, new
habits are forming, truer nuances and
the chemical fat all trimmed away

the various colors of cement as it dries and the end result, a pyramid
want to make the world feel good,
give it time
anyone got some to spare?
I received a pill capsule filled entirely with green glitter. what if
we eat this entire thing

oh

2010-05-16T21:56:00.000-07:00

looking for skin, some kind of melting and alternate space. inside the other one
ethereal bliss of dick. forays into pornographic day trips
now who hurts now who hurts when it gets too big oh oh oh no

big hot hard light bulb wired to the
grass is greener, milky way
down in texas with a broken car window and rain it gets too big oh oh no
chris you go away oh oh we fucked our pain away you know
with pins and kits heroin kitsch another life away oh oh

sick fix, hipster kiss is the downward spiral

2010-05-16T21:39:00.000-07:00

starred

2010-05-16T03:10:00.000-07:00

want to oooh want to
misanthropic skeptic
strychnine inclined

eat computer
winsome or
benign in some areas
just want some touch

hello

2010-05-14T17:46:00.000-07:00

Yellow world umbrella we are
Wonder bread confetti

anatomically mine, slim hearted hard to find
silver lining, zippers

The howl of the new england zephyrs, all wailing down one shadowed shore and

how much love could be enough

2010-05-05T18:07:00.000-07:00

are you charging for questions?

2010-05-05T00:37:00.000-07:00

There is really a lot. Of everything and chasing it around takes
well
a lot
What is the age that hits with the feeling of
being grown up and too old for what you already
feel like you are too young for?
how old is anything really and what is perspective based on,

has time become more of an opinion than a measurement? math is like dark matter, numbers,
heiroglyphics,
zodiac signs, constellations,
seismographic waves,
igneous rock

an ocean. where did you go? I looked for you in places I didn't remember,
found you and left the room because
it was someone else and so am I it was
hard and cold but the ghost was old news, took new ones and kept in mind all the
numbers, add it down

then what does the truth mean anyway if nobody even wants to hear it I hear about odd assumptions that are more like false opinions its easy to get inside of my head,
modern life is an outward projection, this world
in a skull, thinking now on the tip of your spine,
mine, shared space, air, here all the time

no more white noise, if it all shut off
negative sound pooling over,
turning it to
powder.
Love
everything looked saccharine, the sky bent open in fractals of crystal prisms moving in tracks
ten trillion watt strobe light and the effortless
drone of black night

tales from the bubble bath

2010-05-02T23:11:00.000-07:00

funny you should say that, i started to examine it more closely
if it was the cobain aspect that turned you on
i know

under the slit of weird pre-dawn sky,
rows of willow trees, limbs all entwined, after decades of twisting and technological advancements like the
microwave and silicon breast implants, stark against the dreaming sky
that is just how they caused it to be, but theirs was by mistake
evolution is not a game of follow the leader, this one is in hide and seek, the
predator and prey exactly the same, or literally, or maybe its just that we figured it out

i'm still wondering when all the rest will catch on.

the cataclysmic reshuffling of the infrastructure, ribcage, spine, song, and dance of each structurized nation's social and political construct spread spiderweb cracks growing into fault lines marring the

way to solve it obviously is to just be free

synthesized states of mellow yellow or the lapses of time your charms provoke, my favorite toys
playing it cool, getting lost out in the magnetic fields, thinking middle eastern vibes via viola and a big black amp
black cords, the most candy colored pastel state of being

pale wrist wrapped in cord, strobe light tracking vision of an arm against a wall, bass

we were
running all over town in a paper plane, naked sweating fingers clinging to its white seamless edges, precise incisions, all the paper cuts just opened up
that was the anti-gift, a paper cut.

stuffing

2010-05-02T14:36:00.000-07:00

the cops pulled over a white car down on the street, cedar avenue seen from one story about the west bank convenience store...the car had no rear license plates so the cop took their registration as another patrol car waited, both cars' lights flashing, 1:27 A.M. the guy in the back seat had the nerve to say something confrontational and the police removed him from the vehicle and ordered his friends to drive away, leaving him behind encircled by four police officers with guns and nighsticks in their holsters. after a brief talking-to the man was told to walk up the block. as he was walking away the police were grinning and laughing amongst themselves, ambling over to their cars and sliding over the dark leather into the vacant space that occupies the only authority we're all supposed to obey

i like the look of dark sleek machinery, shiny things and anything that runs on batteries or electricity or is stemming from a cord attatched to an outlet or runs by sunlight or heat or by magic, cassette tapes and panels of little light-up buttons

it does say on my twitter that i live in the magicastle of narnia, and i really do.

because.

2010-05-01T18:54:00.000-07:00

Things and Stuff

2010-05-01T10:29:00.000-07:00

There's this cool weird thing happening with me where every day something involving Jimi Hendrix makes itself apparent in my life, and last night I think it reached climactic proportions when an absolute stranger at a rave came up to me and asked if I wanted a tape...to which I replied yes, upon which time he reached into his pocket and handed me a Jimi Hendrix cassette. Every magazine I open has some Hendrix reference, I went to the Walker last week and ended up in a hammock listening to his tunes watching screen projections of his album cover all over the walls...I found lots of Hendrix references last weekend in Chicago and people just seem to keep talking about him BUT come on, I'm seriously kind of tripped out about this whole thing and I'm wondering if its going to escalate, although I can't think of anything weirder happening other than Jimi ending up alive in Mexico and on the phone with me trying to get me to go down there and hide out too... And let me also say that I am definitely a fan of coincidence but also rely predominantly on chance, and both are playing such a huge part in recent happenings... but Hendrix? WHAT DOES IT MEAN? I think it all started when I began wearing velvet pants on a regular basis. But yeah, major mind-fuck, a man I've never even seen walking out of that weird abyss that is 2532 25th ave s and straight up to me with this tape in his hand.

Anyway, I was reading Adbusters this morning on the train at 6:30 AM after raving all night, returning home to shower, and then heading out to work...and this shit is important.

"The nucleus accumbens is a tiny structure of the brain located within the striatum, which controls movement, and next to the limbic system, which is involved with emotion and learning. The accumbens is the main junction between our emotions and actions. These closely linked motot and emotive functions also extend to the prefrontal cortex, which controls our thought processes. It is this accumbens-striatal-cortical network(the crucial system that links movement, emotion and thinking) that has been dubbed the "effort-driven rewards circuit.
This effort-driven rewards circuit is a proposed neuroanatomical network that underlies most symptoms associates with depression. It is actually possible to correlate every symptom of depression with a breain part on this circuit. Loss of pleasure? The nucleus accumbens. Sliggishness and slow motor response? The striatum. Negative feelings? The limbic system. Poor concentration? The prefrontal cortex. The brain is also programmed to derive a deep sense of satisfaction and pleasure if physical effort produces something tangible, visible and necessary for survival. So if I go out in the field and harvest my own food, my effort-driven rewards circuit will be stimulated, causing neurogenesis (the production of new brain cells), which is believed to be an important factor in recovering from depression."

GET UP, GET OUT AND GET SOME

list 2.

2010-04-22T23:24:00.000-07:00

Four tet. PROPELLORHEADS. Velvet pants.
Jimi hendrix, hammocks, 1964
Warhol + lichtenstein
Yayoi kusuma, soup cans, brillo boxes, marilyn monroe
Public image limited
PSYCHIC ILLS and psychic encounters, overwhelming #s of coincidences
Meeting the xx at an atm machine, the red line, c.c. And basebal bats
Clowns and water guns
Collages, audio projects, radio shows, hosts, characters, card games,
Lymphoma
Television screens, pop art, fighter jet planes, the world trade center,
Post 9/11/01 america, brunch, pressed pot coffee, peace, protest
Doors, windows, double sided tape. Hot chip, jewelry, karaoke machine,
CASIO
Electronics, electro, rombo, cheapo, cartoons

Archie and Veronica comics
Gummo
Hot to trot
Psychic death, sleeping dogs lie, quotes coffee cups smoking jokes
Jan
Bands, gang life

The nameless one and dark sidewalks, tagging
Getting up
Graffiti, war, tanks, clouds

Pretty telekinetic wardrobes and endless
Bliss, castle mania, manic dollhouse brown hair grocery shopping pink nailpolish

Perfect thursday

Excuses by The Morning Benders

2010-04-18T23:17:00.000-07:00

making my list

2010-04-17T02:07:00.000-07:00

Making lists of bands in little notebooks, burned velvet davenport cds and a tape recorder from savers that is also a flashlight and a radio and has a little handle...I'm so glad medusa is just a couple crackstacks away on this west bank, it was nice to walk in the side gate with a cafe mocha. Cheers to this, bus ride to chicago in single digit hours, because I need a little adventure and I'm on vacation so the time has come to see what this megabus is that I've heard so much about. Soon I'll have in my possession a hard copy of kfai shows with friends, want to start that board certification course right now in bed (if only). Glad I talked to the deerhunter dude because I started to feel like my encounter with bradford was slightly off kilter but then I realized it was all in the cards of that evening. Anyway how many shows can you go to in one night? I find myself missing dubstep but hearing it in the exit of the varsity...dearling physique blew me away...the way he was moving his legs and each one of them posturing and the noise in my body because it was so loud and perfect. I want to just be there for all of this, its starting to fit in the strangest and most surprisingly comforting of ways. Figuring out the puzzle is half the joy. Maybe more than less is found in less than what I thought was necessary before and this realization is sweet. I decided tonight that from now on I'll only eat the sour mambas. I keep coming across ashtrays in thrift stores from best western hotels...if you're ever stoned and want to make something weird, go to savers on lake street and check out that whole wall of the plastic baggies they put together of random shit and pick some out. Today we found puffy stickers of mr. T, micheal jackson and lionel richie, along with a cool night light and a 1920's inspired photo book probably from the late 80's/early 90's. The cops are outside down on the street again, I hear the sirens. Incense and peppermints is putting me to sleep. Feeling better every breath and inch

tapes tapes tapes!

2010-04-08T12:49:00.000-07:00

Audio recording devices are making themselves apparent in every corner of my playground, sandbox life in a plastic bucket. For that boy I walked the plank away from safety in old tricks and laid it

all out on the table instead but I already knew he would not like to watch

what is the most important thing? thousands of precriptions seemed like a good idea, throw in the towel

his clothes looked like a projection of the fantasy I didn't recognize
this early spring metamorphosis
do you like it for a reason other than the one you read on a blog, where is arthur lee where are the cowboy killers
their fat elementary school future is not the same genetic material as the
way my bones are trained

mindspit

2010-04-06T03:31:00.000-07:00

caked with layers of
mindspit, how did mandela peel himself out, or the
king, martyred luther

mr stand in, you forgot about the margins

rising
how many names do you need to do it under a sea of coalitions, committees,
conditions? political leverage and monopoly money,

get out of jail free cards
Hallmark and green cards
immigation status and six years incarcerated.
interstate 10 like a guillotine blade and the green face of mexico
shantytown freckles

Why did you serve in the Persian Gulf War? I served for this country because I believe in this country. I thought that they needed our help. Now it seems ironic...

and the judge says
"There's many veterans that came in front of me. What makes you so special?"

two to three thousand aliens
who have served in the US military
facing deportation

then Sargeant down on 1st and 7th, all the too much love kids and the taxi cabs, and hundreds of confirmed kills performed by the hands that are shining their shoes

biting the hand that feeds and every other kind too.chess games played on foreign soil and their
anticlimactic results
play-time politics in a sandbox
ken doll with princess diana
scenic route to the tower of babel
salt pillars looking familiar somehow

everything

2010-04-03T10:51:00.000-07:00

I can't believe there's so many things going on at this pocket in time, I fear that I keep making myself go faster each time just so I won't miss the next one. But running back and forth downtown last night then to the west bank under the cover of black sky to rooms with musicians and body painting, stages and bodygaurds and coat check rooms with tape recorded sounds. Picnics on the floor with an apple and my back to the speaker, rattling with the bass. I forgot about the things that I'd learn from. I remember them and and took the leap. Things scare me, I know. I turn it inside out usually. Staging a coup on kfai has reminded me how easy it is to just do what you want. I'm kind of exhausted of everyone worrying what everyone thinks of everyone else, worrying that they can't do something because of what someone else may think, doing things they're not really into because for some reason or another its been implanted in their heads that they have no choice. Learned fears. I have to kill my learned fears, thanks mom and dad. Learned fears from multiple years. Only thing I'm into right now is this lust of mine for all things audio visceral and everything that comes along with those spaces

polarity

2010-03-31T01:38:00.000-07:00

fork and knife
moving me around to cut and
eat tonight
those hollow nerves, the filter they are passing through
if it isn't just practice
not sure
one taller, one shorter. one with light hair and the other with dark. prayer beads and the empty spoon, compressed into one direction
where is your head when I'm out in the static of
you on the floor
automatic

schematics

2010-03-29T16:56:00.000-07:00

(I want your)
(I want your)
(I want your)

sold into a syndicate (I want your) black cords below

in a tin can. major tom & the ghost

2010-03-21T11:48:00.000-07:00

breaking my
heart, baiting ghosts
hook and line for
days in the life of a
spider
a river
rhetorical questions

no more, mr. o'leary
the hunter in me the
infantile bliss

2010-03-19T10:16:00.000-07:00

2010-03-19T03:47:00.000-07:00

Bus terminals just feel dirty. There is the anxiety produced by all that waiting the weariness of a commute dictated by a time table of scheduled departures and arrivals and the uncomfortable flourescent lighting accenting a neverending tile floor, dotted with islands of standard metal benches that often serve as beds. The token vending machine. Phone conversations in an unfamiliar tongue, and the rustling of a plastic bag behind me. You don't look people in the eye, we look down at our feet making hollow tapping sounds on those tiles, under a matte coating of disinfectant and soap that the mop left behind. The bathrooms are eerily quiet, except when ex-cons bussing it from san bernadino to who knows where are washing their hair in the sink. Looping sample of a ringing bell to signify the arrival of a train and a soft voice over the speaker asking to please, for your safety, report anything suspicious. Change machines making me think of las vegas. I wonder who patented the little folded yellow caution wet paint sign? He probz makes more money in a day than I do in fifty.

march weather funtime earth joke zone

2010-03-18T23:44:00.000-07:00

emily dickinson doesn't seem real. I can't tell if
glass or metal is better, the khaki sand of victorville
bleeding joshua trees out of the
Earth upside down

Inside out (nitrogen pallor)
so were the molecules,
so was your head, winsome skeptic in gentleman's attire
midnight infrastructure
Playing dress-up with personalities, costumes
vintage swedish prophetic manual-esque documentation of
Fifty cent garnet piece in my pocket and
project outline and stem cells of the thing that will get me to the

Not to invite those caught in the fray of their post-existence, edges of
after life whatever, death world born of pre-loss of 21 grams
the haunting and the aftermath

March 18th 2010.
anatomical medical drawings, amulets, electronic sound technology communication with the dead, the psychic, raver favors, mohave desert map

you don't know what is about to happen, I'm not seduced by the static, popular culture: a hooker in prada
Thin sheets of mica found under the dirt, rock that breaks in shields to pull strips of glittering geological
The start of all this excess?
rock or an egg or bang bang or the dregs of a
tired heretics fable,

jesus now comes in LED, your web browser tracks common threads to base faux-friend ad assault campaigns, pretend they

know you
will find you on
Twitter of course is an easy distraction

____________________
These Are the Breaks
____________________

african music, bicycles suspended indoors, shiny polished cheap psuedo crocodile loafers, linoleum, bubble wrap, retail fixturing

weekend remote control nailed to the semi-automatic through the fast forward button, the trigger is not obstructed. sticks, holsters, spurs, flip book imagery in pixelated color bars

1920's black and white cigarette holder, every unaffordable party or conquest, cloud nine and the numerical path

blogs, soda, reasons behind erraticly reverting between eccentricities, in a business meeting in your joke soap bubble delusion where you saw fame and sold all your
took off your clothes, switched to abbreviations
I'm not in the places I've already gone

knuckles and the spins, all the nuances sweetly ignored, battles with the inexplicably vacant, fader guest list paranoia of america

amber waves of grain, darwin being better than
a virgin just physically couldn't give birth so how can evolution the
new episode of tuning out and turning off on channel 74th street exit he wrote the
directions knew all of the lines it was

Premeditated. Sophia was pushing a vaccuum around in a floor length sari. Money is green paper with pictures that comes out of a printer. Debt is fake, her weave and disney robot marionette adolescents run on false hope
fabrication

-------------------------

Black Beauty will turn off the lights the beige canvas drapes drawn ceiling closer than hardwood flooring radio off car tires on cedar, axis to axis.

distilled, reacting
indecisive results, who carries magic 8 balls in this town

thinking of eric burdon at night

2010-03-17T22:17:00.000-07:00

thinking of eric burdon, eating candy to keep my mouth busy. this is our family dinner on sunday afternoon before she gets melodramatic and pulls out a suitcase. what's the point anyway mom
everyone is drunk
yelling at me never to call them a tranny

I went to texas too. Came back a widow. The things that fell out of you were smashing apart

do you ever

2010-03-17T11:35:00.000-07:00

Do you ever?

Think about nuerotransmitting systems and the physiological make-up of your brain,
ever fake norepinephrine?
Have you ever

the molecular structure an easy hexagonal compound is it the
Same
when real and fake?
I fell on a man-made twist of the arm and broke my
neck is directly affected
hey baby I am hooked tooth and

nail for your business of
knowing so well

the day came, every day and
Mornings hit hard when you make them and
Norepinephrine could run out but not this early in the
Games from them were
all they hated to give me
I played like a
piano with big shiny fat keys

Ever made it do whatever you want when you
Know you might not really be in control but you
haven't lost the conviction
Or the knife

this is my "fuck you" to ke$ha

2010-03-13T14:49:00.000-08:00

(By the way I love hip hop and I also love uffie and I wish kesha would stop hurting my brain and cheapening an entire music genre that hasn't even really been established yet)

Then again uffie can't flow like me so...and anyway I'm kind of an honorary O.G. considering how well I've been schooled

1.

I'm slingin it smokin it shootin it poppin it
can't catch it
you aint got no hope in stoppin it
bitches be frontin don't know how I'm rockin it
they steez so slow they can't see that I'm mockin it

All they can hear is my gat when I'm cockin it
Dot on the mic and the beatboy be droppin it
All the cats out on the block they be coppin it

My flows like the drip
after taking that hit
once you start you can't quit
I'm that brand new shit
yeah the mad ill chick
32 in the clip
Mothafuckas better strip
we be cruisin bumpin b.i.g.in the whip

I could be empty or just so filled that I
can't feel the weight of my skills its so ill
how I go down just like a twisted pill
into the center of all of it
Nucleus
and the dj spins like he's used to it

(Shout out to 163rd and amsterdam, washington heights+brooklyn+alphabet city, willy the bum and the ever-present dopeman. Dude with grills and the loc'd out attire. Wesley the latin king and the outdoor markets in spanish harlem. Christopher wallace but not really puffy. Tripped out summers in tompkins square park with flower petals and stained glass church windows while the suits walked by. Slim, on his bicycle, making deliveries of greenery in the east village on 4/20 four years ago while I was buying a kinks record on astor place. Night time walks with tea on st. Marks place and jimmy the punk rocker at trash and vaudeville until brooklyn called me home...sirens outside the fire escape, smoking cigarettes on the fire escape, tommy the most italian man ever "watching the neighborhood" on the porch of our house in flatbush. The guy at the bakery I went to every morning who would sing uptown girl to me and make my coffee. Subway trains, 40 oz malt liquor, squatters, crust punk bands and avenue c, the bowery and cbgb's...especially cbgb because that place was sick and they robbed them of it for the sake of...chuck taylors? Cracktoberfest in tompkins every year with the police force and MDC, b.b. kings and the subhumans, the hello kitty store on 42nd street and nyonya in chinatown. Guns and drugs and thugs. Gangsters and stoops we all sat on, bumming for change on the west side highway with donna or being in the vicinity of the uptown port authority. The salvation army thrift store, the dumpling man, the tunnel under the street that marco slept in, my living room walls covered in postcards and paintings and the slanted bedroom ceiling. Darryl "Ragidy Supreme" and the dove and rabbit at his apartment in washington heights, then his magic show at that weird nightclub in midtown with the 7 dollar heinekens. Prospect park. Washington square, union square, the botanical gardens, coney island and the russians I met on the train who took me to a movie in their fancy sportscar and all of the signs that we drive by written in russian. Nas. The velvet underground. Crossdressers, transvestites, hookers and drag queens. Keith Haring and neckface. Every kid making a hustle to eat or junkie supporting the business. Wet. "That leak. The leaky-leak." Queens, more specifically Astoria...and the wet grass under the shadow of the bridge there...the orange slushee you could get for 5 bucks from these dudes in the basement of a barber shop in harlem that would get you shitfaced in no time and was the most delicious drink ever. The cops who let me go. Steve, rest in peace man, and the blue puma jacket he gave me because I just thought it was such a pretty blue. Englewood cliffs, palisades park, newark, camden, edgewater, bergen county. Twenty year-old Elektra, with her black eye and frantic words, in the lobby of some apartment. The tombs. Community gardens. Mrs. Astor. Guiliani. The Yankees. Playing chicken with the police. Grant's Tomb and the museum of natural history, dinosaurs, ancient egyptian tombs, the metropolitan opera, carnegie hall, broadway and sardi's and one million overpriced parking garages. Canal street and little italy in a pocket to the west, weird lofts, hidden doorways,protests down broadway, cops on horses, falling asleep on the lawn of brooklyn college four summers ago. Hellraiser's biggest fan with eight million facial piercings, a mohawk and a little dog standing outside of the tattoo shop snapping fliers at the passerby. Getting lost, Hoboken New Jersey, the lincoln tunnel, ending up in south Jersey at a rest stop. Getting pulled over with a bat in the car, flashlights, vandalism, truancy, shitty concerts and that awful emo/bubblegum punk thing. Selling. Pawn shops, tolls, range rovers and red acuras. Cadillacs. Fly girls. Ghetto fabulous-ness, puffy jackets, chains and rims and spinners and high top nikes in all white, crooked grins, the projects. Bodegas. Loosies. Vinyl. Ballrooms. Skyscrapers. Central park west. Rastafarians in brooklyn and east orange. Mushrooms. Never really thinking about it being 4 AM waiting for the train in bedford stuyvesant, just waiting there in the dark. Lootings, shootings, new year's eve and an endless supply of hydraulics.

go on dark humor and hip hop habits

2010-03-09T11:24:00.000-08:00

That one also comes in chrome

she already lived this day but it keeps
looping
what the fuck is she supposed to do anyway if she can't decide which one to go on? Its okay guys I'm an old pro who is she trying to
prove wrong or shoot dead

when she sat up the air was a mask in suspension stretched
over my eyes so I
Threw it away again, time to play machine gun with your
crippling wealth of stories she wants to speak fables in the
empty spaces,

I'm so happy because she is blind but
now she needs to go away, christopher wallace is trying to tell me something but harlem put holes in my arms
Donna was the funnel that sarah fell into
Rabbit holes are child's play
against a bag of spoons

don't be scared, there's prescription medication for this sort of
It doesn't work sir,

white white white all over how do bones grow, all the archetypes are rearing their ugly heads but she already saw where the
joke was only a joke to her
and real function was not
What is that

All I can tell you is that it gets really strange and I'm mostly just trying to cope with it

burning both sides to get to the middle

2010-03-07T15:50:00.000-08:00

Vande and my pupils like black machines, because I'm cynical, ebony flash of an oil slick
I'm sliding
the lights hit so good and you
know that the game is a
Hot hot hand on dull spine
Heart on strings in a plastic cartoon, it is
cold sweats and fever and
I am not here
I am out there in the
magnetic pools, arms limp and
Head on wire,
Platform three hundred miracle, rip you. I want to my
Legs are all bruised and I don't know why it makes you come
gets you harder than before

Every next one's gonna
Hurt like the last and now
This is the part in the sex where I laugh

and put my teeth in you, its okay to play make-believe with sticks and high heels, this
modern life is intravenous, how many wolves are in my bed
and which one is the hungriest, brown or blue
my twig legs and paper wrists and the
way that
the tendons push sinewy snake-like coil outlines to the tops of my hands while I'm
getting off

drinking velvet from creases left out of the
fold
tastes like smack
I'm just kidding I turned it around, I saw the
pretty gay boys with glitter and sweat on their cheekbones, felt your breath, ran up the stairs
They were draped in monochromatic fabrics but the colored strobes
raining down from the place past the lid on their
fish bowl
put a pink static sunset on the
cold sea of slate shoulders

easy like a coma red sucker or the negative space I take up when I'm spun
doing it for love in the
dark, cats in the alley and
crooks in the cradle
ending up in someone else's morning
dressed in satin

you can also be jealous of what scares you so I don't mind
doing it for you

not like this year is made out of a disco ball or something

2010-01-01T02:57:00.000-08:00

So, it took me forever to figure this out. I always had a certain disdain toward computers and other mechanical devices as well as an increasing need to obtain of all of them and master their usage until I got bored with their battery-operated similarities. I wondered why my friend Jason painted a blackberry inside of a crack pipe and then I realized that it is indeed a crackberry and lots of people are in synch with their i-pods too. It's totally bizarre that it is already about four hours into 2010. 1987 was a good year; the Berlin Wall fell and I was born in January and in three weeks, I'm going to be 23, but back then "I was just a newborn stranger in this town" (pink floyd doesn't go away).

New years resolutions:

Don't stop
Don't even stress about it
Sequins and glitter and black ruffles and red lipstick will never go out of style
Your cat will always outsmart you

January 1st, 2010 started out as December of 2009 going to Chambers which had lots of balloon strings over the hallway and white rooms and a steel elevator or at least it was factory-like in color...dipping into the basement...outside the sidewalks were under a sheet of ice

But down hennepin and onto 7th and 1st there was a

Classixx were wondering how I got between them

God the chambers hotel had a giant lottery sign right outside of the fourth floor window but we were busy trying to get the bathroom door to shut or someone else to shut it

And then a cab driver later it was 5 AM and we all underwent nuclear fission and spread about like dandelion spores on the war path to our own beds or some afterparty or a dream or twelve and a twitter account and a microphone and you realize you just made a total request live

Freestyle could keep me interested if it was yours, anything that you have is unavoidable anyway

Thanks for a perfect new years, I could not have orchestrated a more successful evening as it was one born out of a whim

2009-12-31T13:29:00.000-08:00

the palm trees on newport boulevard were like teeth, rows of teeth lining a perfect asphalt mouth with powder blue lips of sky and cloud, perfect sunrise in a volkswagon...i'd drive down its throat