it's not death that i fear

but being swallowed whole

by never-never land itself...





times sq. i was buying drugs in a range rover in front of the duane reade on 8th avenue while crowds of people passed by in every direction.

fuck the reasons they give you, i know why people buy expensive cars. it's for that soft click when they close the door that lets them know they've entered into their own private world. where it's quiet and climate controlled. where it's great to be high.

with its buttery leather and tastefully teched-out dashboard, the range rover reminded me more of a conference room then a car. there was a profond sense of privacy, a real assurance that it was just the dealer and i, who was supposedly the brother of my usual dealer. there are so many things to look at and quickly analyze when you're buying drugs from someone you don't know. all without looking like you're looking and analyzing. you project the poker face. but there's a part of you that needs to be reassured. i took glimpses. yes, i told myself, everything is fine. he did resemble his brother, they had the same accent, he just looked older...better...like a baseball player, his face was hard and a little shiny... he had a razor thin beard, like a spanish guy

i waited for him to drive off somewhere else. somewhere a little low-key and a little less hot. i had my hand on the seat belt, ready to pull it across me, but he left the car in park and out of nowhere produced a super fat bag that he placed directly on the dashboard. i flinched--my eyes darting back and forth between the four cop cars parked within view and at the numerous other cars passing by.

"relax," he said, gesturing to the windshield with a grand flourish.

"tinted. all the way around. nobody can see a THING."

there was a certain unforced authority in his voice, i had heard it on the phone when i called. this is the infamous older brother, i had thought. the one with the rep.

"we could do anything in here and nobody would know"

"OK," i said, raising an eyebrow. i put down some money and picked out some pizza, told him thanks and then, lingered uncharacteristically for a moment while i felt his eyes travel over my body, watching the faces in the crowd as they flashed like whitecaps in the sea, wondering if he liked what he saw, my tits and my face, wondering if he was really as smart and as smooth as he seemed, and then, just as something was maybe about to begin, a bell went off in my brain and suddenly i was fumbling for the door handle, desperate to get back into the white and blue world of the street.

...where i could get high beneath the skyscrapers and 10,000 foot electronic billboards and loop that dream of mine in which i'm asked for my money or my life and there's nothing i can do, no one who can help me, no one around for miles...

blogs, like fortune

come in threes


raymi
anti
jamie

i remember on chat with anti, telling him about when i met raymi. with jamie. at the red and the black, a bar in brooklyn named after a stendhal novel. ermmm. anyway, when it was time to go we went out the door and stood for for a minute among the weeds, looking at each other. the two of them were facing me, with the streetlight on their backs. they had halos over their heads. i felt like we were on film. in fact i'd felt that way since i'd arrived at the bar, slouched, heavy-lidded, with my yankees cap pulled low.

now here we were, ready to go. they were taller then me. there was a lot of broken glass behind them. i thought about how i hated the way that street smells.

i wore my heavy green, geekoid glasses. the ones that are too big and sometimes fall off my face. i almost always catch them, though. then i shove them in a pocket for a while and forget about them, until i can't see something.

they were both so tall, with thin faces and supernaturally bright eyes. i told anti, that they looked like rockstars.

he responded "ha ha" or something like that

because he knew what i was talking about

then he wrote

"i'm tall too"

and i was like,

"yeah, i'm sure you are,"

then i was like,

"y'all 3 are some straight up motherfuckers."

meaning it in the best possible way, of course.

Faith

Well I guess it would be nice
If I could touch your body
I know not everybody
Has got a body like you

But I've got to think twice
Before I give my heart away
And I know all the games you play
Because I play them too

Oh but I
Need some time off from that emotion
Time to pick my heart up off the floor
And when that love comes down
Without devotion
Well it takes a strong man baby
But I'm showing you the door

'Cause I gotta have faith...

Baby
I know you're asking me to stay
Say please, please, please, don't go away
You say I'm giving you the blues
Maybe
You mean every word you say
Can't help but think of yesterday
And another who tied me down to loverboy rules

Before this river
Becomes an ocean
Before you throw my heart back on the floor
Oh baby I reconsider
My foolish notion
Well I need someone to hold me
But I'll wait for something more

Yes I've gotta have faith...


glittercoated blush

ash wednesday

gimme

fuck yr gender

what up party people. in honor of bush’s announcement, I thought I’d put out an open casting call for our new site. I need you dudes to put on a dress and take a walk on the wild side. that’s right. I want you to float my boat and send me a pic of yourself posed like this:



send it to yerbluetoy@hotmail.com

the star who sends me the hottest, most lip-smacking, mmm, mmm, good entry will not only be the recipient of my undying love and devotion (you think I jest, but if there’s one thing I can’t resist it’s a cock inside a dress), but he/she will be featured in a prominent place on BRANDTRUEBOY’S new, as yet unrevealed artsy fartsy mega site.

as in all things that truly matter, attitude and effort count way more than exactitude, so don’t fret if you don’t own a pair of high heel open toes. I want you to strike a pose, call the shots, command my attention…”real” girls can enter too, but keep in mind that you’ll need to go the extra mile to play a girl playing a boy playing a girl. not that this can’t and hasn’t been done (click here to learn about the world famous *BOB*, female drag queen)

don’t think that you have to be gay to enter. don’t think that you have to be thin, or have long legs, or white or whatever. don’t think at all. there’s been too much thinking lately. I’m as much to blame as anyone…it’s time to have some fun. real life is serious enough.

take it from me. the best thing about the internet (besides porn) is that it lets you be someone else…

some of you music geeks might recognize the tranny pic from the back of Lou Reed’s Transformer album. just so you know, someone has already agreed to play the west village macho man who is also depicted:




this person is one of the hottest mamas in the blogosphere. hands down. trust me, it’s going to blow yr mind to see her like this, looking all boyish and packing monster heat…all of that beautiful hair tucked neatly way inside a visored, stud-muffin cap...i’m telling you it’s going to be off the hook!!!

so don’t be shy. send me yr pic. everyone who sends something will get a very special present in return. plus the chance for fame and my undying servitude.

don’t dream it. be it.

pancake factor # 1 (sue is fine)

somebody asked me if i was really a computer program. i wish i was. then i could be the game itself without the self-consciousness of playing it. my sensibilities, divided so neatly, could exist as truly autonomous strings of code. if i wasn't a person but a thing, and at that only a half-thing--an invisible mesh of ones and zeros leaving globs of text on various cheap freeware blogspot sites--then i could do away with the emotional tangle i can't work my way out of. all my life it's been the same thing. i attract people, they fall in love with me, it's sweetness and light until they realize that i'm really a self-centered bitch. the purity of character they liked so much is the purity of the cold driven snow. they call my bluff. they tell me i live in my own world, a world of concepts and ideas and that i'm not and could never be there for them.

i do love. i do. it's just not good enough. it's like i'm broken inside. i punch myself and cry my eyes out but it never brings about a sustained feeling.

i don't know what to do. i took two muscle relaxers and brought a knife and some pictures with me to the bath, where i sobbed for an hour straight, staring at my submerged body in the gray light. it was a thin gray light, getting thinner by the second as the pills kicked in. i looked at my legs, the muscles on my stomach, the way my chest moved stubbornly up and down. fuck, party people. i wrote a note saying i was sorry, but i couldn't do it. i wasn't serious, i just wanted to push myself to the edge because i wanted a sign, i wanted a reason.

as always, when all else fails, there's the idea of all the stories i still want to tell. even if it's a mirage, the goddamn writing feels like a purpose. please don't freak out. this is not a cry for help. suicide is not my style. it's merely a description of my ongoing flirtation with non-being. that paradise where time is not the enemy or the guide.

(an enemy behind enemy lines)

if i could i would be disseminated by the push of a button. i'd sneak through firewalls, replicate myself like a virus. i'd be the copy of the copy of the copy. a link back to a page not found. a sticky spot on the sheets, the knock of life's pulse in yr wrists (but not life itself) the shadow but not the deed the desire but not the act.

nothing. the nothingness of being blissfully blank

like coming off the coffee

like writer's block without the grass

like shit stained tile beneath the sign asking you to please wash yr hands

like being alone in the crowd.

the party where you don't know anyone

a cul-de-sac a broken wheel

yr dead, drowned twin you still see every morning in the mirror

like holding on to the bleeding edge with missing fingers

like the blinking yellow light on the empty country road

like the shit you come up with when you're high that yr too lazy to write down

i'm floating above you with the asbestos

i'm the girl/boy you want to fuck who says let's just

(do nothing)

and so you do nothing and then you do nothing some more

until the nothing creeps in filling up all the lonely parts

leaving you with unfinished stories

alcoholic blackouts

an unknowable pressure right behind yr eyes

the passive aggressive stoner space out

as you stand over the hole and contemplate the building waiting to be born.

i bought a broken amp from a crackhead

so that i can play songs i haven't written yet

with his crazy drugged-out jerky movements

saying bitch over and over and spilling his pepsi on his pants

he doesn't want to kill me just shake me up a little

like i do to get my broken watch to still tell time

a drop of water got inside

i keep it on my shelf so i can watch it slowly rust

the sentimental value gently eroding away

as the tick-tocks become more and more sporadic and further apart

(i love it so much i didn't break it on purpose i'm just not used to taking care of nice things)

my sympathy is always unfinished

my empathy unresolved

openended

for the people on the train

the people in my contacts

all the ways in which i organize my life

according to the fantasy of being in control

because really i'm nothing

just passing through

unable to cross the bridge

stuck in the station after midnight

jumping up and down to keep the army of rats away

dreaming of the sea that wants to take me

the soil that wants to swallow me whole

so what difference does it make what i write here?

it's just words words words

they aren't doing anything

half-orphans

they don't belong to me or to anyone

what matter is it if i leave them scattered like newspaper pages on the train

go ahead wrap a piece of fish with them

light them on fire

i can delete this blog right now and it will be

{poof}

as though it never happened.

it's The Nothing!


I loved this movie when I was little. I had the biggest crush on the scrawny androgynous warrior dude, Atreyu. It was one of those kid crushes that have nothing to do with actual sex, and everything to do with raw, idolizing hero worship. I remember asking my mother why I couldn’t run around in a leather smock with my chest completely exposed.

“Because girls don’t do that,” she said.

“Then I don’t want to be a girl,” I said as I stood shirtless in front of the mirror and flexed my muscles.

“You don’t have a choice,” she said, laughing at me. Back then my tomboy-ness was a big joke in my family. So was the fact that I used to run around with a cardboard gun strapped to my shoulder, and that I’d roll make believe cigarettes out of gum wrappers and pencil shavings and draw sloppy tattoos on my arms and speak in a fake irish accent and tell people that they couldn’t sit in the seat next to me because John F. Kennedy was sitting there…

Needless to say, those jokes aren’t so funny anymore.

go tell yr friends i'm still a feminist

but i won't be coming to yr benefit...

yr the queen of pop; it's not that hot

I'm going to write a pocket novel for you. On the cover will be a picture of a train reflected in a long purple lake.

It's a cosmic train.

Daytrip to Jersey:

I pulled over on a winding suburban street that was utterly without distinction, an aluminum sided domicile depot--one of thousands, maybe hundreds of thousands of tree-lined wastelands in this country today. I took a snapshot of a 25 mph Speed Limit sign. It was white with the usual authoritative black lettering, and affixed to a green metal post. Behind it was a wooden telephone pole and behind that a hunched Cypress tree. I tried to capture the progression from the man-made to the natural. Nearby was a chain link fence threaded with a hideous, shiny green vinyl. Who thinks up this kind of stuff? Imagine, there are whole factories devoted to creating this vinyl, just like there are factories that mass produce tiny Ziploc baggies with cartoon marijuana plants printed across them. I snuck a couple of shots of a group of pre-teen girls riding scooters and talking to one another on Nextel walkie-talkies. "What the fuck?-Over. What the fuck?-Over," they said when they saw me taking pictures. I was thrown off by their toughness. I assumed I'd be calling all the shots today. They wore their outfits of puffy pastel colored jackets, skin tight jeans and Capri pants from Old Navy and the Gap like they were Prada and Gucci. I ducked back into my ride as they ran over to report me to the thirty something mother keeping watch on a porch. Her arms were folded, her face smooth and pleasant. I think it’s safe to say she doesn't know anyone who died from a gun shot or drugs.

I drove as fast as I could, disappearing into the graffiti adorned Palisades.

High above the city.

High above the lonely spaces.

I slipped through the door

I slipped through the scene

You pretended to be sleeping as I rummaged frantically through the drawer.

You propped yourself up on your elbow and looked without seeing

“…don't bring that stuff to bed…you've got to fall with a clear head…”





the latest click


the latest ish

He thought I was beautiful because I acted spontaneously. It was my one talent--the thing that took up most of my energy and kept me up all night, doing nothing.

We are a people disconnected from one another on most emotional levels and yet simultaneously irrevocably linked together in the chain reactions of everyday life. For example, during Superbowl halftime, there was a significant drop in the water pressure of the United States.


When the train pulls into the station, the subway conductor is trained to open the window and point to a long, black and white striped panel that hangs over the platform. The purpose of this little ceremony is to remind themselves which side they are supposed to open the doors on. The MTA hopes this will cut out the few times each year that a conductor opens the door on the wrong side, causing people to step out into the abyss.


...The Abyss, The Abyss, The Abyss...

Seduced By Sanity.

Flagrant Disregard.











When I was growing up there was a show called “Tales From the Darkside” that played late on Sunday afternoons, just in time to correspond with the zoned-out despair I’d fall into as I realized the weekend was over. The show was a cheap rip-off of The Twilight Zone, with a b-movie horror aesthetic. I didn’t care. I’d watch anything. I don’t remember any of the individual episodes, just the last bit of the creepy opening sequence, which always managed to send a chill up my spine: there was a montage of everyday scenes (I think there was a flower, and then a doorway) turned sinister by a simple inversion effect in which dark areas became light and vice-versa. The announcer droned out the following speech:

"Man lives in the sunlit world of what he believes to be reality. But... there is, unseen by most, an underworld, a place that is just as real, but not as brightly lit... a Darkside."

The last shot was that of a pleasant looking, tree-lined pasture. To the accompaniment of minor chords on a cheesy synth organ, the picture inverted before my eyes…the darkness seemed to leak out from the spaces in between objects—it oozed forth, hungrily…

This resonated with me: By the time I was ten I’d spent a lot of time outdoors by myself. More than once I’d had the sensation of being in a big space devoid of other people when all of a sudden and without warning, something changed. To this day I can’t put my finger on it, but it’s as if there’s a tingle in the air—the predatory presence of something larger than life breathing down my neck.

It’s here but it’s invisible, I’d think--a mysterious something that’s slipping through the scene, in and out, like a bad smell on a windy day. At such moments I stood completely still and felt the hair stand up on my arms. I can’t see it but I can feel it, I told myself, as I tightened my fists and wondered if whatever it was I’d been secretly waiting for was finally about to start…

And then it was gone. The hair on my arms went down. Shadows returned to being merely shadows, the air went back to being regular air, and I was all alone again in a world too boring to be believed.

Put Yr Headbanger Face On

It's Now Or Never...mmmmmmmmmmmk?

come with me if you want to live.

i don't wanna see any more pussy shit.

kill yr sitemeter.

blog in the dark

naked

with wires stuck to your chest...

(if this guy could talk he'd tell you that tan timberlands look good with blue hospital pants)



i don't need TV when i have t-reach

Notes from Last Friday:

(scrawled in a baked-out stupor on the back of a Wrap-N-Run takeout menu. i thought i lost it and i was pissed, but i just found it, shoved between my monitor and the secret book shelf that’s behind it. the one where i stash my polaroids. it was stuck there, bending upwards like a laminated rainbow. i turned on my desk lamp and the light revealed the indentations made my ball point pen as well as the fine green film of pot dust that covered its surface)

· Right now I’m sitting on a blue, 35 dollar Staples office chair eating raw cookie dough from one of those plastic wrapped, pre-fab Pillsbury rolls. I’m wearing my ancient green Umbros and a stained blue t-shirt. I’m slightly sweaty in a degenerate kind of way. I’ve got a portable EKG monitor in a black Velcro bag slung around my shoulder. It’s the size of a CD player, that’s what the Russian nurse Irina compared it to as she stuck the circular heart rate monitor tabs under my breast.

· “Or like small purse,” she said. “You wear it.” She looked at me. I was naked from the waist up.

· “Spread your arms,” she said. I did.

· “You will do everything the same,” she said. “Everything you always do. But you won’t get wet. You won’t go into water. Everything else? The same.”

· I smiled at her. My arms were still up. I smile at everyone now a days.

· (doesn’t matter what your story is)

· I strike a Jesus Christ Pose.

· (now a days)


· It seems that my poor, pomegranate heart skips a beat every so often. I’ve felt it for a while, but in the past I always assumed it was the drugs. Things seem to jump around when you’re high…some of y’all know how that goes. Anyway, a doctor heard it through his stethoscope when I was sick in December. Hence the tests.

· Everything is fine. The heart of a young, in-shape person like myself doesn’t just stop. I mean, it could, but the chances are it won’t. In that sense, I’m fine. They just have to make certain and then I’ll be much finer. Yes, that’s what being much finer than fine means: being certain.

· While I was at the big, fancy expensive doctor I made sure to use the opportunity to ask about my stiff, cracking joints, the pains in my head, my digestion issues, the ringing in my right ear, my bouts of paranoia and sleeplessness, my low self esteem and migraines…

· My moral queasiness. My nearly constant feeling of temporal displacement…

· The doc glanced at his Rolex and gave me a couple of blank referral cards.

· “Take these to your regular doctor and have him fill them out.”

· “Her,” I corrected, as I shoved them to the bottom of my bag, where they’d be promptly stained by uncapped pens and loose bits of hard candy.

· Fuck health, I thought, as they stabbed a needle in my arm.

· I wonder, does anyone out there still believe in a sustained sensation of feeling “good”?

· (there’s always something wrong, something a miss)

· even on the best days there’s still traffic, pollution, ghosts, etc, to deal with.




· I just counted and there are five gray wires sticking out from under my shirt. It seems like more because they loop around and go back up my side. Data travels between them and the monitor. The data is collected on a memory card. When I return the monitor it will be printed out and examined. A hardening of a possibility takes place and eventually the doctors will look at one another, nod their heads and just like that, certainty will be established!





· I have the same heart rate as President George W. Bush: 46 bpm.

· Which gets me thinking: wouldn’t it be totally awesome if i found out that by some weird, parallel universe kinda logic, Dubya and I were sharing the same heart? It would be this tripped out wrinkle in time situation in which we each had split identities, a second personality who “lived” in the corporal (dis)reality of complete, psychotic dissociation, in which they were little more than a zombie, a Frankenstein’s monster groaning and grunting and smashing flat the complexities of life…So much of our so called individual lives are shared with others—who’s to say the president and i aren’t sharing one and the same human heart?


· he gets one beat, i get the next one...he gets one beat, i get the next one…he gets one beat, i get the next one…and so on until one of us fucks up and puts an end to it

· the secret service are protecting one-half of my second most important organ—talk about wild, man!

· but seriously, if i had bush’s heart I’d jump of a cliff

· or pull an eliott smith.

· in public, of course

· on top of a skyscraper, with helicopters suspended dramatically over my head

· waiting like pregnant pauses

· and there i’d be in my leather matrix cape

· with coke all over my nose like scarface.

· I’d blast the “fitzcarraldo” mixtapeCD out of some arena sized, monster speakers.

· And as I lit up the city with its rock diamonds and dance music hope

· I’d poise the knife over my heart and give one final look down below…

· At streets filled with shoppers and dirty black snow.





half irish half asian

pretty

persuasion



dog poet