"From the eyesight proceeds another eyesight..." (call me morbid call me pale 2008 kythe club mix)

Life from death...art from the destruction of art: If I can write it, it can happen.



It hit me the other day as I was walking around in pajama shorts and a bootleg Smiths rock T--I have a lot in common with yr typical zombie. After all my previous poetic waxing upon the possible reasons for the trend's popularity--including societal fears of the alien other and the viral, uncontrollable nature of innernet interconnectivity, as well as our collective fantasy/fears of the "return" of 9/11 victims and Iraqi war dead--the bodies of which either were never found or never shown to us--it's only now that I can truly appreciate the full impact of the Zombie Apocalypse. This is cuz I myself have become one! By quitting my job I joined the ranks of the undead--having suddenly dropped out of normal society, I still stubbornly hang around, refusing to hide and stay still--making art and drinking coffee...representing summer and freedom and the ancient art of optimism.




This time of inexplicable grace was for years both meticulously planned and worked towards--yet completely accidental in its fruition.





She said, 'In the days when you were hopelessly poor, I just liked you more...'





when it's on i can close my eyes and see shapes floating there--the silhouettes of those who came down this path before. i know it's a trick of the mind...the same way i sometimes envision them standing upon a bright green hill...watching me, egging me on. i can see their faces--the artists and philosophers who keep me company. We commune through words and dreams and the musical vibrations of this planet of sound. It's a special kind of friendship--there's nothing sentimental about it, the same way there wasn't anything sentimental about their best work--the experience was one of human reality. A shared contract--like theater goers in the dark, we agreed in silence to become the invisible pillars, fortifying the dream world conjured above our heads, grounding it, making it our own.





starman

orbs

the gaze


Walt Whitman and i ran across city streets like children. Storms and sunlight passed over head. The new rain on the concrete smelled like sex. Ecstatic: the sensation was of being inside though i was clearly outside, in the middle of new york city, chillin like villians with the O.G. american beatnik, the tuff ass uber-hipster who doesnt take it too personal that technically speaking, he's deader than a doornail. Morbid and pale, we unceremoniously bore holes into each others heads (fixing our brains to let the rain come thru) and gave each other sporty skullfucks...

(like I said, we're way past sentimentality in the Kythe Club, where the first rule is that you don't talk in Kythe Club: instead, you commune without words as together u surf along the evaporating edge of effervescence...the no-place and no-thing of eternal becoming...jumping in and out of streaky "mental" polaroids like jumping in and out of the ocean)

The only thing that matters to him is the only thing that ever mattered to me--

The fruition of beauty is no chance of hit or miss...it is inevitable as life...it is exact and plumb as gravitation. From the eyesight proceeds another eyesight and from the hearing proceeds another hearing and from the voice proceeds another voice eternally curious of the harmony of things with man. To these respond perfections not only in the committees that were supposed to stand for the rest but in the rest themselves just the same. These understand the law of perfection in masses and floods...that its finish is to each for itself and onward from itself...that it is profuse and impartial...that there is not a minute of the light or dark nor an acre of the earth or sea without it--nor any direction of the sky nor any trade or employment nor any turn of events. This is the reason that about the proper expression of beauty there is precision and balance...one part does not need to be thrust above another. The best singer is not the one who has the most lithe and powerful organ...the pleasure of poems is not in them that take the handsomest measure and similes and sound."

--Walt Whitman, Introduction to Leaves of Grass