links open windows


i've got static in my brain...lovely spring, sex static...

im goin backwards and forwards in time in the sweetest way pausing to smell the roses, ive givin up on getting things done, im hearin songs i haven't heard for years...

songs from summertime cookouts with puerto rican rum, songs from house parties and secret getaways in fast cars, songs from cancelled college classes and making passes in a field of grasses...songs from midnite, on the autobahn with the moon so big and bright...

im feelin feelings like seein a dear old friend who's face was blurry in mind:

Buddy buddy don't you know you make me go nutty
I'm so glad that you're not a fuddy duddy
Not too skinny and not too chubby
Soft like silly putty
Miss Crabtree I hope that you're not mad at me
Cause I told you that it was your buddy
That was making me ever so horny
Junglelistically horny...

...I don't beg I just tease my buddy with my right leg
And when it's ready what's said is buddy is best in bed...

--de la soul, "buddy"

take u on a cruise


Fog Warning, by Winlsow Homer.

This painting has haunted me since childhood, when i saw it in a book. I've got a pasteboard, postersize copy of it that i found leaning against a pile of black garbage bags in an alley uptown. The stark, straight-fowardness of its style portrays the horror of the situation in such a matter-of-fact manner that there is something strangely comforting in its brutality: the fisherman killed the fish and now, mere minutes later (for one can almost see that the fish's tail is still flapping), the fog and sea are going to kill the fisherman.

Simple baby math without remainders.

But there is more...

I get high and stare deep into the gray apparition of the fog, until i can make out the lavender beak and talons hiding underneath...

(i can see it! i can see it!)

it's like one of those sunday school drawings where u have to find jesus's face...

...once spotted it can't be unseen.

(the Secret Starling of the Slipstream...the Messenger of Death...)

Meanwhile outside my window the trees have exploded with cones of white spring flowers

they glow like a stadium at night

as little black birds leap between the branches

raining petals down upon the sunken shoulders of the smackhead who's trying to sell a broken amp.

im a biter, not a writer...

a novel in 491 parts.

fuck a title


there’s something about having all yr chances pull away like city busses, leaving u standing there in the rain, there’s something about not sleeping for most of yr twenties, there’s something about piling up revenge plot upon revenge plot in yr mind, like a stack of bricks that u want to bash his head in with but know u never will, so u waste precious time meticulously carving yr name in the side of each one instead, there’s something about the ocean sucking at u in yr dreams, how u wake up and feel the futility of ever having a sustained feeling, there’s something about the sky and the sun, when whole weeks go by and u only see them as patterns on yr wall, there’s something about selling drugs, and how maybe it was the only thing you were ever really good at, there’s something about men, and how the line between them taking care of u and taking everything u are (and locking it away in a box beside the bed) gets blurred without u realizing it, there’s something about women, and how u always feel like an outsider to their secret society, the same way u feel a sense of utter bewilderment at the rush hour crowd coming home from work while u stare at them from behind the filthy windows of a dive bar, there’s something about writing, and how u feel that what yr doing is cherry picking words out of the air, creating yr own, neat little controlled world of secondary intensities when what u really want, more than anything, is for yr writing to be like sounds no one has heard before...

u want to write virgin sounds.




Instant Death



9/11 was the end of fiction in America. The fucked-up-ness of the truth has since surpassed anything anyone could make up.

Prior to that day, our overfed, overpaid nation harbored a collective fantasy about large scale annihilation and instant death, of burning bodies and exploding skyscrapers and aliens from the sky delivering us our just desserts.

I remember sitting in a downtown bar not long after it happened, when you could still smell the tang of death in the air. Those were the days when everyone was quiet—when you sat staring at the floor on the subway with yr head in yr hands and waited patiently for things you usually got pissy over having to wait for. A shaggy haired kid was next to me, nursing his Stella. Fat drops of condensation streamed down the bottle and turned the bright yellow, petrified wood of the bar into a smooth shade of chocolate brown. I sneezed and he offered me a cocktail napkin. He looked like the stoner version of the Cambell Soup boy. I waited for the inevitable question, the initiation of the simple quid pro quo that was like flashing yr membership card to the saddest club on earth...

so...where were you when it happened?

But he didn't ask me...he just sat there, staring into space while his Stella sobbed on and on.

Just when I didn't think I could take it another second and was about to ask him instead, he swiveled in his stool and fixed his sweet brown eyes on mine.

"What are we going to do," he said, "now that we've gotten everything we ever wished for?"

I remember I sat there blinking with an unlit cigarette hanging out of my mouth. All I could think of was that scene in Independence Day, when the freakin white house gets zapped into smithereens by the fattest laser beam of all time.

I was dumbfounded, and speechless. I paid for my drink and wandered home, where i collapsed in my bed as though shoved there by a gigantic hand.

I wish I could find that kid, cuz it's taken years but now I finally know what to do:

"We'll make blogs and fill them with things that are real."


by sterling


it goes against my instinct to get between a person and a good time. just cuz i'm the token sober asshole, it shouldn't make me the party referee who's expected to blow the whistle if shit gets out of control. i'm not the sanity guard, the bad cop or the mommy who's gonna verbally spank you when you go one toke over the line. nope.

i'm not the one, babygirl.

i've got more games than parker brothers.

what i like best is to be an audience. i want to watch everything unfold, in real time, with my real eyes. i may silently judge but i have no desire to police anyone's behavior except for my own.

i like to roll up to the party like the crazy 88s. it feels good to walk in slow motion. it's fresh to hang back. TRUE's the firecracker--the scene stealer. don't let her fool you with that shyeyes crap. you put a few in her and she's all over the place, lighting up the room like a dancing torch. everything flickers--there's a pleasant dizziness, like it's raining confetti.

meanwhile, i'm playing the part of the introverted dyke-perv. i head for the wall and smoke cigarettes with my fucked up hand shoved deep in the silk-lined pocket of my handmade jeans. i'm sporting a thrift store wool blazer with a retarded, striped college-nerd pattern and my drugstore blond hair that's a greasy mess like it got hit with a blender and my faker eyeglasses with the thick-ass tortoise shell frames that i don't know why i'm still wearing, as i don't need glasses and they give me headaches.

what i really want is a mask.

and cameras for eyes...

i'm there for her for all the lonely parts, after everyone else has gone home after doing all her drugs and spending all her money. her iPod plays one of her thousands of mixes, while she sits at the desk, regarding the monitor with a thousand yard stare. phil ochs sings about tapes from california, his optimistic, jazzed out sound blending perfectly with "They Reminisce Over You",--the pete rock, c.l. smooth joint that played previous.

"i'm using tentacles made out of search phrases to psychically feel my way across the internet," she said, dribbling ash on the keyboard like a zombie.

"this is a great mix," i said, sliding a cigarette out of her pack.

"it's about riding out a vibe," she said, then she hit a gigantic water pipe that looked like something out of one of the Alien movies.

"the mix?"

"nah--the internet...but the mix too...everything is, in away..." she started coughing, reluctantly. you could tell from the deep, aggressive sound of it that it had been a long day. she let her hand drop heavily into her lap. it seemed that even the smallest action exhausted her.

but then, suddenly, she came to life and spun around in the swivel chair, completely excited.

"im the innernet visionary. i'm going to feel my way, link by link, till i get to the chewy tootsie roll center of it all."

"sounds great," i said.

"i'm serious, sterling."

"hey, you know how much i like chewy centers."

"for real," she turned back to face the screen.

"i'm going to like, free associate, let the rhythm guide me, or else a sea of strangers' hands, like crowd surfing or dreaming..."

she started clicking around, going from one site to another, pausing only long enough to quickly scan part of the page and click on a link. on some sites the click was immediate and on others it took a few minutes before she found something that fit.

"it's like that french couple who snapped all those pix of the tsunami, as it came crashing towards them on the beach. they didn't surivive and neither did their camera but the memory card was scooped up by someone. first there are your usual beach scene shots...children playing, europeans in their thongs...then one notices the tidal pools revealed in the foreground, where the tide has dramatically receded. and then comes the series of pix in which you can see the wave getting closer and closer to where they stood on the shore--so close in fact that in the last one i think i actually saw the chaotic intent in the white foam spray, word is bond..."

"how is what you're doing like that?" i said, softly, as i stepped up and stood beside her at the desk, resisting the urge to call her 'sweetheart' in a baby voice and place my hand on her shoulder.

"cuz if you put all these web pages together you'll get the whole picture about the path i'll see what i saw, read what i read, be effected by that which effected me, but all the while i'll be more invisible than ever before, like the french couple who were swept out to sea."

she reached over and poured herself a shot of belvedere and knocked it back.

"but just cuz i'm invisible doesn't mean i'm not here," she said, licking her lips.

Baby, im 4 rEal.


a lighted candle...

by fitzcarraldo

i like to meditate to sonic youth. yes sirree. but it only works when it's on my headphones and i'm riding the subway and i'm high as a kite. i close my eyes and recede into the static force field of guitar SCIENCE. i spin like dorothy in the goddamn twisssssser. when i open my eyes the light has dimmed but the world's Technicolor display has deepened, significantly, like a canyon at sunset. that's how i know i've meditated successfully. plus my panties are no longer in a wad.

i stare at men on the trains and in the stations. i see them in their stained jackets and sweatpants, with their swollen knuckles and skinny ankles and overpriced yet badly fitting dress shirts, with their pristine sneakers and spit shined shoes and hairy necks and bulging crotches. i see how hard they try to please and pretend they're someone important with their useless, expensive gadgets and the obscenely bright shopping bags they let fall like bricks at their feet. i catch them staring slack-jawed at the budding tits on a twelve year old. i watch them leap forward to offer a pregnant woman a seat. i take note of the handkerchief with its store-bought pattern roughly stuffed into the front breast pocket of what must be their interview/funeral/bat mitzvah suit. I cross my legs and stick a lollipop in my mouth and try and try my best to make it obvious...i want them to know how beautiful they are, despite everything, and how awful and positively painful it is that i'm not allowed to show kiss their wrists and kneel at their feet and tell them to lie back and enjoy it like the little nellies they secretly are...

the inner bitch they don't dare show their wives...

on the other hand, it's true, dears, that sometimes i get the blues thinking about how i'll probably never be a daddy, and that this meandering family line comes to an end when they tie the tag on my big, pedicured toe. i mope around in my wrinkled, italian suit, smoking gitanes and clicking the clicker faster and faster, until the channels are a blur of babies and families and laundry detergents and hamburger helper and brittany spears and CNN news tickers and soldiers coming back to small towns waving their bandaged stumps at their neighbors during some cheap-ass parade.

but then the phone rings, and the city calls me out, and the second my loafers hit the sidewalk i know that this is the only road for me. with my make-up on and my shades sliding down my nose and my hair just right, i know that i'm meant to play a different role in life.

im meant to be a master.

i carry your heart with me(i carry it in


i carry your heart with me(i carry it in
my heart)i am never without it(anywhere
i go you go,my dear;and whatever is done
by only me is your doing,my darling)
i fear
no fate(for you are my fate,my sweet)i want
no world(for beautiful you are my world,my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;which grows
higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart(i carry it in my heart)

--ee cummings

So Many Nights...(rub-a-dub mix)


breaks it down

MY hottest love story is one person being really seen in the eyes of another after having wandered the earth for a million years, invisible as fuck.

(controlled by gamma lights)

(controlled by gamma lights)

by sterling

wow. this new template and the beautiful weather has got my mind in the gutter.

april is the cruellest month and this layout is the baddest ass...

mixing memory and desire,

cartoons and fucking...

Tiny Vices.

the hottest love story in the world are two people who want each other so badly but never get to do it.

like the 18 yr old spanish girl

who i met through her skateboarding brother

when we were all eating oreos on his stoop:

she won't let me or anyone else fuck her.

she's a virgin--saving herself for something she believes in

(i haven't bothered to ascertain what)

i more interested in hanging out.

sitting slouched in her ikea desk chair in my tank top and men's trousers...

my legs spread

waiting for her to wiggle out of her panties and stretch out on the bed

as the air shaft hums

and the sirens wail

and the camera makes a funny whirling sound as i turn it on.

Government Secret


you've gotta be really in shape when u smoke the kinda weed i do.

im on some american beauty, filmin plastic bags, peepin tom, go out for the paper and never come back shit...some when u get to the party u hold yr body (gotta get up and BE SOMEBODY) shit...some purple and blue bob marley, bun a dun, dun-dutty-da-dum-da-dum mental act-i-VATE...

everybody's got somethin to hide cept for me and my monkey.



yo, u guys have GOTS to check out my boy Anonymous, AKA Siv "im big dangerous yr just a little viscious" Twitchyfuck:



hip-hop grows deepest upon the soil of sorrow and near-suicidal frustration. the story starts there, but it lifts itself and those who listen onto a higher ground--a place with some space where yr mind can float to the ceiling like a big balloon.

what im tryin to say is, siv, u sound like yr having fun when yr rapping...

i hereby christen ye MC Sight Obseen--


Disease of Montreal,

And whatever other Puffomatic Copyrights i might have forgotten.

10 things about me ...OR i only make lists when im sick or in rehab and im not in rehab.


1) sometimes i wake up, wishin i could sleep forever, i spend my whole life tryin to pull myself together...but you already knew that. i see the trees late at nite, their branches blacker than shadows. i see them again in the morning covered with silver drops of rain. and each time im just a spot on the sidewalk under all this endless endlessness.

2) i took too much robitussin for a cough that hasn't started yet. oops. who's got the crayons?

3) green light, 3 PM, 7-11...i roll in lookin like a crushed pack of cigarettes. im rockin insane unwashed hair that wont stay under my hat and a t-shirt from an ivy league college where i used to unload all my second and third rate E. outside, the turnpike is a migraine-bright, bad dream blur as the city's neverending shitslime circus pours out the holland tunnel bootyhole. i've been around the world but somehow all roads always lead me back here, to dirtee jerzee.

4) if songs were lines in a coversation, the situation would be fine.

5) the pope is dead. god save the pope: i remember being outside the towering edifice of the school, my five year old arms thick and useless in my winter coat as my legs went as fast as they could. i was running away but hadn't gotten very far. i looked over my shoulder. the nuns were stabs of black against the red brick. the sky hung brightly over the hated building like a gigantic golden bell that i was never going to be allowed to ring. "you! you! you!", i thought, as three of them made their way over to me, "die! die! die!"

6) "Thou ouest God a death"--Shakespeare, Henry IV, Part II.

7) "That woman deserves her revenge...and we deserve to die, but then does she."--Budd, Kill Bill, Volume II.

8) i am writing a letter to bill gates, i am writing a movie starring two famous bloggers, i am writing rhymes in my head on the elevator (going up, never going down), i am (re)packaging my symptoms for mass consumption, i am dreaming of a new world order, a new country, a new art, a new way of saying, "FUCK THE POLICE."

9) ...the idea was to have an electronic corkboard. so the three of us could keep track of all the art i thought we'd be making. instead, the blog itself became the art: we became denizens of our own design, citizens of the blogosphere, which continues to surprise and inspire us on this, year THREE of our Lord, in which everything old is new again and as;dfjas; jfas' dfjas'djfas'dfj

10) sometimes being TRUE is a little much; but my real life love is never rattled by the rush.


yeah i know that what i posted was fucked up but oh well.

to borrow from one of my all time fave album titles:

this is my truth, tell me yrs.

the album is by the manic street preachers. too bad the music didn't match up to the awesomeness of the title.

but hey, that's life.

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