links open windows

Raw like innernet...


Signal Strength/Output Report of Input Potential:

This blog is now broadcasting outward in the shape of an infinity symbol, or maybe it's a curved trumpet, or the outline of the nut sack of someone i used to fuck...

im calling back thru my own past and routing the echo straight thru my Andy Warhol Amplifier©:

Hi... Inbox

xxxxxxxxx to me
More options Oct 25 (6 days ago)


I've been looking at your blog lately and I have to
say it makes for an interesting read. So much time has
passed since we knew each other, but I can still see
glimpses of the you from ten years ago.

I sometimes wondered if we would run into each other
in NYC, and what we would say if we did.

I hope you're doing ok.



i sit alone in my four cornered room starin at candles...

A city scene: She stood on 42nd Street holding her blackberry out in front of her and staring straight ahead like it was a remote control and she was about to change the channel and make the whole city collapse into a neat digital square...

The Pixies are one of those bands that you either love or you hate. And if you love them you'll love them for the rest of your life, so much so that you unconsciously assimilate their musical vibe...u strive to live each day like it's an unforgettable melody: u make yr shit simple, short and hard.

I think the key to writing great pop lyrics is to keep it vague enough so that many people can relate to it while at the same time making the rhymes sticky enuf to remember:

"Letter to Memphis"

The day since i met her

i can't believe it's true

she came here from memphis

across the ocean sailing

and i saw her a i pleaded

why do you come so far and she said

trying to get to you

how i tried to get you

trying to get you

i'm sending a letter

i'll send it right to you

i'll send it to memphis

i know that someday

everything i needed and i wanted

used to be that my head was haunted

and all these sirens they make me mad

and all this violence it brings me down

i feel strong i feel lucky

trying to get to you

said i'm going to get to you

trying to get to you

in yr face like a can of mace

Generation Trick


We r the cream of the crop
That long ago, rose to the top
And like a dream deferred, a glaze was burned
And what started as sugar turned into SLOP.


I either have a brand new freckle on my arm or I else I just never noticed this one before. I dunno. I stare at the brown dot w "non-feeling".

U can do anything


But layoff my rawkstar blues.

Murder By Numbers


I have an infamous ancestor in England who was hanged for poisoning and killing his good friend, from whom he had borrowed a ton of cash. Four of his five children had also died, for reasons unknown to medicine. My ancestor's servants said he used to have the children line up to lick honey off his fingers every nite.

At the gallows he still proclaimed his innocence.

Sometimes I wonder about the one little boy who lonely and sad he must have been. But he survived his childhood and went on to have children of his own...who had children...who had children...who...

It all ends with me, tho. Belee dat.



I wanna take you to my place near the river. It is clean and small and dark. This is where we can practice splendid isolation and I can make you feel OK again. This is where the drugs get taken, unless you don’t want any, which is fine too. There is no TV, no internet and no telephone. I have my Treo celly, of course, which also has internet, but besides the door buzzer that’s the only interactive portal to the outside world—and it’s in my pocket.

The non-interactive portal is the radio.

Besides that there is a beat-up IBM ThinkPad with the wireless card ripped out, and a bright red Tivoli Audio portable speaker (which is also a radio) that is attached, via a black cable with golden ends, to my 40 GB iPod, named Gretl.

There is a glass table and a blue swivel chair, and a large bed covered by a madras cover.

This is where you’ll lie down, among the candy-striped pillows from Thailand.

I have pens and paper and books and weed and The Peaceful Deli delivers beer if you want it. The Duane Reade on the corner is open 24 hours.

In fact, everything can be delivered. I can google the number. As long as you have cold hard cash, you can get anything in Manhattan.

In Brussels, I asked an Egyptian woman if you could order food around the clock in Cairo and she said, “Of course! Cairo is a civilized city.”

Come with me and live out the apex of western civilization, as I’ve reformulated it.

…As I’ve re-worked it, re-washed it, re-torn it.

Re-read it:

If you were here you’d make me like my books so much more cuz I’d wanna share them with you…for hours…in bed…like we are escaping through a secret passageway to a world in the floor, past the end of the glass bowl and the city limits, the fake fears and the fake signposts of the everyday, the worry, the stress, the debts you owe, the people you’ve lied to, the songs that you should know the words to cuz they saved yr life…

We could tell each other stories. I’ll play with your hair.

We control the data input. We keep out the daily regime of America.

There is a black and white photo of Truman Capote taped on the otherwise bare white wall. I tore it from the latest issue of the New Yorker. He is my age: shirtless and beautiful—his delicate looking head is tilted back and his eyes are closed.

He is a small, caged animal wanting to be set free and so am I.

There might be The Pet Shop Boys playing, there might be coffee brewing on the tiny white stove…

I buy very expensive Italian coffee.

It is quiet at my place. When the music is off the sounds of the city are scenes out in the distance. You close your eyes and listen like a little child, sitting in the swivel chair and swiveling from side to side. You can live out other dreams, other lives, in the sounds you hear during spare seconds.

(How do you know this won’t be what you miss most about your time alive? These “in between” moments when nothing much was happening and nothing was expected of you, and the traffic over on the FDR formed a protective buzz like a halo around the moment, the inside out of what you hear when you put a seashell up to your ear?)

I know what it’s like to want to fall apart and to have forgotten how to do it. Like when you start crying and no tears come out. I’ve had my shoulders so tense it’s taken four codeine pills to get them to relax. I know what it’s like to wait for the morning light, when the minutes feel like hours and canyons of hopes and fears stretch through the room. And you’re listening to music and drinking bottled water and the yellow world around your desk lamp is your life preserver…

It’s OK. All of that is over, now. Yr with me now and I’m going to protect you.

BRANDTRUEBOY will stand in front of you and take the force of the blow.



Maybe im just an awful lover.

I wanted to make you happy but I couldn't do it.


Since my mobileblog posts seem to be lost in the ether u r missing out on all sorts of half-baked the picture of my blue suede shoes and my stoned plea for u not to mess with them, or my description of how an elderly woman's stately face lit up as she took in the basement window display of a tiny, antique lamp shop...or my overjoyed pontification about a cane someone left in a doctor's waiting room, and how it gave me hope that I might forget the crutches I carry somewhere too.

i also wrote about the song "one night in bangkok" and how it's the fucking BOMB. i loved that shit when i was a little kid...i remember being down the shore and hearing it on the boardwalk with my parents. the synth sounded great ringing out against the murmuring static of the crashing waves.

i really dug the line, "i can feel the devil walking next to me". i walked between my parents and they each held a hand as my mind drifted out among the dunes, and to the shoreline of breaking waves, where dark shadows appeared and then disappeared in the briny surf.

Like Brothers From Another Mother


It's far and away and long overdue that you put up a picture of that wonderful apple ass of yours. doesn't matter, molecular close-up, far away, upskirt, bent over. Something to satisfy the ache of wondering...

that’s a pretty sexy comment. I don’t get too many of those. The shame of it is I WANT to show it all to u. I want u to see my ass and my eyes.

I love u. u invisible people out there.

Yep. I don’t think I illicit so many sexy comments cuz sex is not something I’m really putting out there in a straight forward way (that’s not to say I’m not putting out). And by innernet® I mean that zoneout “online” halo that orbits yr head, where websites and googled bits of information and PDA screenshot flashes swarm together to form yr own personal topography of the internet.

You put yr cyber personality out onto the innernet and allow it to be overlapped by other innernets, which are determined by other cyber personalities.

A person can have more than one cyber personality, just like a person can have more than one real life.

In rare occurances you get two innernets which by all appearances are very much the same, so that when they overlap they seem, from certain angles and in certain light, to disappear into one another.

This was what I realized was happening with Jamie and Daniel Boud, when I saw them sitting together at our large round table at Planet Thailand.

“They look alike, don’t they!?” I found myself exclaiming.

“Hmmm, well,” the other Australians weren’t too sure.

“No ferreal, look at their noses. They have the same delicate nose.”

But then they both turned towards their freshly arrived food and I realized their noses looked nothing alike. Nor did the rest of their faces when you examined each feature separately…but taken together their faces seemed uncannily the same.

“Fuck,” I said, stabbing a ball of sticky, peanut curry soaked rice with my chopsticks.

“I can’t figure it out,” I announced, to no one in particular. There they were. Like brothers from another mother, with the same unusual last name and the same style and chill-ass demeanor.

It was a little hard for me to eat…staring down at the flecks of egg mixed up with the chunks of chicken flesh… “which came first…” I joked with myself, as my mind wandered to the pictures Jamie took of mist covered NYC buildings in the rain…someone made a joke about taking a picture of a picture with a mirror in it and then looking closer and seeing another mirror in the picture, with the picture looking back at u from inside of it…

“of course, of course,” I thought, the joke not surprising my paranoid perspective in the least, as I took a sip of water and avoided my own reflection in the mirrors over the bar.

“Maybe it’s gonna turn out to be like, yr really the same person and one of you is gonna have to kill the other,” I said to Jamie, but he didn’t hear me above the cavernous din of Planet Thailand. Instead, he smiled and asked what I ordered. And I told him and we laughed about how we always order the same thing whenever we come there.

A simple, silly exchange—but I returned to my plate basking in the glow of the calm, cool happiness that Jamie exudes like a perfect, pale light.

To Tony Pierce?


..Or not to Tony Pierce?

That is the question.


i want BRANDTRUEBOY to be what u get when u dial a wrong number.

k...i meant TAP a wrong number, cuz no one really DIALS anymore.


when i started this blog i let go and let the characters take me places...the best fiction is like a journey, filled with unexpected challenges and pointless exchanges that take on meaning as more clues about the final destination are revealed...the plot i set out for the three of them existed as stations along the way, i didn't always know how we were going to get there, but eventually the passage would make itself known. what i couldn't do, however, was bring about the which TRUE loses it and cuts off two of her fingers in imitation of sterling. this was to happen after she was raped by fitzcarraldo while she was on one of her blackout drunks. i couldn't do it. i tried to write it out so many times, but i couldn't bring myself to do that to her.

at the end of madame bovary, flaubert leaves emma's dead body on display, sparing his readers nothing...even the way the rigormortis makes her stiffened lips seperate...that is some straight-up shit from a straight-up writer...

maybe i'm not coldhearted enough for this art shit.



Years after millions of Americans are killed because their unsuspecting and inept federal government left them woefully unprepared without vaccine or aid as the bird flu of '05 struck and quickly leveled a path of victims wider than 10 Katrinas, historians will analyze the prescience of the short story by Daphne du Maurier and subsequent film by Alfred Hitchcock, "The Birds", and shudder in wonder at the image Tippy Hendren as she is attacked by crows in the attic and finally falls to the floor, gasping beautifully and blinking like a brand new baby.

cc day


i can't really say that i remember a columbus day before this year or celebrated it ... because you know, besides discovering america ... he was a murdering fuck.

but i will remember this one that just passed ... the hours in bed, the warmth and safety, the splendid isolation from problems, the sex.

mp3s, sex and ice cream ... thats the way to celebrate a murderous holiday.

The rain falls mainly on the pain.


I can hear my neighbors fuck at night. They are right across the airshaft that separates my building from theirs. Their bed is pressed up against the window and the window is open.

Mostly I hear her, but his grunts are there too, softer, deeper. She is quite loud, yelping and moaning like an animal.

It goes on for awhile…there are no words between them…just the sounds coming out of her that seem less and less conscious, as she sets off from the shoreline of her own body’s pleasure.

She dissolves, regresses...towards the end she is gurgling.

Later on, when it’s over, I still think I’m hearing it, little high pitched yells in the background.

Like microscopic fissures on an otherwise perfectly realized digitized field…

The laser of my mind’s eye lurches…

I don’t want to be an animal.

rock this button on yr site



i loved my little studio out in the industrial park of north Brooklyn. i used to sit dreaming at a huge wooden table with a tiny black laptop that a friend of my mothers nabbed from deutsche bank. Or else I’d drag out the ancient typewriter and bang out slogans in the bygone font. There were two huge windows covered by long sheets of white gauze that were strung up to a metal runner on top. They made the most satisfying sound when you ran them across, either to cover or to reveal the jagged skyline of smokestacks and water towers and long brick buildings that were dropped here and there in uneven rows like filthy toy blocks.

I felt like I was stationed on a far off, forgotten post, where animals and children and people in severe, religious dress went roving through the darkened streets.

I loved when the rain came down and pitter pattered against all that metal, making it slick and shiny with rainbowed pools of water and oil.

The mirror on the door echoed with reversed and reflected light…

I burned incense to cover up the cat piss smell from upstairs and i listened to music and stared at the floor to ceiling high drawings made by the daytime occupant of the studio—portraits of naked men with huge erections and hair being blown back. He had a stack of carefully preserved gay porn magazines from the 70s and 80s which is where he found his often mustached, feather-haired models. I’d stare at their cocks, at their ab and arm muscles, at their hands at their sides—the fingers slightly spread as though ready at any second to grasp the object of their desire.

It was in this studio…this place I’d come to after dinner, armed with my notebooks and big ideas and leaving every nite with next to nothing to show for it, by way of a story or a poem or an article…where it first dawned on me that perhaps I would NEVER be able to finish a proper story that had a beginning middle and end, and that instead of being mortally depressed by this, as I had been before, I could try and see it as an opportunity…as a freedom from thinking about writing in the OLD way…

…it was upon having this realization, that the end of my career as a normal writer was the beginning of something else—that I took the first step on the path that had been waiting for me all along…

There among the naked men and the music and metal and mirrors--- TRUEBOY, Fitzcarraldo and Sterling Fassbinder were born.

happy birthday, jamie




One thing i've never been, and that's bored. Not once that I can remember. In school I sometimes said that I was cuz everyone else complained about it so much.

Everyone dies.


i want to forgive him. maybe i want to so badly that i already have.

he was a little boy. i saw him cry like one more than once.

the violence was put in him and he didn't know how to water the other parts of his life without also watering the violence and so it grew up as a weed among the flowers.

don't front just cuz things r going yr way: deep down u know that no one deserves anything that happens to them in this world, whether good or bad.

all we can do is tend our garden the best we can.

king anti.


I just wanna be with u on this beautiful day. U make me laugh. U make me cum. U make me want to be a better person.

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