links open windows


Im bad news bears. I knew there was somethin deeply doomed about me when I saw those faces. They were alien faces, galaxies wide across the sky

How to write as two people when u r really only one:


It’s like when a nite is over before it begins and u go flying past lonely and straight into SUPER lonely and out of sheer desperation u employ yr childhood trick of throwing a little party in yr head, not unlike Alice in fuckin Wonderland®. There u r: sitting by yrself in a vinyl padded booth in the Silver Diner at 3AM eating a grilled cheese sandwich. The UV protection on yr filthy Foster Grants casts a yellow aura across the buttery surface of the bread. It seems the only way to distract yrself from the depressing facts of yr surroundings is to narrate each and every event, no matter how small, and to try and tie some fucked-up feelings and associations and maybe even stories to everything u see…to imagine what it would be like if u were tripping, or from another planet and u were faced with that revolving glass display case of cakes and pies…or if you were missing two fingers on yr right hand and trying to eat this sandwich without getting any grease on the fly black, let’s say Sean John leather golf glove u were sporting (u don’t actually know fer sere if good ole Puff Duddy makes golf gloves, but there u have it)… As the instantly recognizable heart beat/synth intro of The Pet Shop Boys, “West End Girls” plays, you imagine someone sitting across from you and watching intently as you slowly unscrew the grimy top of the ketchup bottle and overturn it with some difficulty, as though either it weighed ten pounds or yr wrist was broken…the black second hand on the white Timex wall clock seems to stop…

We’ve got no future; we’ve got no past
Here today--built to last
In every city in every nation
From Lake Geneva to the Finland Station…

U imagine the person across from u to be someone undeniably cool…the last of a dying breed who recognizes you--silly, stupid, plain old you--as being of a like kind…

A playboy in a girl’s body…a thrilla…a killa…

The song ends with an 80s style fade-out but another one doesn’t begin and the Silver Diner sails off into radio silence…

…the ketchup bottle hung sideways over the landscape of fries like the space shuttle floating over the earth. The first glob of ketchup coalesced heavily on the glass lip. I watched, transfixed by the glistening red tongue.

“You haven’t answered my question,” I said, my voice sending a jolt thru TRUE’s slouching frame and shaking the bottle so that the tongue lurched forward.

“Sorry, mayn,” she drawled, and watched, nonplussed, as a mudslide of ketchup poured down on the fries.

“I’m totally zoning out,” she said.

“Look at those fries,” I said, “You ruined them.”

“Nah. I like em like that. Lots of ketchup. You can eat the ones on the bottom.”

“Ok. Gee--thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it,” she said. Then she coughed several times, spat something into a napkin and inspected it with a grimace before folding the paper up and putting it in her pocket.

“Green with red chunks,” she said, with a sigh. “That’s not good.”

There was silence as the gored fries sat glistening between us.

“So?” I said.

“So, what?” TRUE said, and sighed again.

“So what’s the answer to my question?”

“Ah, c’mon, Sterling,” she said. Her chin was in her hands and her hair was in her eyes.

“Don’t bat yr eyes at me,” I said, in an angry voice that was mostly pretend.

“Please answer the question,” I said.

“It’s a fucked up question. I don’t know how I’m supposed to answer it. I mean, of course I’m not better off without u…but just by asking u make it sound like I had a choice.”

“Of course you had a choice! You could have talked to me…we could have worked something out…instead u kicked me out…u kicked me out and then what was worse u never asked me back. And it was all yr choice.”

TRUE slumped back in the booth with her arms folded.

“Now there you go,” she said, “How do u expect us to have a conversation if u start talking about make believe shit like that.”

“What make believe shit?!”

Choice, mayn. Motherfucking choice. There’s no such thing and I’m sick to death of hearing about it.”

She pulled her hood over her face so that it covered her eyes.

“Did you hear me?” she said. “Sick. To. Death.”

As I watched she took out the “violent red” lip gloss she’d stolen from the girl I was fucking and slowly ran the shiny wand across her top and then bottom lip.



im tryin.

im tryin. im tryin. im tryin!



i spend so many hours biting my tongue and pretending to be someone else that i cant write shit. i feel jacked-up, like this post is a pair of sexxxy panties that got bunched in between my butt cheeks. the words are handfuls of sand...I cant talk to myself without yelling...i wanna kick myself, beat myself with the metal sprinkler head from which my thoughts spray...hurry up, i scream at each psychadelic drop of raging brain water. do something! make something happen! get me out of here! i dont know where, just not here!

it's like i've forgotten how to sit here and let it flow...ass-o-c-ayshun style. ha. i've read enough freud to know there's no such thing as "free", nevertheless, im a firm believer in flow. flow is the hip in yr hop and the spring in yr step. it's the rhythm to how u do things when there's no one to listen too and u smoked enuff to get yr mind right or else after u ran a couple of miles like a champ or worked on a painting that's finally startin to come out alright.

flow is the ineffable grease that keeps yr shit feelin state of the art, instead of state of the FART.

yards of flow


this blog is brought to u by the american suburban experience, circa nineteen ninety NUMB.

i wanna thank rich white people everywhere. i love u, white sisters and brothers. i love my happy and prosperous white family.

i used to imagine an enormous ravine cracking open in the middle of the highway and swallowing our station wagon whole, or a laser beam shooting down from a flickering star and turning the whole turnpike into a burnt potato chip.. today can fantasize about terrorists instead.

i didnt blink an eye when that whole columbine shit went down. the only thing i can't understand is why it doesn't happen more often. like every day.

fuck being young.






Inventory is divided


plus one (1) heart that is breaking.


at one point, the pretend shit got totally out of control...but only on the innernet.

offline i was fakin it so real i was beyond fake.



The kinda grammar u used

Was not unlike the way u listened to yr music

Rock n’ roll was on records and towering speakers.

Hip-hop was on tape. In huge fucking boomboxes.

On the corner under the blue streetlight

Now you’ve got the illusion of a private language

With ear buds in deep and hoody pulled low.

Music for Playstation.

For pimped rides

For oozing out of the pore-size speaker holes in the flesh-like club walls in New York and Los Angeles and London.

For surround sound thundering out of a gigantic flat screen TV, playing the theme song of our hero who is exactly like the plastic action figures of the other heros that he was modelled after--compelled by forces and script writers unknown to travel here and there in his car, hurtling along interstates that slice through shadowy American landscapes like light sabers through thick jedi cloak, only to find himself, “this is not my beautiful life” Talking Heads-style, living in a trailer or standing in front of a classroom, or ruminating in a highly urbanized setting with other, similarly blank feeling new millennium denizens—in short, doing something he never thought he’d be doing in a place he never thought he’d be.


i wanna start a new country.

it will be invisible

with an invisible creek where we can put our heads together.

fighting verse

the return of angelina...


i wanna be yr favorite blogger's favorite blogger...

the other morning i still had the kozmic blues and i was standing in my tiny bathroom lookin at myself in the mirror like, now what? when over the hum of the water running in the pipes there was a sweet and sexxxy song being sung by a girl in the shower, a neighbor of mine, perhaps the one i used to hear getting fucked and now for the life of me i can't remember how it sounded.

but this singing was nice. i didn't recognize the song but it didn't matter.

she was still kinda asleep, she was droning on like a singing worker bee, eyes shut, sudsing up that pussy.

i love caked bake


And I'm smoking on some good mayn, the color purple
Not the movie, but the kind that have you going in a circle...

--Bun B


I always go a little crazy when he comes into a room…especially if it’s a private room with just the two of us. Oh man…that song “Autumn Sweater” is so great…i often think of the line “I couldn’t catch my breath—is it too late to call this off” even tho it was almost always him coming over, when in the song it’s the Yo Lo Tengo singer dood who’s outside the door…I was already there…inside where it was warm and where there’s tv…I’d stand off to the side with my heart hammering in my chest and no pants on, just a long sleeved t-shirt while he walked quickly and confidently through the room, taking off his jacket and hanging it up and going over to wherever the dresser thing was and taking out whatever was in his pockets…my eyes were race car drivers racing my gaze up and down his body as he looked at me and smiled…the bulge of his hard on in his pants set off a huge head rush that left my mind blown yet focused, on him…on his body and on mine…I backed up against the wall as he came up to me and took me in his arms…embracing me, pressing himself against me, covering me, protecting me, loving me, breathing in deep as I exhaled against him, feeling myself falling and being caught in the same instant.

His hands were on my back, under my t-shirt.

The night watchman fell asleep.

Kozmic Blues


party people if yr with me where u at? cuz i got those deep space, black-lit, kozmic blues again...those princess and the pea blues, those janis joplin headful of rain and pain blues, those sam cooke, gospel singer with a devil on my shoulder as the nite gets colder blues...i got some cross cultural, polyglot hmmmmmmmmmmyeeah blues--cuz there aint no single set of werds big enough to fit into this pair of denim death metal--these blues are at once too tight and too loose, overplayed and misunderstood, obscure and anthemic...they're trapped in my head and in my body like un-realized urges...busting out on the surface in the form of nightmares and sudden, gut clenching stabs of mystery illness that stuffs my joints with copper wool, piercing the slippery softness of my insides and breaking off in toxic chunks in my bloodstream, till my skin turns yellow and my brain cooks in its own juices, and like the sinusitis afflicted prophets in Rushdie's Midnight's Children or the stoned witch doctor folkloric Gandalf mother fuckers from yr grandma's bedtime stories who vibe out shit before it goes down, these paranormal blues have got me FEELIN earthquakes and tsunamis in my sleep and dreaming horrible scenes of chaos and destruction with no idea of where or when the shit im seein is gonna REALLY happen, if its gonna REALLY happen at all cuz come morning i tell myself, yeah, yeah, yeah, dreams do not equal ESP (or responsibilities) but the dread remains...deep blue and down low, as i go about my business of walking in circles.


15 minute blog post


15 minutes is enuf time fer fame fer a quickie in the alley fer two smokes (one lit off the other) fer the klonopin to kick in and the rage to subside fer the sitcom family to solve their big faker problem of the week fer the bacon to get fried fer a political discussion to take a wrong turn fer a meeting to become unbearable fer one tower hit by a plane to turn into two fer a coffee break with coffee cake fer a stolen kiss fer a quick jerk fer star-crossed lovers to hold on a little longer...just a few more minutes please before im all alone again and the hours stretch ahead of me like a sea of sand.



In developed countries, the ten leading causes of lost years of healthy life at ages 15-44 were: (1) Major Depressive Disorder, (2) Alcohol Use, (3) Road Traffic Accidents, (4) Schizophrenia, (5) Self-Inflicted Injuries, (6) Bipolar Disorder, (7) Drug Use, (8) Obsessive-Compulsive Disorders, (9) Osteoarthritis, (10) Violence.


i tried so hard to fit in.

but i just couldn't do the schmooze.


King Me.

by TRUE how i only started to learn how to write when i lost my language.

so NOT not punk


i am the most gullible fuck, tho

that's why i was able to fool all y'all for so long into thinking i was 3 people.

u gotta know the opposite of what yr doing in order to do it well...

in order to fix things, u gotta know how they break

if u wanna make lots of money, u gotta GET WITH the feeling of having none

if u wanna make people laugh, u have to be tuff enuff to channel the terror of despair this black and white pic of ellen degeneres i pulled out of a magazine

she's brushing her teath and wearing a hoodie and old school pj bottoms

doin the casual dyke thing

it's for an amex ad, but that's on the opposite page.

what's amazing is that in her eyes u can see a stab of unmitigated sadness

a glistening wound--at once delicate yet obvious-- like a bright red square of red thread on an otherwise blue and green medieval tapestry

(the unicorn dies, and we're all to blame...all of us who stand around with our iPods on--watching like dumb deer as the hunters hunt)

in order to feel fully awake u have to live yr own dream--

u have to fall from yr favorite fantasy--u have to fuck death in the gall bladder

the rest is just mixing paint...

coke dealer



i had that faker hippy college figgered out--cuz i was getting money for doing nada mucho plus i was high all the time on super pure, uncut blow. that shit was sticky and white. the crystals were bright satanic static. that was some bling begetting bling. only i didn't care about diamonds back then. i cut that shit with johnson and johnson and spent my chedda on simple pleasures: like buying chinchilla jackets and fur-lined boots to match for an 18 yr old freshman virgin from california who wouldn't let me touch her...just take polaroids of her naked on her bed with her teddy bears, late at nite, when no one would know.

The Avatar


im haunted by sterling fassbinder.

since i grew my hair out, i no longer catch a chance glimpse of her in a mirror

like when im running in front of a glass skyscaper in a long black coat on a perfect blue day...

or if my leg's stiff and i find myself walking with a limp...and the fourth and fifth fingers on my right hand are curled up tight inside my leather glove...

instead she's everywhere:


beamed by cellphones and blackberries

picked up by repeaters and repeated


for those who know how to be w.a.s.t.e.r.s

...for those who wanna be everywhere and nowhere at the same time...

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