Moment of Clarity

i thought i died ten years ago

but it turned out it was only on tv,

now my stunt double ghost haunts the innernet

dragging chains laden thick with recriminations..

i don't care that there's no such thing as happiness when there are people as beautiful, loose, and uncomfortable as u.

holy shit im fucked. chemicals are an issue for me. a big issue.

post flakes

origami house

...when the parts equal a (w)hole...



u wonder what other people are like. if they feel the same things u do, if they've known the same loneliness, the same sense that in certain moments the world has turned to wood and gone to sleep.

u r scurred to have people over cuz u know they will judge.

it's a sad and beautiful world, just like in that movie.


quarlo

fuck the world. fuck it's distractions and its smiley faces and its blue skies over the skyscrapers and i forget the word in spanish but it really does sound like scraping the sky...

then comes that moment where u get so sick with a pain so awful that it makes all the world recede and suddenly all u want is for it to come back, all of the absurdities and meaningless rushing around and the wrappers and trash and back seats and the stench of frying food...u want it all, u want nothing more than to disappear back into it's timelessness.

when u r in pain each moment opens up before u like a canyon...



oh baby



im the young offender

yr the prince among thieves...

i fell asleep on the train while corporate logos passed like silent sentries in the black nite. beautiful shapes with colors i remember from when i was a child and my mother took care of me.



when i awoke i was lying on a stetcher in a hospital hallway. my things were stuffed in two clear plastic bags wedged against my back. my morphine drip was lying on the pillow beside my head.

i could hear two men talking about how it was only right that children get smacked when they did something wrong. luckily the lights above were buzzing louder than their voices. an ems crew clattered past. a baby cried and a phone rang. i didn't know what was supposed to happen next. i didn't know who was supposed to take me to the next place and i didn't know how to get their attention if i did know.

i lay on my back and stared up at the cheap white panels on the cheap drop ceiling.

this is how it happens, i thought.




hey honey u wanna smooth banana milkshake?

u can get it in chocolate too.
--9th and 41st, outside the cupcake cafe.



this picture of a pit bull came up in the results when i ran an image search on hippie vibe for a beef post. maybe cuz of the eyes?

i dont mind animials but i don't want to live with one. i dont want the responsibility and i dont like the way their hair smells. that said, i'd like to have that dog, because it's so amazing looking.

i also dont need/want a car but in the same results for "hippy vibe" there was this page where a dykey looking chick waxes poetic on her new ride...i read it was like, damn that sounds phat as hell...if i had the car AND the dog...i'd be ready to hit the streets fer sere.

yeaaaaay boy...hot ghetto mess, here i come!!

pop!

U leave and the tide of the world comes rushing back...my body goes under and my soul floats--a bubble-shaped plastic buoy filled with trapped air.

blown

Crack open the window


The sounds of the city going on without me are music to my soul. Truck screeches, car horns, high-heeled foot steps, planes overhead, a piece of corrugated tin being dragged by some enterprising motherfucker down below.

It is a vertical existence.

I have slipped in sideways.

Come with me...i wanna show u what i found...

i love u

winter is for winner's blues

sit sweet
&

smoke tough


the morning always comes. right at the end there.

"i'll give u everything i got for a little piece of MIND!"

j


sometimes i lean back with a buddha sack and my mind wanders to my ancestor, left all alone in the world as a child after his father was hanged for poisoning and murdering the rest of his family, and for trying to kill him as well, only miraculously my little ancestor hung on...i imagine he was sickly and pale as hell, just like me...alone. sensitive. and strong.

he'd be one of those skinny white boy street motherfuckers now-a-days. one of those mysterious white doods who has a ghetto car and a ghetto name like any other homie. it is not slang to him, it is just the way he speaks. his parents are both "dayed" and he was raised by black aunties.

and he's an artist

he braves the journey to america--

everyday, in his mind

Violence

He was a beautiful person in many ways. The woman who finally saved me from him got upset if I described a “monster” such as he as beautiful, but it’s true. There was something in him of the sleek, silver trains that sped us across Europe... His cheekbones were sharp as knives. He was a very fast thinker. A champion debater, he could weave delicate arguments out of huge blocks of information in minutes…sometimes seconds. He was tall and powerful but he hated his size and fantasized about being dainty. He told me that in his mind it was reversed--he was the little one and I was big. Like your mind, he said. I felt flattered, as the only compliments he gave to other people were about their clothes. We went to cafes and bars and drank for hours. He’d sit hunched over in a chair, his long white bangs in his blue-white eyes as he ran his magnifying glass over what everbook he was reading. He wore an ancient black leather jacket that smelled like cigarettes and scuffed-up black doc martens and a ratty, punk rock blue and black scarf, silver eye shadow and button down shirts with thick, cuffed sleeves to hide his wrists that were covered with scars.

He was ambitious…there, as I floundered in those first weeks at Oxy-Foxy we became friends and he taught me what it really meant to play to win in the business of academia.

I had what it took. The question was whether I wanted it bad enough. Of course, I did not. I wanted other things instead, but i saw philosophy as something important towards getting them.

We read photocopies of Foucault and then wandered outside for air. Sometimes the flannel-thick English mist covered the stars and streetlights, until even the dreaming spires themselves fell into a deeper, more deathlike slumber, and there was no one out on the streets except us and the ghosts.

I didn’t worry cuz he could see in the dark.

He could see into the heart of the heart of a situation.

His blind-white gaze slicing apart everything in its path—





angst is so hot right now.

It's not supernatural

the pain had dulled but i wasn't back on earth, i was being carried above it--dangled from morphine's talons like the helpless, pink-assed, white bunny that i am...

u r my DENSITY.

save me, mi amor...

Pulled in by technology…where I find myself hanging on, dangling from the jungle gym that was built and left to rust in the innernet rain by a group of hipster social isolationists.



The pre-TRUEs.

This is for the bike messengers with calves like rope for the Indian dood at the newsstand with his yellow tiger eyes for the street cleaners for the peace keepers for the one man band for the synchronizers of the weapons for the tornado chasers and hurricane debaters and liars and cheaters and three wheelers and face peelers and sonic feelers.

This is for my drug dealer—he looks so tired.



radio

beef

Brave and Patient.

killer song

oh, the funny tragedy of me trying to fill up the plastic containers with cajun ketchup from the pump. one pump's worth doesnt seem to fill the container enough and two fills it a bit too much, so that when i put on the little plastic lid ketchup squeezed out and fell in fat drops on the clean metal countertop. i wiped it up real fast but it was all over the side of the containers so it got on my fingers and my palms, which required more thin white napkins from the mirrored dispenser. more and more cuz i cant seem to get all of it. time passes, time in which i feel myself being scrutinized by others but i dont wanna get ketchup on my northface. nosirr. not me.

later i'll find it on the cuff of my jeans like dried blood.

i couldn't make up my mind between which flavor iced tea, so i got a pepsi

it's hard to believe, but this is my wilderness.

This is for all the fans cuz im one too.

This is for the goo-goo, ga-ga ponyboys, discography compilers of obscure bands, lyric debaters, pic librarians, underground critics, webmasters who work for free—u don’t get props or cash, but im visitin yr site, im even bookmarking yr cheap ass layout cuz yr bringin me underground information that I cant get nowhere else. This is for the artists working as flier creaters and poster makers—man, im savin that shit. I might not make it to the show but yr shit is still on my wall, months and years after. The photoshop piraters, graff artists, sticker heads…I’m watching y’all, I’m taking pix and learning yr names…this is for the workaholic D.I.Y. producers, this is for the mentally elevated mcs, this is for the players and this is for the haters I love u all. I love yr real bags and I love yr fake ones. I love yr accents and yr mistakes. This is for NYC and everyone in it, but mainly those of u who were here on 9/11. This is for all bloggers. Especially the ones who post pix of their pussies. This is for the people who make my days with their smiles. This is for all my bedridden peeps—whether from illness or choice or both, I’m writing for u, I’m writing for the nutjobs and the scurredy cats. I’m writing for the overachiever who gets there by faking. I’m writing for the dream u don’t want to end. I’m writing for the end, for The Last, and for the cold wind and weather that doesn’t give a shit about me.

Dang. A beautiful day like this makes me really wish I had some liquid codeine around.

I am spacing out with you.

Balls

Girls and boys are delicate in different ways between their legs.

Sometimes in the middle of it I don't know where i end and u begin...my body feels like a flock of birds, like i'm made up of thousands of tiny, throbbing hearts flying in the direction of a single, shared thought...a flight of fancy, a dream of freedom for u and me...

Down below are gardens in bloom divided into perfect squares by black iron fences.

Cruise me, baby.