by TRUE
by TRUE
--"Cuyahoga", R.E.M.
i've got cooties. big time.
Let’s put our heads together and start a new country up
Our father’s father’s father tried, erased the parts he didn’t like
Let’s try to fill it in, bank the quarry river, swim
We knee-skinned it you and me, we knee-skinned that river red
This is where we walked, this is where we swam
Take a picture here, take a souvenir
--"Cuyahoga", R.E.M.
by TRUE
It's the fear that someone says they like me but they really don't...
It's the fear of being weak.
My biggest fear is that someone is lying to me and I don't know it--not cuz i can't see it but cuz i won't let myself see it.
It's the fear that someone says they like me but they really don't...
It's the fear of being weak.
by TRUE
bushwick, baby.
Greetings, World. We are yr new caretakers—slip-sliding into slimey seats of power. Generation Next, fueled by stories and promises, romanticized beatnik bullshit and booze. The future was a “work hard and you’ll get somewhere” dream that we rode lazily back and forth like a half-pipe, gleaming the edges till we could see our faces reflected back at us as we got nowhere fast. We’re the children of the party generation, so we know how to getupgetup to get-get down. We’re the children that the hung-over hippies thought would make them happy in the 80s, ushering in a new era of blotto in the 90s brought on by too many pharmaceuticals and too much money…
Self medication radiation ruling the fast food nation.
Our parents have not aged well, despite their botox and their future shares or whatever it is they’ve squirreled away so they can live in a condo next to a golf course. They are reaping the fruit of “having it all”.
Generation Next knows that the world is a highway, with one lane going super fast and another stopping and starting, and another pitter-pattering along and another at a dead stop, littered with broken down, flaming cars and dying people.
Generation Next knows that the world is a highway, and every exit is The Last.
bushwick, baby.
Greetings, World. We are yr new caretakers—slip-sliding into slimey seats of power. Generation Next, fueled by stories and promises, romanticized beatnik bullshit and booze. The future was a “work hard and you’ll get somewhere” dream that we rode lazily back and forth like a half-pipe, gleaming the edges till we could see our faces reflected back at us as we got nowhere fast. We’re the children of the party generation, so we know how to getupgetup to get-get down. We’re the children that the hung-over hippies thought would make them happy in the 80s, ushering in a new era of blotto in the 90s brought on by too many pharmaceuticals and too much money…
Self medication radiation ruling the fast food nation.
Our parents have not aged well, despite their botox and their future shares or whatever it is they’ve squirreled away so they can live in a condo next to a golf course. They are reaping the fruit of “having it all”.
Generation Next knows that the world is a highway, with one lane going super fast and another stopping and starting, and another pitter-pattering along and another at a dead stop, littered with broken down, flaming cars and dying people.
Generation Next knows that the world is a highway, and every exit is The Last.
by TRUE
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
its my birthday so i gave myself a new blog to add to my kingdumb.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
Courage to change the things I can,
And the wisdom to know the difference.
its my birthday so i gave myself a new blog to add to my kingdumb.
Trance life in half-light
by TRUE
im using this space to let you know i exist
it was only when i got on the train and the doors closed that i realized i still had the blunt stuck between my ear and my backwards-turned yankees hat. oh shit i thought, cuz i was in shorts and a white wifebeater speckled with syrup stains, no bag and tiny ass pockets. fucking hell, what was i going to do with this philly? i looked from side to side and no one was paying me or the 50 dollars of marijuana behind my ear any attention. the train was filled with families coming home from the beach...there were bare shoulders and spongebob towels and the soft clap of flip-flops on the floor. everyone looked so fat and pink--even the black people seemed to glow pink beneath their skin. there was the smell of mcdonalds and diapers. i felt like an alien or an international criminal wanted the world over under the bright florescent lights. i decided that the only thing i could do was leave the big ass blunt where it was and play it cool...and i sat back and breathed in and out like i was half asleep and in a way i was...the blueberry bud and the sunshine and all the words in my head and on the paper, past the margin of the pages, and the music and the sky and the people
an asian guy standing just to the right of me had on a t-shirt with a giant cartoon apple with an angry looking cartoon worm sticking out with a cartoon talk bubble over his head screaming, "GET LOST!"
"mmmk", i said, as the train moved into high gear and my head nodded back and forth like it wasn't connected to my neck.
I love cartoons.
by TRUE
i can't stop watching Donnie Darko.
it's the kind of flick that allows for all sortsa satisfying projections.
we have the same hair and eyes--blue eyes like floating disco ball portals with the sky rushing past.
like six giant castles all together
i can't stop watching Donnie Darko.
it's the kind of flick that allows for all sortsa satisfying projections.
we have the same hair and eyes--blue eyes like floating disco ball portals with the sky rushing past.
like six giant castles all together
by TRUE
for some people i suppose it would be a shock to come to the realization that hey, i like girls when i thought i only liked boys or vice-versa but for me that realization is that, holy shit, i guess i do like blonds sometimes.
for some people i suppose it would be a shock to come to the realization that hey, i like girls when i thought i only liked boys or vice-versa but for me that realization is that, holy shit, i guess i do like blonds sometimes.
fuck oliver stone.
by TRUEThat time just after it happened was so peaceful. There was quiet sorrow and trepidation, and a need to be around one another in silence. I remember the candle light procession in Williamsburg, the people weeping in Union Square, my neighbors gathered at sunset during that string of clear blue, beautiful days to stare at the gigantic plume over the horizon, like a tornado caught in freeze frame…
There was an overarching sense of blamelessness…of the impossibility of anyone ever IMAGINING something like this. What were they thinking? we thought, hypothesizing and turning up blanks. This was a sneak attack. A low blow—the lowest blow there is—attacking innocent civilians inside of cities.
We stood there in the street, unrolling for miles, droopy and bendy and soft like stems of grass in the everglades. And still we couldn’t cover it, still we couldn’t get our minds around it or the green of understanding to travel far enough. The incomprehension made it larger than life: as it became clear that there were to be no more survivors the plume of smoke turned sublime and then disappeared, just like those people did. It was the antiseptic nature of it all that made it so crazy—this tiny (yet deep) incision was made to this precise area of the city and just like that nearly three thousand people were gone with hardly a trace. Meanwhile the rest of us brushed off the dust and got back to work. There was the inherent knowledge that, in the end, we were all replaceable--the city itself was a more important entity than any several thousand of the rest of us. Business went on as usual, but there was something different about everything and everyone. The tragedy cast the twin shadows of vanity and despair across the city--puffing out all of our chests with the knowledge that it was all meant to be…us standing there in that country and in that place and time looking up at the hole in the sky with flags flapping all around us. We couldn’t imagine ourselves anywhere else cuz we were so focused on where we stood and what we saw.
…and what we DIDN’T see.
…as often as we saw that plane striking the tower, over and over on repeat, not a single one of us saw that shit coming.
That’s what we thought then, united as New Yorkers.
It was a feeling that lasted about a month—ending about the time the United States military invaded Afghanistan.
a grand's worth of beef
once more into the breach
by TRUE
i like having cartoons on mute while i write.
it helps take the edge off the loneliness
“cuz when u call my name u know I burn like a wooden flame”
by TRUEThe most important thing u need to make beautiful love is BEING PRESENT. Paying attention, being enamored by, being hungry and devouring the person front of you like they’re food yet in a way that’s so DIFFERENT than if they were food…like yr living this moment playing the part of a character in Beowulf, partying-hardy at the banquet table the night before the Grendel comes and eats u whole. "The Short Happy Life Of…" since the beginning of time that’s been the way to roll—cashing out while yr still young, dumb and full of cum--those who have to learn it always learn it too late, but those who were born to do it find a way of dying in the most dramatic way possible.
gynecological philanthropy
by TRUE
I experienced an entire anime world, all its characters and cosmologies, indeed everything that ever had or would happen in it when u touched me there like that.
by TRUE
I wanted to know…How did the fact that she and her girlfriend fucked older fatherly types have anything to do with their so-called freedom as women in today’s corporate, male-dominated world? (cue: Sonic Youth’s Kool Thing in the background)
We use the power of our love and lust to get what we want, she said. We’re seen and worshipped.
And for that you guys need a third? You can’t do it just the two of you…that’s some powerful love you’ve got. Yep.
Ha! She flicked a cigarette out of the softpack. Her fingers were long, like a mannequin’s.
There’s always a third, silly, she said, quite unironically. Her accented, imperfect English broadcasted her earnestness or lack thereof—like an untuned organ, played by uncertain hands, she was unable to add the layer of semantic finesse that I was used to from the ex-pats.
What do you mean? I said.
There’s always a third—every time you fuck. It’s like an imaginary mirror appears over the couple as they, you know—do it.
And as she said this, she stepped to one side in a half-curtsy to light her cigarette, and as she did revealed a standing mirror that had been hidden behind her. At once I saw my own reflection—elongated like a figure in an el Greco painting: I was taller and broader—like a man…a man who was watching me.
There’s always a third…
"we are the people your parents warned you about."
I wanted to know…How did the fact that she and her girlfriend fucked older fatherly types have anything to do with their so-called freedom as women in today’s corporate, male-dominated world? (cue: Sonic Youth’s Kool Thing in the background)
We use the power of our love and lust to get what we want, she said. We’re seen and worshipped.
And for that you guys need a third? You can’t do it just the two of you…that’s some powerful love you’ve got. Yep.
Ha! She flicked a cigarette out of the softpack. Her fingers were long, like a mannequin’s.
There’s always a third, silly, she said, quite unironically. Her accented, imperfect English broadcasted her earnestness or lack thereof—like an untuned organ, played by uncertain hands, she was unable to add the layer of semantic finesse that I was used to from the ex-pats.
What do you mean? I said.
There’s always a third—every time you fuck. It’s like an imaginary mirror appears over the couple as they, you know—do it.
And as she said this, she stepped to one side in a half-curtsy to light her cigarette, and as she did revealed a standing mirror that had been hidden behind her. At once I saw my own reflection—elongated like a figure in an el Greco painting: I was taller and broader—like a man…a man who was watching me.
There’s always a third…
"we are the people your parents warned you about."
by TRUE
I’m enabled to live the life of a reclusive, Nietzschean aesthetic priest by the plethora of delivery service options that are offered in my well-heeled Manhattan neighborhood.
The delivery men are my barometers of the outside world. I can smell the heat and humidity of the street radiating from them as they catch their breath after running up the four flights of stairs. Sometimes the polyurethane coating of their windbreakers is covered with black beads of rain.
The short Guatemalan from the diner on the corner is one of my faves. He is as tall as he is wide, with a perfect, pencil-thin moustache above his top lip. How are you, my princess, he always asks, smiling a smile that seems too carefree for someone who has to make ends meet by delivering greasy food to someone like me—i smile back as I let him hook the handles of the plastic bag around my wrist. He’s sweating. His sneakers are worn out. Mine are brand new. The bright green soles have only encountered carpet and faker linoeuleum tiled floors.
Outside there’s always something to prove. It’s cat and mouse, cop and robber, David and Goliath, hunter and prey. The constant exchange wears me down. The give and take that Billy Joel sings about in “New York State of Mind”. It’s a very real, vibrant thing—an energy that zips up and down the grid. I become too invested in it—the cause and effect down there on the sidewalks has a desperation to it that pulls me in, capturing my attention the way following the ball captures my attention in tennis or ping pong or pinball.
I love people but when I’m caught in the depths of the crowd I feel myself being whittled down to nothing.
Im rockin the house on some untouchable stylez, like a ghost
Im crackin open the seed nut center of some ferreal loneliness and layin it out for all to see like a drunken uterus.
(im yr favorite horse)
photographs from a previous lifetime
I’m enabled to live the life of a reclusive, Nietzschean aesthetic priest by the plethora of delivery service options that are offered in my well-heeled Manhattan neighborhood.
The delivery men are my barometers of the outside world. I can smell the heat and humidity of the street radiating from them as they catch their breath after running up the four flights of stairs. Sometimes the polyurethane coating of their windbreakers is covered with black beads of rain.
The short Guatemalan from the diner on the corner is one of my faves. He is as tall as he is wide, with a perfect, pencil-thin moustache above his top lip. How are you, my princess, he always asks, smiling a smile that seems too carefree for someone who has to make ends meet by delivering greasy food to someone like me—i smile back as I let him hook the handles of the plastic bag around my wrist. He’s sweating. His sneakers are worn out. Mine are brand new. The bright green soles have only encountered carpet and faker linoeuleum tiled floors.
Outside there’s always something to prove. It’s cat and mouse, cop and robber, David and Goliath, hunter and prey. The constant exchange wears me down. The give and take that Billy Joel sings about in “New York State of Mind”. It’s a very real, vibrant thing—an energy that zips up and down the grid. I become too invested in it—the cause and effect down there on the sidewalks has a desperation to it that pulls me in, capturing my attention the way following the ball captures my attention in tennis or ping pong or pinball.
I love people but when I’m caught in the depths of the crowd I feel myself being whittled down to nothing.
Im rockin the house on some untouchable stylez, like a ghost
Im crackin open the seed nut center of some ferreal loneliness and layin it out for all to see like a drunken uterus.
(im yr favorite horse)
photographs from a previous lifetime
