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Monthly Archives: November 2008

poetical justix  §

The reasons for this misdirection
long sense forgotten
stomach summer turn unchastened
like your yellow leaving
summer winter occupy.
So you the fairy
likened unto heart of darkness
filthy future fantawry—
the witty, merry, filled with pity
endless wander
and somethingthirty
hedonistic solipsistic
hypocritic oathoramic
latent un-post-pediatric
your every fashion
never lashing,
neither very liked or wanted
known or vaunted
figurehead or hero left to die.
You are the bane,
the wane,
the one to vie—
you are the end,
the sent,
the night,
the burning, turning, winding light
don’t take my word,
don’t wait or gird—
just go forth and crucify.

Thing is,  §


Always you’ve got to get a move on.

Snow will fall again any moment now.

Witness to history?  §

“Where were you when…?”

Not at all. Time doesn’t flow like a river, time disappears like a voice on the seashore sent haplessly into the raging wind.

Ten minutes later I am hard-pressed to detail “where I was when.”

By tomorrow I will have forgotten that the wind even exists.

Modernism dictates that we destroy all of today once every day, and that we remember nothing in the interest of perfecting everything. I am not a party to such a project, but I am nonetheless a component of this very project, as are we all.

This has happened.

This will, immediately, be forgotten.

We will, nonetheless, all be better for its having happened.

And life will go on, without scruples, without memory, without inner consistency.

Such is the way of things.

It hits me for the first time ever:  §

the west coast’s evilness is also its repression and its envy; it is forever second class; it is forever second, never first, appearing from the beginning as an also-ran.

The west coast is the ugly stepchild because of an artifact of temporal metaphysics. Suddenly it all makes sense.


reactionaries, capitalists, and octogenarians!


We have killed you, as a society, at least for the moment.

Good riddance.

Hopefully permanently.

New way. New way. New way.

S x T x R x E x S x S  §

S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S
S x T x R x E x S x S !



A Hundred Flowers  §

Let them bloom, dammit. Let them bloom, even as it snows.

Ripples always lie atop waterways; depth always lies below surfaces; white always threatens to burst through from behind black.

Someday it will all be over. Someday all things will all be over. Life does not continue; life does not go on. This is the nature of things and also the meaning of things.

I am not so very old yet, but of course someday I will be.

By then, regrettably, there is no doubt that I will have seen more than I have now.

An entire world forever awaits everyman; it remains for all practical purposes a mythological place, a legend, a heliographic mirage, a lost and remembered blessing.

There is no “entire world.”

There is no “tomorrow.”

All of these are ideology. All of these are cosmology. All of these are wishes made alone while running frantically from the pouring rain.

Sometimes there is nothing to do but play Marlon Brando’s part.

The worst disagreements happen  §

when people feel completely blindsided by one another and don’t have time to regroup/recover before reacting.

Stress  §

simply increases. This is a law of nature. It never decreases, no matter what happens. At most what one can hope for is a moderately shallow increase over time. There is, however, no reprieve before death itself. You will be more and more stressed until the day you die.


Fall?  §

I love fall.

I associate it with piles and piles of musty leaves strewn across uncut lawn, with old-fashioned multi-panel windows with white paint and plaster separating panes of glass, with pumpkins and white sheet ghosts and wind, and with memory and identity and love.

I wish I could simply fall into a giant pile of pumpkins and leaves and lay there for days and days and days until the stench of sweat and unbathing threatens to spontaneously combust.

I wish I could eat a hundred turkeys until I become the icon for turkey genocide.

I wish I could play pavement football with the crowd I used to play with in fifth grade until all of us were covered from head to foot in blood and sweat.

I wish I could spend the season teaching my own children how to winterize an Ethan Allen house.

I don’t have any children.

I haven’t played pavement football in decades.

I live in New York.

I don’t give a shit.

Fall is a state of mind, much more than it is a season.