in the wild we
occupy windows and grasp
for hollow faces in the
crowd to
fill with our own
recognizable smiles
warriors in soft chairs
dangers warped by
relocated dreams and
mania sets
in
like a stable home in the
summer rain
melancholy lip service
blurring the
articulation from my
financial surrender and
maybe there were orchids in
the verdant hollows where
avenues for life gave purchase and
thrived untended still
thrilled
by studies in anger and morality
under dark lenses and from
odd angles
perspective's lumbering gait through
memory's mezzanines
anchoring language against the
breathless tenor of nature
weapons to fence away
this failure
*
pictures of the city melt into
these wanders
she stands young and thin and
wears a red bow cliche that still
emerges preternaturally from
hair so dark thick and primordial it is
as one umber appendage standing
solid in
the humidity
underneath
here as we
hopscotch universes or
train stops nonchalant and
swaying like hypnotized dancers
so utterly uniform and meaningless to me that i
will probably always
remember her
Sunday, October 16, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
circle (for dama)
reunion
waiting outside the door (your
mother's disturbing
strength) i don't know
where else
to say that to
be weak is to be strong is to
be weak
discovering footstep ghost trails in
tomorrow's gardens that you
will wander meditatively upon and
around you will be all around you and
there will be
darkness
humor
parity
compromises
promises
pretend
tension
rebirth
and though lost there is
a dark and beautiful bird at
the window and you'll see it
forever and it will be noticed
forever and it will be invisible
forever and it will be heard
and known at the window and
is
known
and
no one knows but they will
say many lovely and despicable and
considerately inarticulate things and you will
listen to them and place them very
carefully upon freshly presented
furniture surfaces and your
sister is lovely she is
in your metered breathing and
the tips of your hair and
your penmanship and the way you
playfully hunch over and grin and
in many years her steady embrace will
have been so steady that you
won't exactly feel it anymore quite
but
maybe still listen to it hum in concert
with your imagination
i don't know what encircles us
like this but we will
always
encircle
farther
around it
Friday, September 23, 2011
axis
far and not beyond the
symmetry
of voices behind glass and
hellish afterwards
towards and not
beyond underwards not
before
that
transforming
point
that
metallurgy of conscience
where
elemental differentials are
the scrawled handwriting
that
signal our unimportant
names beyond and
afterward and here might not
be the truly here the
fictional frictional fractional
malevolent here the now is
a small piece of paper on a teenage tongue
drunken calls daring phantom police in the night
the night of lost
adolescent chimeras painted in
every parental antibody
wielding the accident
after the fact
afterwards
after wards
after words
before words i was
a flailing precambrian
lost in my own hostage
evolution
distrusting each newly discovered edge and
now i am logged and
known
far and
not beyond the
symmetry
past
and future
namastes
like hands to a mirror
very
closely
and
afterwords is
a place i live in
afterwards
we
meet
symmetry
of voices behind glass and
hellish afterwards
towards and not
beyond underwards not
before
that
transforming
point
that
metallurgy of conscience
where
elemental differentials are
the scrawled handwriting
that
signal our unimportant
names beyond and
afterward and here might not
be the truly here the
fictional frictional fractional
malevolent here the now is
a small piece of paper on a teenage tongue
drunken calls daring phantom police in the night
the night of lost
adolescent chimeras painted in
every parental antibody
wielding the accident
after the fact
afterwards
after wards
after words
before words i was
a flailing precambrian
lost in my own hostage
evolution
distrusting each newly discovered edge and
now i am logged and
known
far and
not beyond the
symmetry
past
and future
namastes
like hands to a mirror
very
closely
and
afterwords is
a place i live in
afterwards
we
meet
a tunnel / autumnal
like a strange rain the
tint of your eyes
prompts new goals
movements and
compromise savage encounters
rendering logic some
tormented salivating plaything
in
a period of time that will remain
split-seconds and
weapons
and
reckonings maybe i can
recall what the tactile
elementary
details of skin communicate
almost
ignorant in their
simple hunger
and
i want to lose
consistency
and poison each minute with
longing and loathing in equal
measure
uncooperative as we
sit together
ignoring
underneath each other
at the
same
time
tint of your eyes
prompts new goals
movements and
compromise savage encounters
rendering logic some
tormented salivating plaything
in
a period of time that will remain
split-seconds and
weapons
and
reckonings maybe i can
recall what the tactile
elementary
details of skin communicate
almost
ignorant in their
simple hunger
and
i want to lose
consistency
and poison each minute with
longing and loathing in equal
measure
uncooperative as we
sit together
ignoring
underneath each other
at the
same
time
Sunday, September 18, 2011
i got a gig
asian
overweight
she chews meaningfully on a ratty ziplog bag of animal crackers
i can't help thinking: what a rote treat to occupy lost subway time
5pm and the D is pockmarked with nightclubbers like
makeup on bad skin
manicured presentations
drowning in crafted dignity
haircuts: a fine overdose of it-factor
secure and insecure and secure
sinecures of the post-midnight landscape in
ambulatory preparation
these careful personas even wafting from
the rough'n'ready skaters who bumrush
eight orange seats and share the days philosophies
fistfights
neighborhood lore and the journalism
of the familiar bartered in animated
gossip around distant-eyed commuters
non-partying squares
myself
drifting out to a party in queens with
ragged strangers playing the part of
shadows of a former life i am
meditative
squashed against the windows a
manchild drifter
as the skaters exit some breathe easier grateful
away
from their dontgiveafuck
59th street is a disambiguation
grand human exchanges
the pack of chattering impeccable Guyana girls hustle
off to mysterious encumbrances in lovely
straightened hair and at
7th ave i hold the doors for five
strangers one of which
mentions it
and
in the camouflage of urban engagement i'm
a discreet unkempt itinerant
fraud
dancing between beeps and open doors
at the party i drink 7 beers and
sneak blow and
sing the lyrics to
one song
overweight
she chews meaningfully on a ratty ziplog bag of animal crackers
i can't help thinking: what a rote treat to occupy lost subway time
5pm and the D is pockmarked with nightclubbers like
makeup on bad skin
manicured presentations
drowning in crafted dignity
haircuts: a fine overdose of it-factor
secure and insecure and secure
sinecures of the post-midnight landscape in
ambulatory preparation
these careful personas even wafting from
the rough'n'ready skaters who bumrush
eight orange seats and share the days philosophies
fistfights
neighborhood lore and the journalism
of the familiar bartered in animated
gossip around distant-eyed commuters
non-partying squares
myself
drifting out to a party in queens with
ragged strangers playing the part of
shadows of a former life i am
meditative
squashed against the windows a
manchild drifter
as the skaters exit some breathe easier grateful
away
from their dontgiveafuck
59th street is a disambiguation
grand human exchanges
the pack of chattering impeccable Guyana girls hustle
off to mysterious encumbrances in lovely
straightened hair and at
7th ave i hold the doors for five
strangers one of which
mentions it
and
in the camouflage of urban engagement i'm
a discreet unkempt itinerant
fraud
dancing between beeps and open doors
at the party i drink 7 beers and
sneak blow and
sing the lyrics to
one song
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
what i remember of a wake and a funeral (for billy woodz who had no black pants so he wore navy blue)
i'm wearing dark jeans at the wake with my ex-girlfriend at her
mafioso dad's friend's see-off
feeling weird and out of sorts
days later we take limos and towncars
eat at a preposterous italian buffet and
push food around plates with dozens of strangers
bust out for mostly silent smokes in the
significant and cold queens air and
return to plates no less
abstract and insecure
and a lot of it is lost in this weird shamespace
memory contradicting life shifts and
scattered homeostasis
tugged shirts
desperate teen lust and
lies and sadism and dreams and
contradicted elements
so, basically, lost time
but when i return i am at a chilly fall season
stage is a
grassy vista over dozens of embedded concrete
stones like choked pills dotting land i might never
re-tread or stumble by
and it's me
throwing dirt on an unknown casket
placing a flower down (they
said this was a nice
gesture)
staying silent
standing next to her
breathing
mixing in the gracious family i won't speak to for
over a decade
to this day
unknown in the cruel sun
i could be the interloper
walking with you
as far away from you as
now
walking with me
as far away from me
mafioso dad's friend's see-off
feeling weird and out of sorts
days later we take limos and towncars
eat at a preposterous italian buffet and
push food around plates with dozens of strangers
bust out for mostly silent smokes in the
significant and cold queens air and
return to plates no less
abstract and insecure
and a lot of it is lost in this weird shamespace
memory contradicting life shifts and
scattered homeostasis
tugged shirts
desperate teen lust and
lies and sadism and dreams and
contradicted elements
so, basically, lost time
but when i return i am at a chilly fall season
stage is a
grassy vista over dozens of embedded concrete
stones like choked pills dotting land i might never
re-tread or stumble by
and it's me
throwing dirt on an unknown casket
placing a flower down (they
said this was a nice
gesture)
staying silent
standing next to her
breathing
mixing in the gracious family i won't speak to for
over a decade
to this day
unknown in the cruel sun
i could be the interloper
walking with you
as far away from you as
now
walking with me
as far away from me
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
camera #3
streetcat food in a cracked martini glass next to a 29th street wholesale retailer storefront
tourist mom tugs tourist dad brings tourist daughter under wing
the middle-aged middle-roaded idle sunglassed hoards on line for first pickings at the sample sale at 8:20AM
hardfaced latina mom tugs a boston terrier roughly
we wait in line for cheap cigarettes at the clandestine bodega
outside children manhandle a too-small dog and are berated by a concerned neighbor
the mexican bodega serves some of the best food in the neighborhood from a tucked away speakeasy grill
i'm not following the young bottleblonde in tight jeans with the orange freddy krueger shirt from the 4 train i promise you it just appears that way
college student eats a morning cart tamale thoughtfully in a tucked away subway car corner with plastic fork
i read the sound and the fury pleasantly sleepy next to a man entirely too wide-legged testing tension in my left knee
share a cigarette with a coworker who doesn't smoke sweartogod
soft breeze collecting halal smells and fake bootlegged leather and sunlight down 5th
sometimes people on the train stand so close and at such intimate angles they could already be sarcastically distant lovers
tourist mom tugs tourist dad brings tourist daughter under wing
the middle-aged middle-roaded idle sunglassed hoards on line for first pickings at the sample sale at 8:20AM
hardfaced latina mom tugs a boston terrier roughly
we wait in line for cheap cigarettes at the clandestine bodega
outside children manhandle a too-small dog and are berated by a concerned neighbor
the mexican bodega serves some of the best food in the neighborhood from a tucked away speakeasy grill
i'm not following the young bottleblonde in tight jeans with the orange freddy krueger shirt from the 4 train i promise you it just appears that way
college student eats a morning cart tamale thoughtfully in a tucked away subway car corner with plastic fork
i read the sound and the fury pleasantly sleepy next to a man entirely too wide-legged testing tension in my left knee
share a cigarette with a coworker who doesn't smoke sweartogod
soft breeze collecting halal smells and fake bootlegged leather and sunlight down 5th
sometimes people on the train stand so close and at such intimate angles they could already be sarcastically distant lovers
critter
nervy
quick in the
woods like a
small deadly sleepy
lusty amoral peaceful desperate creature
scratching under a melange of old leaves and
nutrition everywhere i am either at rest in my own
defensive nest or killing something small and meaningful or
pacing softly under celestial looms getting paws nasty in morning
carpet looking for big lucky sustenance or hallucinations or
randy sublime encounters with my own kind or my
own shimmering
reflection in a pool of risky water
when i drink
some and swallow
everything disappears
quick in the
woods like a
small deadly sleepy
lusty amoral peaceful desperate creature
scratching under a melange of old leaves and
nutrition everywhere i am either at rest in my own
defensive nest or killing something small and meaningful or
pacing softly under celestial looms getting paws nasty in morning
carpet looking for big lucky sustenance or hallucinations or
randy sublime encounters with my own kind or my
own shimmering
reflection in a pool of risky water
when i drink
some and swallow
everything disappears
Sunday, September 11, 2011
bored college notes 2004
lusty tech
breakneck
spitting destruction at
new fangled texan
royalty with
armchair precision
or studio take 6 the
anger sounds sick
righteous with an
overdrive digital
mic simulator
the future is
now
but recorded in the past
time
remixed to death this
track has gasped its
last breath like the
mixdown is crucial
i'm learning and
prolific at the same time
dark glass
reflecting the
sunshine
selects me
to blind while
walking through
downtown I'm
daydreaming
beats unquantized
in drowned ground and
can't find
my studio seat
to put these treats
down
action is
education
mistakes are
meditation
risk taking makes
for
elegant creation but
planning flows
in the mental
preheat the oven
for the instrument
i'll
be
running for my mpc
a cybog missing
a piece of my body
reattached now
i'm waiting for the
startup sequence
till the match sound spent
triggers the torch crackle
spread the spackle
fill in the holes in my head
obscure flaws into
illumination
bacchus initiation
these fractals are
inflated
sensually flagrant
a vagrant feeling
for his
vocation
breakneck
spitting destruction at
new fangled texan
royalty with
armchair precision
or studio take 6 the
anger sounds sick
righteous with an
overdrive digital
mic simulator
the future is
now
but recorded in the past
time
remixed to death this
track has gasped its
last breath like the
mixdown is crucial
i'm learning and
prolific at the same time
dark glass
reflecting the
sunshine
selects me
to blind while
walking through
downtown I'm
daydreaming
beats unquantized
in drowned ground and
can't find
my studio seat
to put these treats
down
action is
education
mistakes are
meditation
risk taking makes
for
elegant creation but
planning flows
in the mental
preheat the oven
for the instrument
i'll
be
running for my mpc
a cybog missing
a piece of my body
reattached now
i'm waiting for the
startup sequence
till the match sound spent
triggers the torch crackle
spread the spackle
fill in the holes in my head
obscure flaws into
illumination
bacchus initiation
these fractals are
inflated
sensually flagrant
a vagrant feeling
for his
vocation
Big K.R.I.T. - The Vent...song of 2011
one of the finest, brightest, most inspiring lights in hiphop in recent years. i know no one looks at this blog. it's no beef fam. but if anyone happens to trip and stumble their feet here they at least need to see this...call it chaos theory inspiration, feeling the breeze from the wing flutter.
big k.r.i.t. (king remembered in time) and some of his tremendously talented contemporaries have compelled me to reevaluate my preconceived notions of southern hiphop, poisoned by the years since that bitch with a bandaid - nelly. his free mixtape Return of 4Eva is, quite simply, a masterwork of unprecedented quality. the only free release i can compare it to of late is by another head who's hard at work in the UK: wretch32. very different styles but equally inspiring and thoughtful.
don't get me wrong, the south has produced a bevvy of non-artificial soldiers. goodie mob, outkast, killer mike, ugk, scarface, etc...i'm not hating, but the lcd radio has been playing that BULLSHIT for years. when a single hits it's throwing that garbage most of the time.
it's a crime that his video hasn't hit 1 million hits yet but it's gotdamn close.
some youtube digging will dredge up his live performance as well:
look at the fucking intensity in his eyes. he's ready to blow the whole world up with his talent and integrity.
i'll be watching, and spinning his sounds up til then.
EDIT: here's lyrics for the deaf and the rest. why not?
a mother lost a child
i tried to ease her pain
it's only god's will
she said she felt the same
it's funny how the sun will up and battle rain
as if the clouds couldn't stand to see me outside the game
wrote a rhyme that was kind with some vision to it
bottom line: it might expand your mind if you listen to it
too much shine can dull the soul
if you feel how i feel then i'll rap some more
how can the devil take my brother if he's close to me
when he was everything i wasn't but i hoped to be
i get a little honest and i ask myself
if the time come, will you save me if i ask for help?
sent my mind on a journey to the outermost
to document what it had seen and cc me the notes
and ask kurt cobain why cuz i need to know
he stopped when he had such a long way to go
i saw love in the eyes of a perfect stranger
she overlooked my caring heart in search of gangster
will we ever be together? only time will tell
she call my phone and talk to me as her iris swell
i put my problems in a box beside my tightest rhymes
under lock and key, buried deep off in my mind
and when it gets too full and i can't close the lid
i spaz on my family and my closest friends
trade my materials for a piece of mind
i'm so close to heaven, hell i just need some time
who cares about life and the highs and lows
maybe i should write another song about pimps and hos
cars and clothes
idol gods
golden calves
louis scarves
i do this for the love and it's free of charge
i don't need jail to be behind bars
this is purely art
in my grandma's household this was surely taught
don't be naive
yeah these times is hard
in the midst of this glamor hope you find god
i never wished to be the burden-bearer
but souls need saving and it's now or never
shock value's all they want to see
it's us against them and it's just you and me
try and to take heed what i say in my songs
forgive me if i ever, ever steered you wrong
most people stop for signs but i've driven through it
if it don't touch my soul, then i can't listen to it
the radio don't play the shit i used to love
or maybe i'm just growing up
i never seen a star on a red rug
if i want to see stars i just look above
to the heavens
*
i know you been down so long
so i'll be stronger for you
i know you been down so long
cuz i been down too
yes i understand
what you're going through
yes i understand
cuz i'm going through it too
i pray that you find your way
and all things old become new
i pray that you find your way
for my sake cuz i'm lost too
yes i understand
what you're going through
yes i understand
cuz i'm going through it too
i lost my friend this morning
woke up screaming her name
she meant so much to me
i'm scared i won't be the same
hope you understand
what i'm going through
hope you understand
when i call out for you
to
vent
Saturday, September 10, 2011
rain, bedford park, again
we smoke defeated in the trainstation under
grand concourse and
plot our next move
reduce movements
clutch our bags
reorient
breathe
cars slash water onto the walkway
women tie their hair up and
straighten their work clothes
men pace like failed hunters
commuters collect
around puddles puzzling
the brave wear their fuck-it proud
and plunge into the curtains of current
and the train
lets more
off and
the mire of commuting life
softly collecting behind
curtains of rainwater like
muttering phantoms projected from
their corporeal employment to
reunite in 13 hours
to sleepwalking skins that
will have lost or renewed
this condensation
it's days of this and
we numbly conjure strength for
more days of this
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
seven years old
the day
dissipates into drifting curls of hair and
maybe i'm lost because
i very clearly can't be there
latchkey kid
in the window of his childhood home
watching strangers
i go there when its fucked
and none of the answers deliver mind clear
and i can't pull away
from what i can't understand enough to fear
tough nut to crack
spoiled brat junkie or clean liver
equipping self-doubt
and i march away with it
fuel for clumsy itinerant motives
spitting lies at the sun
posture incoherent like a stolen gun
shooting at the votives for
target practice till it gets dark
prayer for a blind man
who'll probably never know when
I make my mark
dissipates into drifting curls of hair and
maybe i'm lost because
i very clearly can't be there
latchkey kid
in the window of his childhood home
watching strangers
i go there when its fucked
and none of the answers deliver mind clear
and i can't pull away
from what i can't understand enough to fear
tough nut to crack
spoiled brat junkie or clean liver
equipping self-doubt
and i march away with it
fuel for clumsy itinerant motives
spitting lies at the sun
posture incoherent like a stolen gun
shooting at the votives for
target practice till it gets dark
prayer for a blind man
who'll probably never know when
I make my mark
Monday, September 5, 2011
signal
and folded it over and over and
placed it the static of
an old composition notebook
then positioned it next
to other books on an old shelf and
lived years
ugly moons
writing songs for old dogs
sitting in midnight parks pulling absentmindedly at grass
drinking inspirations
pissing them out in pathetic shudders
furious masturbation black magic
long fields broken by roads
screaming lies of love in faces slashed with dawning understanding
mischievous joyrides
melting into willing arms and
it remained there uncorrupted
some ridiculous message to self
lost in a move
destroyed
unknown
unread
forgotten in murkier ages and
maybe it's what's missing
a wildcard healing element
something to grasp
through xeroxed days
i just can't remember
what i gave to myself
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
lunch (part 3)
and we walk in a line down the scant path to the
restaurants along
the idle rich flanking us lazily on sidewalk tables though
they
seem to shimmer and melt into the
pre-fab midtown cafe-culture backdrop maybe
figurants lost
midtown foliage
reclining into frieze
mythic squadrons of every
genus of truck hustle
oriental rugs
organic food
antique furniture and the
rations of commerce
grocery flowers crowd grapefruit growing out of ice crystals
reflecting the calm post-storm sun
hawkers govern folding tables of mass produced pashminas
cellphone cases
DVDs and knockoff sundries
lunchtime human pachinko around deliverymen
jagged old windowshoppers courting sample sales reflected in
insectile ebony sunglasses
the slow bored gait of tourists
annoyed or grateful smokers
churchgoers and teenage theater
the low hum of city glossolalia
high tide audio
and
immediately
the sun is in the wrong place and
my body is a
badly closed window
thwarted by a light breeze
and none of the architecture is real and
i yawn through strong coffee and
i am completely at a loss
of argument
reason
faith
i
don't
really
return
i disrupt
my own escape
restaurants along
the idle rich flanking us lazily on sidewalk tables though
they
seem to shimmer and melt into the
pre-fab midtown cafe-culture backdrop maybe
figurants lost
midtown foliage
reclining into frieze
mythic squadrons of every
genus of truck hustle
oriental rugs
organic food
antique furniture and the
rations of commerce
grocery flowers crowd grapefruit growing out of ice crystals
reflecting the calm post-storm sun
hawkers govern folding tables of mass produced pashminas
cellphone cases
DVDs and knockoff sundries
lunchtime human pachinko around deliverymen
jagged old windowshoppers courting sample sales reflected in
insectile ebony sunglasses
the slow bored gait of tourists
annoyed or grateful smokers
churchgoers and teenage theater
the low hum of city glossolalia
high tide audio
and
immediately
the sun is in the wrong place and
my body is a
badly closed window
thwarted by a light breeze
and none of the architecture is real and
i yawn through strong coffee and
i am completely at a loss
of argument
reason
faith
i
don't
really
return
i disrupt
my own escape
lunch (part 2)
and lunch is somehow both
hummus and whiskey
imagination friskier and starved for
intention I pass shadows cast from
undiscovered countries
offices i'll never grok
parking lots i'll never smoke cigs in
bodegas i'll never order mediocre food in
homeless people i'll never give 1s to
subway entrances ignored
drugstores i'll never need
coworkers i'll never politely hate
laugh with
enjoy or
ignore
doormen i'll never share shaky solidarity with
mailmen i'll never cough drifting dryhump smalltalk with
coffee i'll never aggregate quality of
garbage smells i'll never morning fastwalk through
ancient computers i'll never bellyache over
doors i'll never unlock
worlds i'll never speak to
roles i'll never fuck up
and lunch lies and each hypocritical minute
lies shaken and thirty minutes are
a gran mal seizure and
fifteen minutes in
everything is nonsense and it could be
days before i am
grasping the confident
humiliating brass handle of the
entrance and jerking it open with
every last ounce of endurance for
the last time
hummus and whiskey
imagination friskier and starved for
intention I pass shadows cast from
undiscovered countries
offices i'll never grok
parking lots i'll never smoke cigs in
bodegas i'll never order mediocre food in
homeless people i'll never give 1s to
subway entrances ignored
drugstores i'll never need
coworkers i'll never politely hate
laugh with
enjoy or
ignore
doormen i'll never share shaky solidarity with
mailmen i'll never cough drifting dryhump smalltalk with
coffee i'll never aggregate quality of
garbage smells i'll never morning fastwalk through
ancient computers i'll never bellyache over
doors i'll never unlock
worlds i'll never speak to
roles i'll never fuck up
and lunch lies and each hypocritical minute
lies shaken and thirty minutes are
a gran mal seizure and
fifteen minutes in
everything is nonsense and it could be
days before i am
grasping the confident
humiliating brass handle of the
entrance and jerking it open with
every last ounce of endurance for
the last time
lunch (part 1)
noonday chatter mesmerizes post-
hurricane sugar weather
flavored breeze coats cars
colors debris
skirts swing weightless
perpetually above the knee
we court greatness in walks
in these moments
horizon above the park like
pork pressing cilantro in a banh mi
and cabbies stretch aimlessly
carnivorous
down hostile grids softened by the laughter
of new lovers and swaths of fast food
cartilage caught in the hereafter of
unswept midday avenues
hipster coffee bustles across
200 tour guides praying to Mecca
spilling out of the storefront temple reuniting with
400 shoes
feels like paying dues to a loanshark
blues
these
days
carrying on feeling like last call
carrion
constantly summoning new frequencies
to glide sanity off of like a skipped stone
all gathered together yet
somehow completely alone
when I collect what's severed
i'm organizing what's known
hurricane sugar weather
flavored breeze coats cars
colors debris
skirts swing weightless
perpetually above the knee
we court greatness in walks
in these moments
horizon above the park like
pork pressing cilantro in a banh mi
and cabbies stretch aimlessly
carnivorous
down hostile grids softened by the laughter
of new lovers and swaths of fast food
cartilage caught in the hereafter of
unswept midday avenues
hipster coffee bustles across
200 tour guides praying to Mecca
spilling out of the storefront temple reuniting with
400 shoes
feels like paying dues to a loanshark
blues
these
days
carrying on feeling like last call
carrion
constantly summoning new frequencies
to glide sanity off of like a skipped stone
all gathered together yet
somehow completely alone
when I collect what's severed
i'm organizing what's known
Monday, August 29, 2011
48 hours of the news
and the news floods us with greedy images and
video non sequitors of dogs sadly swimming through
the mud flood of other states
other lands and cities on other
more dangerous
winds and
pieces of roof siding and tiles heli-
coptering deadly past slightly insecure newscasters in
corporate ponchos yanking at the gawkers
around them
oh you didn't have insurance
oh your basements flooded lets take a look at that
oh the old man can't climb in the raft
oh you guys are packing sandbags from the beach
oh that was your car that fell into the sinkhole
oh you didn't have insurance
and it continues this way and i keep watching with dry
bronx windows with my five stupid mass hysteric cans of tuna fish
and my air conditioner on
but later
much much later
around 11pm
it changes
and the newscasters on location don't have anybody to
yoke into frame
and the camera lenses are all destroyed and sandblasted from
80+ mile per hour winds rendering their targets
dreamlike and out of focus
and the moon pulls over new jersey evacuation areas and
they are just standing there
alone
soaked in the weird escapee silence
excitement drained from their souls and sometimes
they find odd miserable poetry
almost exasperated with their homebase anchor family with looks
on their face like
what the fuck do you want me to say
and all the houses are empty and they
preside over these darkened neighborhoods with
crumbling keep-it-together soliloquies
pacing around abandoned suburban streets
attempting to equip broadway smiles tinged with boredom some
small panic an almost existential countenance to
face the unknown elemental plague
they become like happy children reunited to parents
when people wake up the next day and they can
gratifyingly mouthfuck them with mics and fill
that previous evening's severe swirling questioning silence
with the sounds of people excited to
complain and posture before
their homes and the energy returns to them and
they are like
these homes
emptied of chilling nature
drying in the cloudy morning
thrilled to be around humanity
except i now know that i would rather
do nothing but watch
late night lonely
hurricane news
video non sequitors of dogs sadly swimming through
the mud flood of other states
other lands and cities on other
more dangerous
winds and
pieces of roof siding and tiles heli-
coptering deadly past slightly insecure newscasters in
corporate ponchos yanking at the gawkers
around them
oh you didn't have insurance
oh your basements flooded lets take a look at that
oh the old man can't climb in the raft
oh you guys are packing sandbags from the beach
oh that was your car that fell into the sinkhole
oh you didn't have insurance
and it continues this way and i keep watching with dry
bronx windows with my five stupid mass hysteric cans of tuna fish
and my air conditioner on
but later
much much later
around 11pm
it changes
and the newscasters on location don't have anybody to
yoke into frame
and the camera lenses are all destroyed and sandblasted from
80+ mile per hour winds rendering their targets
dreamlike and out of focus
and the moon pulls over new jersey evacuation areas and
they are just standing there
alone
soaked in the weird escapee silence
excitement drained from their souls and sometimes
they find odd miserable poetry
almost exasperated with their homebase anchor family with looks
on their face like
what the fuck do you want me to say
and all the houses are empty and they
preside over these darkened neighborhoods with
crumbling keep-it-together soliloquies
pacing around abandoned suburban streets
attempting to equip broadway smiles tinged with boredom some
small panic an almost existential countenance to
face the unknown elemental plague
they become like happy children reunited to parents
when people wake up the next day and they can
gratifyingly mouthfuck them with mics and fill
that previous evening's severe swirling questioning silence
with the sounds of people excited to
complain and posture before
their homes and the energy returns to them and
they are like
these homes
emptied of chilling nature
drying in the cloudy morning
thrilled to be around humanity
except i now know that i would rather
do nothing but watch
late night lonely
hurricane news
Saturday, August 27, 2011
prelude
at 11:40AM the rains start in the bronx almost
musically
the andante soaks the sidewalk
intro is measured before
the sounds of droplets run divertissement
through the chewy fabric of treeleaves that
rustle cryptic movements
hypnotic in the sizzle of brushed snare and
the street is made of heavy eternal material
perhaps shuddering
perhaps prescient or
ominous but currently just
wet with celestial improvisations and
i take my steps from the door in 4/4
only to mopishly
return to my apartment as i try
to figure if this is rhapsody or
deeply known and i've
never seen so many windows in my neighborhood
closed in the summer as
plunged earplugs by the orchestra we
position and believe that
we are listening
musically
the andante soaks the sidewalk
intro is measured before
the sounds of droplets run divertissement
through the chewy fabric of treeleaves that
rustle cryptic movements
hypnotic in the sizzle of brushed snare and
the street is made of heavy eternal material
perhaps shuddering
perhaps prescient or
ominous but currently just
wet with celestial improvisations and
i take my steps from the door in 4/4
only to mopishly
return to my apartment as i try
to figure if this is rhapsody or
deeply known and i've
never seen so many windows in my neighborhood
closed in the summer as
plunged earplugs by the orchestra we
position and believe that
we are listening
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
polytheist
frayed ends of the immigration of
morning lay oily and sheer on the surface of my
irrepressible cup
of bustelo like rainbows in car wash puddles rendering
Monets reflecting nailbiting customers
the car wash was a strange and exhaustive period
every morning I would suit up in coveralls and pick up
breakfast for the boys
Nick was an affable wiry italian crewcut who would
strangely and eagerly feed me cigarettes every day
i think we were the only smokers on staff and he was
convinced of developing a shameless bond based entirely on this fact
Looking genuinely happy to fund me with
weightless obligatory Parliaments
the other main guy was Maja
he was a Haitian guy who worked
harder than anyone else
i tried to shadow his confident movements
i didn't really know how to drive but
he taught me some quick maneuvers
and shared the basics of his scrappy quasi-religious philosophy
and i traded with him in the currency of english slang and
looked over his homework from business night school
every morning I would suit up in coveralls
except
when it rained
i became a true pluviophile
sharing a studio apartment with three other
hungover seekers at
5:45AM i was concocting strange
birdlike ritualistic dances winged by
the blanket i slept on the floor with
i would sing and crow and wake people up
make odd exclamations at the balcony
pray to my half-remembered jewish god or
any available and
yank at my hair
when it rained the carwash was a ghost town and
my fuckhead of a boss would wait for us to call in
equally happy to be told to stay home as he was
happy not to pay us shit for the day
some mornings the sky teased which only
produced a more intense
almost sexual display
invoking any and all unknown religious techniques and
promises and
some mornings the sky was pitilessly clear and
i hopelessly mumbled and murmured and eventually
just left
defeated to my long walk to Woodside
on a good day we barreled through 200 cars
primarily taxicabs
if the drivers were Jamaican there was a good chance
to save some decent roaches from the vacuum snake or
sometimes we'd pilfer the change we found if it
was a few bucks worth
we couldn't rely on tips because the fuckhead very
obviously curbed at least half of them
either him or the scumbag bastard who had
funded the enterprise and liked to kill time
there relaxing
fucking with us and
scrutinizing our work
one time he clipped me behind my knees with the
hood of a moving car almost
dropping me on my face on a post-inebriated
morning
i turned around and saw him laughing in
the driver's seat the
exact way a
fat useless piece of shit laughs when his day is spent
fussing over his little pet project and not doing any
work and i swore up and down i would get his number and
obviously never did
the only other thing of worth i remember was
driving a nice car onto the rails and hearing
one of the most horrible crackling sounds i had ever
heard
i had jammed the tire at an odd angle
which caused
the hub cap to press against the metal rail and
shattered the plastic metallic disc into a million
pieces all
sent skittering down the grating with the hose and
quick thinking
the fuckhead saw it but hid his shock from the customer who
was looking at a kiosk with those little airfreshening tree things
i could feel myself getting fired a spooked yet almost sweet and
gratifying moment but
fuckhead kept it together and waited carefully
the customer never noticed it and drove off with three
hubcaps and the fuckhead never mentioned it
it was one of the jobs where you learn to drink coffee
learn the hot smell of a set of sweaty coveralls that got
washed once a week
memorized the faces of junkyard dogs that crowed a welcome
daily
it was also one of the hardest jobs of my entire life
on that weird stretch of queens boulevard absent of all
life not compelled by no-tell motels or auto chop shops
coming home at 10PM it felt like the world had ended and
i would call my girlfriend from a payphone on the way down
the street and
-mind emptied and muscles expired-
not have a single fucking thing to say to her and
have a stupid brainless chat before hanging up and walking
the mile and a half home
the only thing i think i learned from that job is
how to
purely and ignorantly
commune with many gods
morning lay oily and sheer on the surface of my
irrepressible cup
of bustelo like rainbows in car wash puddles rendering
Monets reflecting nailbiting customers
the car wash was a strange and exhaustive period
every morning I would suit up in coveralls and pick up
breakfast for the boys
Nick was an affable wiry italian crewcut who would
strangely and eagerly feed me cigarettes every day
i think we were the only smokers on staff and he was
convinced of developing a shameless bond based entirely on this fact
Looking genuinely happy to fund me with
weightless obligatory Parliaments
the other main guy was Maja
he was a Haitian guy who worked
harder than anyone else
i tried to shadow his confident movements
i didn't really know how to drive but
he taught me some quick maneuvers
and shared the basics of his scrappy quasi-religious philosophy
and i traded with him in the currency of english slang and
looked over his homework from business night school
every morning I would suit up in coveralls
except
when it rained
i became a true pluviophile
sharing a studio apartment with three other
hungover seekers at
5:45AM i was concocting strange
birdlike ritualistic dances winged by
the blanket i slept on the floor with
i would sing and crow and wake people up
make odd exclamations at the balcony
pray to my half-remembered jewish god or
any available and
yank at my hair
when it rained the carwash was a ghost town and
my fuckhead of a boss would wait for us to call in
equally happy to be told to stay home as he was
happy not to pay us shit for the day
some mornings the sky teased which only
produced a more intense
almost sexual display
invoking any and all unknown religious techniques and
promises and
some mornings the sky was pitilessly clear and
i hopelessly mumbled and murmured and eventually
just left
defeated to my long walk to Woodside
on a good day we barreled through 200 cars
primarily taxicabs
if the drivers were Jamaican there was a good chance
to save some decent roaches from the vacuum snake or
sometimes we'd pilfer the change we found if it
was a few bucks worth
we couldn't rely on tips because the fuckhead very
obviously curbed at least half of them
either him or the scumbag bastard who had
funded the enterprise and liked to kill time
there relaxing
fucking with us and
scrutinizing our work
one time he clipped me behind my knees with the
hood of a moving car almost
dropping me on my face on a post-inebriated
morning
i turned around and saw him laughing in
the driver's seat the
exact way a
fat useless piece of shit laughs when his day is spent
fussing over his little pet project and not doing any
work and i swore up and down i would get his number and
obviously never did
the only other thing of worth i remember was
driving a nice car onto the rails and hearing
one of the most horrible crackling sounds i had ever
heard
i had jammed the tire at an odd angle
which caused
the hub cap to press against the metal rail and
shattered the plastic metallic disc into a million
pieces all
sent skittering down the grating with the hose and
quick thinking
the fuckhead saw it but hid his shock from the customer who
was looking at a kiosk with those little airfreshening tree things
i could feel myself getting fired a spooked yet almost sweet and
gratifying moment but
fuckhead kept it together and waited carefully
the customer never noticed it and drove off with three
hubcaps and the fuckhead never mentioned it
it was one of the jobs where you learn to drink coffee
learn the hot smell of a set of sweaty coveralls that got
washed once a week
memorized the faces of junkyard dogs that crowed a welcome
daily
it was also one of the hardest jobs of my entire life
on that weird stretch of queens boulevard absent of all
life not compelled by no-tell motels or auto chop shops
coming home at 10PM it felt like the world had ended and
i would call my girlfriend from a payphone on the way down
the street and
-mind emptied and muscles expired-
not have a single fucking thing to say to her and
have a stupid brainless chat before hanging up and walking
the mile and a half home
the only thing i think i learned from that job is
how to
purely and ignorantly
commune with many gods
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
camera #2
tight long skirt folds in with
each metric step down bedford park wearing a
sharp curved short wig
a child scolded by his parent walking with
chin pressed hard against his chest and i'm
familiar with the move
a woman in what looks like an orange burka curled
asleep in the corner of the d train or maybe awake
hard to tell
two giggling girls duck under the turnstyles
when i was younger the tollbooth guy would loudspeaker that shit but
he stands there
staring but silent
bengal streetcat semiseriously chases pigeons in the korean church garden
drunk elderly man on a rolling walker sloths across a green light
1000 piles of dogshit in a neighborhood with 500 dogs and no oversight
kids in the recess yard throw trash over the black iron gates
the aftermath of a birthday party in mosholu park brings the smell
of ribs and the mild chuckling of beat parents
green apple core browning leans gangster on apartment stairs
pigeon rides the wind for three oblong loops before
settling down to eat deliberately placed uncooked rice
marked for death outside the liquor store
where single asian mother tickles her child before getting me a bottle of cheap rum
stage left an MTA employee buys a fifth of hennessy with no small subtle
snuffling insult to my meager pickings
daughter maybe 7 years old cries those heavy hallucinatory tears
into her father's stomach
he stands somewhat embarrassed watching the street
the tattooed shirtless hold court outside bronx tenements
smoking cigarettes and playing dominoes
cars briefly disturb the basketball game in the street
one of the kids slaps five with the old man in the passenger seat
each metric step down bedford park wearing a
sharp curved short wig
a child scolded by his parent walking with
chin pressed hard against his chest and i'm
familiar with the move
a woman in what looks like an orange burka curled
asleep in the corner of the d train or maybe awake
hard to tell
two giggling girls duck under the turnstyles
when i was younger the tollbooth guy would loudspeaker that shit but
he stands there
staring but silent
bengal streetcat semiseriously chases pigeons in the korean church garden
drunk elderly man on a rolling walker sloths across a green light
1000 piles of dogshit in a neighborhood with 500 dogs and no oversight
kids in the recess yard throw trash over the black iron gates
the aftermath of a birthday party in mosholu park brings the smell
of ribs and the mild chuckling of beat parents
green apple core browning leans gangster on apartment stairs
pigeon rides the wind for three oblong loops before
settling down to eat deliberately placed uncooked rice
marked for death outside the liquor store
where single asian mother tickles her child before getting me a bottle of cheap rum
stage left an MTA employee buys a fifth of hennessy with no small subtle
snuffling insult to my meager pickings
daughter maybe 7 years old cries those heavy hallucinatory tears
into her father's stomach
he stands somewhat embarrassed watching the street
the tattooed shirtless hold court outside bronx tenements
smoking cigarettes and playing dominoes
cars briefly disturb the basketball game in the street
one of the kids slaps five with the old man in the passenger seat
Monday, August 22, 2011
books
literature haul at the corner
of 28th and park
a grinning bus driver residing lordly
over a bag of bizarre scripts and
books in a recycling bag
i pore over this literary detritus
and obsolete tech
Angels In America book 2
a pinkback copy of Quills and
Glengarry Glen Ross next to
some Eugene O'Neill hardcovers
which i save from trash like some
slighted child
of 28th and park
a grinning bus driver residing lordly
over a bag of bizarre scripts and
books in a recycling bag
i pore over this literary detritus
and obsolete tech
Angels In America book 2
a pinkback copy of Quills and
Glengarry Glen Ross next to
some Eugene O'Neill hardcovers
which i save from trash like some
slighted child
gotdammit close those windows!
every time I walk by this wall on the way to work I wonder when we're gonna have a dedicated irl popup-blocker
Sunday, August 21, 2011
i'm here / i'm not here
in the stark outlines where
confidence bristled against dream against
faint phantom freight train adolescent knowitall
guru drugfueled mantra resonator confrontation mind
melter fuckhead i am
playing kick the can alongside coloring book designs
thinking to paint past the curb drinking paint drips
drunk on emotional alloys and intercontinental drift
subsumed in deep sediment
atomic clock shift
the seconds hand secondhand
thrift store timekeeper
and i can't summarize a life lesson when
the life lived feels epic format
drumming fingers on the unused dryer
philosopher in the laundromat
wet with time to spare
clothes tumble like emotional totem scraps
feeling like quarters out of an owned machine
an old machine functioning simply off the
scrape for green future possibilities
i'm inability calling itself maturity
lurid when the time permits
fluid as an iceberg
nearing evolutionary city limits
smashing through the hudson i've
arrived i thrive photosynthetic like
alaskan wildflowers wavering in an
endless sun
and maybe this clumsy growth has just begun
splitting poetry libation into its
common parts a marathon runner intoxicated
on the blurry scenes i pass by or
develop a path by
and fifteen years of composition notebook autobiography
is its own laughing adolescence and
on a mission of purification i'm
sussing out the essence
confidence bristled against dream against
faint phantom freight train adolescent knowitall
guru drugfueled mantra resonator confrontation mind
melter fuckhead i am
playing kick the can alongside coloring book designs
thinking to paint past the curb drinking paint drips
drunk on emotional alloys and intercontinental drift
subsumed in deep sediment
atomic clock shift
the seconds hand secondhand
thrift store timekeeper
and i can't summarize a life lesson when
the life lived feels epic format
drumming fingers on the unused dryer
philosopher in the laundromat
wet with time to spare
clothes tumble like emotional totem scraps
feeling like quarters out of an owned machine
an old machine functioning simply off the
scrape for green future possibilities
i'm inability calling itself maturity
lurid when the time permits
fluid as an iceberg
nearing evolutionary city limits
smashing through the hudson i've
arrived i thrive photosynthetic like
alaskan wildflowers wavering in an
endless sun
and maybe this clumsy growth has just begun
splitting poetry libation into its
common parts a marathon runner intoxicated
on the blurry scenes i pass by or
develop a path by
and fifteen years of composition notebook autobiography
is its own laughing adolescence and
on a mission of purification i'm
sussing out the essence
algebra
past lexington where they sell
couches for the beautiful people 20
yards away at Park ave near 11 identical
faux-gourmet delis and the
7 or so Halal trucks so close they could
wave to one another a stone's throw from mickeydee's and
madison housing the smell of charcoal
chicken skewers wafting almost delicate through 90
hairstyles and patterned identification pirouettes painted
on 36 casually insecure women commanding salon identities with
each concrete saunter invitation to 10 unashamed stares emanating
from couriers confident suits and starbucking lifers walking on
5th ave without thinking about walking on 5th ave i steal 5
minutes for an unpaid cigarette musing luck under 2 ladders
beneath infinite immortal indiscriminate scaffolding carcasses for the
endless construction of ceaseless manhattan material in the
shadow of el loco junkman pushing his daily scrap cart nodding
proudly at 3 doormen and clouds tease rain above 9 office monkeys dreaming
the same lottery comfort food fantasy and 1 minute to go i am
trying to inhale something permanent in a city that is always
changing and breathing
years
out i am trying to exhale something
transitive and inhaling unadulterated flatiron air i am
trying to do the
math
couches for the beautiful people 20
yards away at Park ave near 11 identical
faux-gourmet delis and the
7 or so Halal trucks so close they could
wave to one another a stone's throw from mickeydee's and
madison housing the smell of charcoal
chicken skewers wafting almost delicate through 90
hairstyles and patterned identification pirouettes painted
on 36 casually insecure women commanding salon identities with
each concrete saunter invitation to 10 unashamed stares emanating
from couriers confident suits and starbucking lifers walking on
5th ave without thinking about walking on 5th ave i steal 5
minutes for an unpaid cigarette musing luck under 2 ladders
beneath infinite immortal indiscriminate scaffolding carcasses for the
endless construction of ceaseless manhattan material in the
shadow of el loco junkman pushing his daily scrap cart nodding
proudly at 3 doormen and clouds tease rain above 9 office monkeys dreaming
the same lottery comfort food fantasy and 1 minute to go i am
trying to inhale something permanent in a city that is always
changing and breathing
years
out i am trying to exhale something
transitive and inhaling unadulterated flatiron air i am
trying to do the
math
Thursday, August 18, 2011
tide is high
diggin that
rocksteady
from jamaica
pure
and most
music is a faker
that's foolin your
cure
thinkin bout the sounds
of John Holt
the paragon voice
sweet like a sugar
thunderbolt
we carry on
lost in mixed elements
but the chunky guitar got my
fix like burroughs and
Griffiths singing bout the
sorrows in the ghetto straits while
the world shudders missing
Lynn Taitt
the heavyweight sound
with a feather stroke
it was never lackluster
when Kwesi spoke
bumpin Prince Buster
and misstepper modern pop hits don't pass muster
trust the
musty vinyl
sweatin island into trojan
miles of the unheard
exploding
i dust off a 45
hits me in the forehead
even mp3s leavin more dead
than Judge Dread on the radio charts
Alton Ellis arts speakin peace
from stages above cultural
rage til old age
dusty pages from LPs
tell a story of lost
misprints and out-of-print
allegories
but the curl of an upward strum
will save you
keep your dancin shoes drummin and
hum bravely
head nodding
babylon is here
it's broad and bright-eyed
we rearrange and strive
and somehow
we
never
arrive
rocksteady
from jamaica
pure
and most
music is a faker
that's foolin your
cure
thinkin bout the sounds
of John Holt
the paragon voice
sweet like a sugar
thunderbolt
we carry on
lost in mixed elements
but the chunky guitar got my
fix like burroughs and
Griffiths singing bout the
sorrows in the ghetto straits while
the world shudders missing
Lynn Taitt
the heavyweight sound
with a feather stroke
it was never lackluster
when Kwesi spoke
bumpin Prince Buster
and misstepper modern pop hits don't pass muster
trust the
musty vinyl
sweatin island into trojan
miles of the unheard
exploding
i dust off a 45
hits me in the forehead
even mp3s leavin more dead
than Judge Dread on the radio charts
Alton Ellis arts speakin peace
from stages above cultural
rage til old age
dusty pages from LPs
tell a story of lost
misprints and out-of-print
allegories
but the curl of an upward strum
will save you
keep your dancin shoes drummin and
hum bravely
head nodding
babylon is here
it's broad and bright-eyed
we rearrange and strive
and somehow
we
never
arrive
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
sweaty dancer
soaped and moving matter the
music of disgusting food scraps mixed with
poison and the illusions of hot water
blasted against metal like a
dislodged scream escaping down
the drain
collate the hours spent staring at
porcelain transforming and remaining and
collecting shitty soapspecked boombox in
the corner spitting distraction at half-
eaten sandwiches and pancake inkblots tucked
in stainless steel corners while 6
bucks a fucking hour bleed like
the sweat down a sleepless neck
*
these days i push paper for quite a bit
more but drift on the slow
minutes expand and extend and
manicure each careful second distinguished like a
work of acutely belabored sculpture and
i'm good on the phone i
wear weird masks and
strangers on the other
line think i'm one of them and
tally my sweet voice and can't
tell that i'm just another
sucker
music of disgusting food scraps mixed with
poison and the illusions of hot water
blasted against metal like a
dislodged scream escaping down
the drain
collate the hours spent staring at
porcelain transforming and remaining and
collecting shitty soapspecked boombox in
the corner spitting distraction at half-
eaten sandwiches and pancake inkblots tucked
in stainless steel corners while 6
bucks a fucking hour bleed like
the sweat down a sleepless neck
*
these days i push paper for quite a bit
more but drift on the slow
minutes expand and extend and
manicure each careful second distinguished like a
work of acutely belabored sculpture and
i'm good on the phone i
wear weird masks and
strangers on the other
line think i'm one of them and
tally my sweet voice and can't
tell that i'm just another
sucker
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
screwmug
reflex effect
brows clenched with 30 years of wrinkle i'm
angry or focused
possessed by insecurity or too
secure
defensive against the world
innocuously fucking with the populace in
quick
steps i
gather momentum against
the rush of walksign careful half-steppers draggin
kids macy's bags and man-purses against newyorker
nonstop get-there disease
manhattanhenge on my back grab
a free strawberry smoothie sample on
5th ave glidin in one
smooth motion carryin
comicbooks and flashed memories of too-cool asian sunglassed
skirtlegs outside
the k-town radisson sippin on a bubbletea
thoughtfully
drumbeat b-bap emerald veggie dumplings at
Mandoo round the church on
29th by the masterful dude tooling xboxes by the
halal joint where 1pm finds a crowd of 200 tourguides prone to Allah
soft-shoeing round transvestite towncrier flyerers pacing
er ummm i'm
dumbfounded but keepin brows clenched
like fists disjointed round stalled cabs vomiting
no-schedule professionals against gumtacked sidewalks round
scaffolding and badluck ladders i'm a cup of coffee round
the ace hotel under sunshower and british accents i
vent hostility
in: shitty workweek
out: lovin the wander and
just
chill
can't quit the cigs i need
smokebreaks to think
illnesses harmless
leak
out of fingers like filtering the beautiful
linger-philosophy when a million motherfuckers
stress about apostrophes & ownership i'm a distant character and
these moments are
theosophy
brows clenched with 30 years of wrinkle i'm
angry or focused
possessed by insecurity or too
secure
defensive against the world
innocuously fucking with the populace in
quick
steps i
gather momentum against
the rush of walksign careful half-steppers draggin
kids macy's bags and man-purses against newyorker
nonstop get-there disease
manhattanhenge on my back grab
a free strawberry smoothie sample on
5th ave glidin in one
smooth motion carryin
comicbooks and flashed memories of too-cool asian sunglassed
skirtlegs outside
the k-town radisson sippin on a bubbletea
thoughtfully
drumbeat b-bap emerald veggie dumplings at
Mandoo round the church on
29th by the masterful dude tooling xboxes by the
halal joint where 1pm finds a crowd of 200 tourguides prone to Allah
soft-shoeing round transvestite towncrier flyerers pacing
er ummm i'm
dumbfounded but keepin brows clenched
like fists disjointed round stalled cabs vomiting
no-schedule professionals against gumtacked sidewalks round
scaffolding and badluck ladders i'm a cup of coffee round
the ace hotel under sunshower and british accents i
vent hostility
in: shitty workweek
out: lovin the wander and
just
chill
can't quit the cigs i need
smokebreaks to think
illnesses harmless
leak
out of fingers like filtering the beautiful
linger-philosophy when a million motherfuckers
stress about apostrophes & ownership i'm a distant character and
these moments are
theosophy
Sunday, August 14, 2011
hereditary
easing down to think staggered by
a slope of pills and budget alcohol as
witness to what next
in the seventy degrees of summer evening when
the car alarms gather an unsynced symphony beneath fireworks smashed
glass anger and the ten thousand lonely Bronx hearts wired
to searching for hours into the dawn
balancing a whiskey into my throat wielding all
the colors of surrender the evolved form of
dignity with a chemical aftertaste
these are grasps gropes scrambles and
affected reachings to some
central and real guiding molecule hypo-
thalmus hypoglycemic hypnotic calming in the
blood like a soft hand soothes like a flush
of vasopressin it
creeps into the mood
a slope of pills and budget alcohol as
witness to what next
in the seventy degrees of summer evening when
the car alarms gather an unsynced symphony beneath fireworks smashed
glass anger and the ten thousand lonely Bronx hearts wired
to searching for hours into the dawn
balancing a whiskey into my throat wielding all
the colors of surrender the evolved form of
dignity with a chemical aftertaste
these are grasps gropes scrambles and
affected reachings to some
central and real guiding molecule hypo-
thalmus hypoglycemic hypnotic calming in the
blood like a soft hand soothes like a flush
of vasopressin it
creeps into the mood
Friday, August 12, 2011
shiva
shifting on well worn
concrete loops these jagged
paths of practiced instinct
honed, really
interrupted by
the shadow of an irrepressible bastard and it is
cyclical the way all torrents of sin rain down and
become like a flag unto death and
why not
shirk the shell for the
visitable scrutiny of the strained grasping evinced by
selfish youth handjob stranded in the murk of maturity like a stain and
then in strange moments of peace it is
as if through soft repetition the world opens and
decency drifts out and an impressive series of lies & fuckups isn't the
long grift of gray dangling in the backdrop a self-
composed religion of bad decision compost bedding down
new growths and tomorrow is actually stunning mathematics and
infinity and
gold-hued comfort and
stable chemistry many-handed and both
concepts
are really all there is to grasp at and
all i deserve
concrete loops these jagged
paths of practiced instinct
honed, really
interrupted by
the shadow of an irrepressible bastard and it is
cyclical the way all torrents of sin rain down and
become like a flag unto death and
why not
shirk the shell for the
visitable scrutiny of the strained grasping evinced by
selfish youth handjob stranded in the murk of maturity like a stain and
then in strange moments of peace it is
as if through soft repetition the world opens and
decency drifts out and an impressive series of lies & fuckups isn't the
long grift of gray dangling in the backdrop a self-
composed religion of bad decision compost bedding down
new growths and tomorrow is actually stunning mathematics and
infinity and
gold-hued comfort and
stable chemistry many-handed and both
concepts
are really all there is to grasp at and
all i deserve
Monday, August 8, 2011
stormchaser
the season melts to a crawl like a
good book and i meander in the
footnotes
in the summer of language
in the clutch of warm throats
words spread spring and unease
speaking lewd colors
unable to draw near
distanced by
stumbles dares me closer to
silence when the daylight
leans hinting of a portal
in time where a warm night shuffles
bold reso- & revo- & convo-
lutions luscious in the
graceful outlines where
you might ask me to remain
minutes beg for hours and time
snakes hungrily for more moments more
real feeling more elaborate confirmation that
this is the path of the bled discordant
struggling mad souls suffering slow
dull paycheck death and enacting
intimate skirmishes we are
counting the days
good book and i meander in the
footnotes
in the summer of language
in the clutch of warm throats
words spread spring and unease
speaking lewd colors
unable to draw near
distanced by
stumbles dares me closer to
silence when the daylight
leans hinting of a portal
in time where a warm night shuffles
bold reso- & revo- & convo-
lutions luscious in the
graceful outlines where
you might ask me to remain
minutes beg for hours and time
snakes hungrily for more moments more
real feeling more elaborate confirmation that
this is the path of the bled discordant
struggling mad souls suffering slow
dull paycheck death and enacting
intimate skirmishes we are
counting the days
Sunday, August 7, 2011
silver
london burns and other cliched headlines mark
the death of a young Mark Duggan and
resting in peace is obviously not
in the cards so across the water
we refresh news sites and
watch for riot footage the way
we always wait for changes and
weird smells in the wind what
we
do
know
is
he thought the feds were following
he was strapped and on his way home
he was slaughtered with the H&K MP5 and
it
is
all
happen
-ing
again
and
people loot because they are robbed and
communities rooted in forgotten soil reap
screaming ghosts in the afterglow and the
cops wait until they are unafraid and experience
leaks the resolve into twisting hands and the
sidewalks will always
grow dangerous
and always grow hazardous
burning blooms
the family hasn't seen him yet
the death of a young Mark Duggan and
resting in peace is obviously not
in the cards so across the water
we refresh news sites and
watch for riot footage the way
we always wait for changes and
weird smells in the wind what
we
do
know
is
he thought the feds were following
he was strapped and on his way home
he was slaughtered with the H&K MP5 and
it
is
all
happen
-ing
again
and
people loot because they are robbed and
communities rooted in forgotten soil reap
screaming ghosts in the afterglow and the
cops wait until they are unafraid and experience
leaks the resolve into twisting hands and the
sidewalks will always
grow dangerous
and always grow hazardous
burning blooms
the family hasn't seen him yet
lapser
at 10am it's hard to muster
sensibility in the
face of injury
and in the doorways of this
scramble to sensibility from
dulled inoperative
anesthesia hands
test the air for rain
making sloped
sensitive
movements in the humidity and
hover
waiting
in a cold private moment a
sweetly drawn agreement
becomes a heady
compromise and
dances with Shakti a
gathered moment feels
like rain a
young oath expires
ravaged at the
tide of
a strange smile
sensibility in the
face of injury
and in the doorways of this
scramble to sensibility from
dulled inoperative
anesthesia hands
test the air for rain
making sloped
sensitive
movements in the humidity and
hover
waiting
in a cold private moment a
sweetly drawn agreement
becomes a heady
compromise and
dances with Shakti a
gathered moment feels
like rain a
young oath expires
ravaged at the
tide of
a strange smile
Saturday, August 6, 2011
it's a free country
on some days there are
the daggereyed
the impatient creatures
waiting for equipment and moving
benches around molesting grinning
trainers and stank-ass accomplices run eager trains
on pullup bar fonts and spend fifteen minutes or
more on flavor of the month ab machines or grunters lift
right at the barbell stand leaving crumbtrails
of dropped dumbbells or the
encircling characters mortgaging the chest press and
it's right there stuck in my headphone universe
dodging the pulldown cult and draping
a towel over my shoulder polite and
secure and
insecure dodging the bolder strident fucks
and fuck you
charging out of the locker room and fuck your
weight dropping and fuck your
friday night genetics and get the
fuck
out of my way
the daggereyed
the impatient creatures
waiting for equipment and moving
benches around molesting grinning
trainers and stank-ass accomplices run eager trains
on pullup bar fonts and spend fifteen minutes or
more on flavor of the month ab machines or grunters lift
right at the barbell stand leaving crumbtrails
of dropped dumbbells or the
encircling characters mortgaging the chest press and
it's right there stuck in my headphone universe
dodging the pulldown cult and draping
a towel over my shoulder polite and
secure and
insecure dodging the bolder strident fucks
and fuck you
charging out of the locker room and fuck your
weight dropping and fuck your
friday night genetics and get the
fuck
out of my way
Friday, August 5, 2011
quietly
sometimes it is as if and
never and later on always and
in the secret heart down the
bannister of sloppy ideals in
rare hours of bravery it is as
if it used to be and maybe
in a little while longer it is
self-composed and then in the
minutes or years that follow it is
as a cruel shadow some
fragment of a whole and
while it compels it is
complete and then it is
shattered and sometimes
it is as if it was
always
silent
never and later on always and
in the secret heart down the
bannister of sloppy ideals in
rare hours of bravery it is as
if it used to be and maybe
in a little while longer it is
self-composed and then in the
minutes or years that follow it is
as a cruel shadow some
fragment of a whole and
while it compels it is
complete and then it is
shattered and sometimes
it is as if it was
always
silent
Thursday, August 4, 2011
stray
dust particles make it hard to make it out
the lopsided memories the
leopards recycle paradise
the recall is a recital of lost years and we -
paralyzed by self-projected miracles &
tricky distances -
recline mockingly suave, coolly surveying these disguises
in the ten eyeblinks when we are
absentmindedly rearranging
personal elements like a
favorite writing desk or a
bingo table or a
love letter we find
excuses to undo the foundations and
cruelly deconstruct
the fossils of old flames until we are
writing
new
stories and encounters as if
to do so was akin to being an organized person as if
to not do so was akin to being an organized person and
far past the horizon on chilly bored evenings the strays collect with
thumbs sticking out of pockets
murmuring like spent machines maybe
walking their dog or an old bad habit
bumping into their equals like tokens on a board
aging and bearing pained expressions and
scuttling their ambitions into the moonlit grass
i remember pages
warm from multiple reads
and pink-night sky and streetlights and
bagels at 3 in the morning and
freezing early hours and the infinite tongue of a life endlessly
extending almost
boring in its length and
looking for engravings or mottled signatures anywhere to mark my
passing by the moored ghosts of others and finding microscopic
traces that could have as easily been mirages or even my
own stimulated handprints and in their presence feeling
some stupid fulfillment or amusement
it moves so timidly slowly now and yet strangely brutally
emotionally beautifully and the insecurities die so frequently in the
next daylight the ones that were felt so deeply they defined every
motion now cringe into pockets of understanding like
crickets under leaves and
populate who i find myself as and with
what hands and poisons i
draw the
rest
to
view
the lopsided memories the
leopards recycle paradise
the recall is a recital of lost years and we -
paralyzed by self-projected miracles &
tricky distances -
recline mockingly suave, coolly surveying these disguises
in the ten eyeblinks when we are
absentmindedly rearranging
personal elements like a
favorite writing desk or a
bingo table or a
love letter we find
excuses to undo the foundations and
cruelly deconstruct
the fossils of old flames until we are
writing
new
stories and encounters as if
to do so was akin to being an organized person as if
to not do so was akin to being an organized person and
far past the horizon on chilly bored evenings the strays collect with
thumbs sticking out of pockets
murmuring like spent machines maybe
walking their dog or an old bad habit
bumping into their equals like tokens on a board
aging and bearing pained expressions and
scuttling their ambitions into the moonlit grass
i remember pages
warm from multiple reads
and pink-night sky and streetlights and
bagels at 3 in the morning and
freezing early hours and the infinite tongue of a life endlessly
extending almost
boring in its length and
looking for engravings or mottled signatures anywhere to mark my
passing by the moored ghosts of others and finding microscopic
traces that could have as easily been mirages or even my
own stimulated handprints and in their presence feeling
some stupid fulfillment or amusement
it moves so timidly slowly now and yet strangely brutally
emotionally beautifully and the insecurities die so frequently in the
next daylight the ones that were felt so deeply they defined every
motion now cringe into pockets of understanding like
crickets under leaves and
populate who i find myself as and with
what hands and poisons i
draw the
rest
to
view
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
rumble
strands of perspective melt around the sunrise and we
wake like reporters, journalists of
war, riders of the bad weather thinking
it's a good day to
dice rolling cross the street in manhattan when
i retrace my steps to the the daily duress and i
humm to myself appearing cheerful but
it's surgical distraction from the bad
songs fucking with
you share victories
minutes outside the cafe
curls of smoke punctuating what amounts to escape
returning to the cyclical cache
no drama but the ones that
separating molecules of time in a rented hole
bartering curious misery
envies cascade like clumsy chess moves and
pondering the patterns why not just
walking with chaos she's got
tight jeans serene voice wavers when
it's haunting your dreams
over too quick rocking the visine
an obvious scene but you
wake like reporters, journalists of
war, riders of the bad weather thinking
it's a good day to
dice rolling cross the street in manhattan when
i retrace my steps to the the daily duress and i
humm to myself appearing cheerful but
it's surgical distraction from the bad
songs fucking with
you share victories
minutes outside the cafe
curls of smoke punctuating what amounts to escape
returning to the cyclical cache
no drama but the ones that
separating molecules of time in a rented hole
bartering curious misery
envies cascade like clumsy chess moves and
pondering the patterns why not just
walking with chaos she's got
tight jeans serene voice wavers when
it's haunting your dreams
over too quick rocking the visine
an obvious scene but you
Monday, August 1, 2011
the same sky
in the rumble cold in conditioned air on summer days as a lost mincing
soul breath staggering half-clenched breath scrap by scrap is how
a creative kid dies not
fucked sweet or
hells ride
bludgeoned expression or
wicked knowing smile or
drunk on visions or
sacrificed for ideals or even
back to the wall but
so engaged to a well of endless days he can
drift on paid somnambulism and aggravate an empire
of brutally indulgent fantasies in the ticks between a
document load
was never a big dreamer after all just
a malfunctioning bad luck spigot trying
to splash past the low enthusiasm
convincing the former dedicated
middle finger thrust to stick around and make good on teenage threats
these were strange weapons back in those struggling years
of unthinking immaculate genius when almost
nothing was understood
this is a theft of years
soul breath staggering half-clenched breath scrap by scrap is how
a creative kid dies not
fucked sweet or
hells ride
bludgeoned expression or
wicked knowing smile or
drunk on visions or
sacrificed for ideals or even
back to the wall but
so engaged to a well of endless days he can
drift on paid somnambulism and aggravate an empire
of brutally indulgent fantasies in the ticks between a
document load
was never a big dreamer after all just
a malfunctioning bad luck spigot trying
to splash past the low enthusiasm
convincing the former dedicated
middle finger thrust to stick around and make good on teenage threats
these were strange weapons back in those struggling years
of unthinking immaculate genius when almost
nothing was understood
this is a theft of years
Sunday, July 31, 2011
manos sucios
Dirty Hands: the art & crimes of david choe. Many years in the waiting.
Maybe you don't know Dave. It's cool, it's not a hipster thing. I've been staring at his drawings, his paintings, his spray can shenanigans, his gta:sa photos, his toys, his t-shirts, his comix, his pervy pics, his Thumbs Up!, his cooler-than-thou snapshots, his corny haircuts, his video escapades, his unnervingly shoulder-shrugging family, his excellent blog and his food for about 10 years.
My grandmother is cooler than your grandmother, and my uncle has always used a great expression to describe her: "she's an institution." I can't think of higher praise for Dave, or a more phitting frase. The motherfucker is a force of nature. Emotional, high-strung, powerfully talented, bullshitless, sand-line-drawer extraordinaire, self-deprecating (self-defecating), perverted saint brainfucker and at a loss for testicular storage. Motherfucker is running out of space and will probably be renting a garage in LA somewhere to store the better part of his left nut and the fucker's a growing boy.
Maybe you don't know Dave. I didn't think I knew him. Slow Jams remains a truly mesmerizing text that no one gets to read (you ain't gettin my copy motherfucker), lovely and chaotic and grotesque, the kind of comic that doesn't come around too often. If you're crafty you'll catch his other sequential art bits and scraps, here & there, in books only nerds know about but that'll fetch a premium on Amazon for his errant pages. The guy can write and I've always said this. That asshole bouncer that works extra hours in your brain and stops you from writing & saying your most honest & ignorant shit has always been on his take and is not to be trusted. Pure id meringue, baked fresh, deposited in serial-killer lettering, accompanying scrawled vaginas and darkly poignant facial features. Porno for pyromaniacs. His pages want the city the burn.
I don't know Dave. I've met him a few times and all I can do to describe him is say that this perpetual high-school stairwell-dweller is genuinely charming, generous, lovely and grateful. He's a bonafide drug addict except his tangled inner cables never led him to intoxicants like the rest of us suckers; rather than fill himself with chemicals he excretes them boldly, covering the world in evocative dream-imagery, machine gunning cum blasts til the krylon's cashed...then coming back the next day to fill in missed details or draw stick figure orgies in the blank spaces between sneaker treads. I think his output is some of the most rewarding artwork of the past two decades, it draws me in and insults me and inspires.
The film Dirty Hands is done in the dirty style, the Choe style, the whole thing is completely uneven, cut with dull scissors and chock full of tidbits for the fans. I've been waiting for this DVD for years and I will admit right off the bat that I knew it was going to fail my expectations. I don't even know what I wanted from it. Coming off a recent read-through of the hardcover art book he released I found quite a bit of crossover but, on that note, you kinda wish there was more of a scoop in here.
It completely disregards a lot of documentary rules, although it does do its best to stick to some kind of timeline. You get about 10 years of Dave with startlingly enormous holes of time that are never interrogated, a few talking heads (including Dave's dad which is one of the more surprising inclusions), a lot of talk about his girlfriend (is she even still around?), some miniscule lip-service from his contemporaries (I actually love hearing his buddies weigh in on him and would've loved even more of it), but best of all you get an assload of Dave just shooting the EVERLOVIN shit. Dave talks the camera's mic to death and there's nothing to complain about there, Harry just lets him fire off and the attentive fan will find something in there worth the price of admission. If you're anything like me, you've been training your inner voice to sound like him and push you towards your dreams, so it's good to add more audio to the database.
Overall I don't think the movie's great. I can't help it. I set it up for failure years ago when it still didn't come out, and I have no idea what the film could've delivered to conquer that. If you're a fan you'll have seen quite a bit of this footage already but there were definitely snackables that were new to me. I can't for the life of me imagine someone going into this cold, they'd probably come out with a very different experience than I had. I can't watch it that way cuz I know who these krazy korean kids are.
Telling those who know Choe to watch this is like telling a cokehead to cut a fatter line - have faith that they'll take all they can get away with. That being said, Harry DOES deliver the goods, they're past the expiration date but remain just as nutritious.
I know Dave: he's that arty truant who couldn't get laid and collects action figures, right?
now go read Slow Jams already. And if you have Son of Slow Jams I fucking hate you.
Maybe you don't know Dave. It's cool, it's not a hipster thing. I've been staring at his drawings, his paintings, his spray can shenanigans, his gta:sa photos, his toys, his t-shirts, his comix, his pervy pics, his Thumbs Up!, his cooler-than-thou snapshots, his corny haircuts, his video escapades, his unnervingly shoulder-shrugging family, his excellent blog and his food for about 10 years.
My grandmother is cooler than your grandmother, and my uncle has always used a great expression to describe her: "she's an institution." I can't think of higher praise for Dave, or a more phitting frase. The motherfucker is a force of nature. Emotional, high-strung, powerfully talented, bullshitless, sand-line-drawer extraordinaire, self-deprecating (self-defecating), perverted saint brainfucker and at a loss for testicular storage. Motherfucker is running out of space and will probably be renting a garage in LA somewhere to store the better part of his left nut and the fucker's a growing boy.
Maybe you don't know Dave. I didn't think I knew him. Slow Jams remains a truly mesmerizing text that no one gets to read (you ain't gettin my copy motherfucker), lovely and chaotic and grotesque, the kind of comic that doesn't come around too often. If you're crafty you'll catch his other sequential art bits and scraps, here & there, in books only nerds know about but that'll fetch a premium on Amazon for his errant pages. The guy can write and I've always said this. That asshole bouncer that works extra hours in your brain and stops you from writing & saying your most honest & ignorant shit has always been on his take and is not to be trusted. Pure id meringue, baked fresh, deposited in serial-killer lettering, accompanying scrawled vaginas and darkly poignant facial features. Porno for pyromaniacs. His pages want the city the burn.
I don't know Dave. I've met him a few times and all I can do to describe him is say that this perpetual high-school stairwell-dweller is genuinely charming, generous, lovely and grateful. He's a bonafide drug addict except his tangled inner cables never led him to intoxicants like the rest of us suckers; rather than fill himself with chemicals he excretes them boldly, covering the world in evocative dream-imagery, machine gunning cum blasts til the krylon's cashed...then coming back the next day to fill in missed details or draw stick figure orgies in the blank spaces between sneaker treads. I think his output is some of the most rewarding artwork of the past two decades, it draws me in and insults me and inspires.
The film Dirty Hands is done in the dirty style, the Choe style, the whole thing is completely uneven, cut with dull scissors and chock full of tidbits for the fans. I've been waiting for this DVD for years and I will admit right off the bat that I knew it was going to fail my expectations. I don't even know what I wanted from it. Coming off a recent read-through of the hardcover art book he released I found quite a bit of crossover but, on that note, you kinda wish there was more of a scoop in here.
It completely disregards a lot of documentary rules, although it does do its best to stick to some kind of timeline. You get about 10 years of Dave with startlingly enormous holes of time that are never interrogated, a few talking heads (including Dave's dad which is one of the more surprising inclusions), a lot of talk about his girlfriend (is she even still around?), some miniscule lip-service from his contemporaries (I actually love hearing his buddies weigh in on him and would've loved even more of it), but best of all you get an assload of Dave just shooting the EVERLOVIN shit. Dave talks the camera's mic to death and there's nothing to complain about there, Harry just lets him fire off and the attentive fan will find something in there worth the price of admission. If you're anything like me, you've been training your inner voice to sound like him and push you towards your dreams, so it's good to add more audio to the database.
Overall I don't think the movie's great. I can't help it. I set it up for failure years ago when it still didn't come out, and I have no idea what the film could've delivered to conquer that. If you're a fan you'll have seen quite a bit of this footage already but there were definitely snackables that were new to me. I can't for the life of me imagine someone going into this cold, they'd probably come out with a very different experience than I had. I can't watch it that way cuz I know who these krazy korean kids are.
Telling those who know Choe to watch this is like telling a cokehead to cut a fatter line - have faith that they'll take all they can get away with. That being said, Harry DOES deliver the goods, they're past the expiration date but remain just as nutritious.
I know Dave: he's that arty truant who couldn't get laid and collects action figures, right?
now go read Slow Jams already. And if you have Son of Slow Jams I fucking hate you.
Saturday, July 30, 2011
yahoo mail's spam advertisement says: "find the one who makes the world go away"
that's really it in a nutshell.
I think the line is beautiful, and I don't know what Lithuanian spambot came up with it but I guess a hundred chimpanzees, typewriters, shakespeare, etc.
I think the line is beautiful, and I don't know what Lithuanian spambot came up with it but I guess a hundred chimpanzees, typewriters, shakespeare, etc.
Tokyo Drift
Helping some coworkers move an usual piece of gym equipment for some much-needed scrilla the other day. We make final adjustments, squaring the circle as we route the infuriatingly heavy device through the geometry of their Connecticut basement. Triumphant is a good word for the minutes that followed. Standing there, completely out of breath, every muscle screaming, I notice a small book on a shelf of primarily medical texts. Tokyo Vice by Jake Adelstein.
I had heard of this book. I played through Yakuza 3 on the PS3 almost entirely with my girlfriend. It's highly unusual for her to become absorbed in my game hours, but when the recognizable fanfare of the title screen would come on she would absentmindedly find herself in the room, appreciating the story, really jazzed about each plot point. She loved Mazima in particular, oddly. Whenever he would pop out she would cheer, and some later plot developments involving his assistance to Kaz incited joyful applause. Again, this is weird for her.
Anyway, the point is, I was browsing some info on the game online after completing it and stumbled onto this:
http://boingboing.net/2010/08/10/yakuza-3-review.html
Some odd gaijin dude playing Yakuza 3 with actual Yakuza.
I'll admit, the first thing that jumped to mind reading this was it sounded like some bullshit (but entertaining) gonzo journalism stuff. Something to slide in next to Vice's Dos & Don'ts. The idea of it seemed insulting, but I thought the Yakuza actually provided some excellent, insightful yet meager commentary. Then I started to read about this book he wrote.
So this was like 6 months ago. Here the book is staring me in the face. I ask the couple to borrow it.
*nodding on nonfiction*
I don't read a lot of nonfiction. I don't have an excellent reason for that aside from this: I think fiction brings more truth to bear than non-fiction. I think One Hundred Years of Solitude, Pedro Paramo, and Osamu Dazai's best known work tell more truth about the world, its people and their authors than a biography or a thoroughly researched travel guide. Memoirs can be fascinating, history is of special interest to me, and academic essay-type shit can actually be engrossing if confidently/competently written.
Of late I've been absorbed into nonfiction for no good reason. I didn't feel like I've been hunting these books out, but almost everything I've recently ingested has been non-fiction(y). Aside from comics and whatnot, my shoulders have been bearing the weight of Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus, Herodotus' Histories, The Autobiography of a Cro-Magnon by John Joseph and now Tokyo Vice. The first was mindmelting and certainly entertaining in its way (my third attempt at reading it but I finished it this time), the second is, well, the foundation of writing I think, and the third is an assortment of some hellish & humorous war stories that is really dragging as Joseph encounters his developing Krishna faith.
Tokyo Vice was enthralling and exhausting.
The book is really all over the map, but in the very best way. There's something frantic to the whole tale, Adelstein's years as an outsider skillfully & clumsily (& luckily) mapping his path through the Japanese criminal underground, eventually emerging as an insider, as a real reporter, and beyond. The book is crafted around many, many years of this unusual man's life and the length of time bleeds on each page. I feel like he must have lost YEARS of time pursuing various scoops and leads to stories he doesn't even mention a whisper of. Maybe they weren't worth telling, or just aren't worth telling now?
He attempts to plant structure on this tale but the proposition seems absurd...I'm saying again this is over a DECADE of professional life condensed into 330 pages. David Simon & Ed Burns wrote their massive text The Corner on 2 years of life in a drug market, and it was a richly rewarding read. Adelstein, instead, fraught with what must be bloodily scarred elbows grated against some of Japan's most predatory scumfuck population (not really talking about the johns and marks so much...Adelstein even comments that their scramble for purchased sexual contact may be symptomatic of their sadly commonplace emotional isolation), takes an extremely broad brush to the canvas, at least until he spirals into human trafficking issues to what appear to be stupidly heroic yet somewhat substantial ends.
I hate a hero for the narrator of a memoir. Back to my original thoughts on fictions being true, I believe memoirs to be primarily fictional. Recreate the past to the best of your ability and take your falls when they look smooth. Or fall very fucking hard and appear profound and brave. Maybe even kiss the girl you dodged and beat the shit out of the guy who really pussied you out that night. Hide the largest and most emotional moments in snappy prose, while grandly expanding on the trivial. Make the story work, when most lives really don't function this way.
But Tokyo Vice isn't a memoir. And Adelstein IS a hero. This isn't a year in the life of a ballsy gaijin. This is THE life of an American-Japanese and HAS HE got some drinking stories for you (it's going to be a long night). Except it isn't even that. It's a secret modern history of Japanese vice, with a peculiarly fearless narrator.
I will say that parts of this story almost brought me to tears, flushed my face red, made me furious and angry and want to punch walls, had me biting a hole in my lip. Adelstein succeeds on almost all aspects of a compelling read. The writing works well, although I think many of the conversations are complete bullshit (a trick he often employs is to encounter a professional, who then eloquently dishes a mesmerizing cultural vignette), while other conversations seem scarily fucking real. I believe Adelstein FEELS when he feels, and becomes distant and disaffected when he doesn't, and constantly updates you on it. His often crushing honesty is hugely affecting to the reader. I don't know if this is common among those who've experienced the book, but I think he pushes the reader for trust in the same manner that he combats the uneasiness, hesitancy and distrust of the Japanese population surrounding him...and thoroughly succeeds on both counts.
I can't think of a single book this year that has educated and moved me in the way this one has, and I don't believe I will find it. After reading it I found Adelstein's internet home and will be checking up on it from now on. This is required reading for the 21st Century, so hop to it kids.
EDIT: my bad! for the occasional internet nomad who stumbles upon this post, here's Adelstein-san's website:
http://www.japansubculture.com/
I had heard of this book. I played through Yakuza 3 on the PS3 almost entirely with my girlfriend. It's highly unusual for her to become absorbed in my game hours, but when the recognizable fanfare of the title screen would come on she would absentmindedly find herself in the room, appreciating the story, really jazzed about each plot point. She loved Mazima in particular, oddly. Whenever he would pop out she would cheer, and some later plot developments involving his assistance to Kaz incited joyful applause. Again, this is weird for her.
Anyway, the point is, I was browsing some info on the game online after completing it and stumbled onto this:
http://boingboing.net/2010/08/10/yakuza-3-review.html
Some odd gaijin dude playing Yakuza 3 with actual Yakuza.
I'll admit, the first thing that jumped to mind reading this was it sounded like some bullshit (but entertaining) gonzo journalism stuff. Something to slide in next to Vice's Dos & Don'ts. The idea of it seemed insulting, but I thought the Yakuza actually provided some excellent, insightful yet meager commentary. Then I started to read about this book he wrote.
So this was like 6 months ago. Here the book is staring me in the face. I ask the couple to borrow it.
*nodding on nonfiction*
I don't read a lot of nonfiction. I don't have an excellent reason for that aside from this: I think fiction brings more truth to bear than non-fiction. I think One Hundred Years of Solitude, Pedro Paramo, and Osamu Dazai's best known work tell more truth about the world, its people and their authors than a biography or a thoroughly researched travel guide. Memoirs can be fascinating, history is of special interest to me, and academic essay-type shit can actually be engrossing if confidently/competently written.
Of late I've been absorbed into nonfiction for no good reason. I didn't feel like I've been hunting these books out, but almost everything I've recently ingested has been non-fiction(y). Aside from comics and whatnot, my shoulders have been bearing the weight of Lipstick Traces by Greil Marcus, Herodotus' Histories, The Autobiography of a Cro-Magnon by John Joseph and now Tokyo Vice. The first was mindmelting and certainly entertaining in its way (my third attempt at reading it but I finished it this time), the second is, well, the foundation of writing I think, and the third is an assortment of some hellish & humorous war stories that is really dragging as Joseph encounters his developing Krishna faith.
Tokyo Vice was enthralling and exhausting.
The book is really all over the map, but in the very best way. There's something frantic to the whole tale, Adelstein's years as an outsider skillfully & clumsily (& luckily) mapping his path through the Japanese criminal underground, eventually emerging as an insider, as a real reporter, and beyond. The book is crafted around many, many years of this unusual man's life and the length of time bleeds on each page. I feel like he must have lost YEARS of time pursuing various scoops and leads to stories he doesn't even mention a whisper of. Maybe they weren't worth telling, or just aren't worth telling now?
He attempts to plant structure on this tale but the proposition seems absurd...I'm saying again this is over a DECADE of professional life condensed into 330 pages. David Simon & Ed Burns wrote their massive text The Corner on 2 years of life in a drug market, and it was a richly rewarding read. Adelstein, instead, fraught with what must be bloodily scarred elbows grated against some of Japan's most predatory scumfuck population (not really talking about the johns and marks so much...Adelstein even comments that their scramble for purchased sexual contact may be symptomatic of their sadly commonplace emotional isolation), takes an extremely broad brush to the canvas, at least until he spirals into human trafficking issues to what appear to be stupidly heroic yet somewhat substantial ends.
I hate a hero for the narrator of a memoir. Back to my original thoughts on fictions being true, I believe memoirs to be primarily fictional. Recreate the past to the best of your ability and take your falls when they look smooth. Or fall very fucking hard and appear profound and brave. Maybe even kiss the girl you dodged and beat the shit out of the guy who really pussied you out that night. Hide the largest and most emotional moments in snappy prose, while grandly expanding on the trivial. Make the story work, when most lives really don't function this way.
But Tokyo Vice isn't a memoir. And Adelstein IS a hero. This isn't a year in the life of a ballsy gaijin. This is THE life of an American-Japanese and HAS HE got some drinking stories for you (it's going to be a long night). Except it isn't even that. It's a secret modern history of Japanese vice, with a peculiarly fearless narrator.
I will say that parts of this story almost brought me to tears, flushed my face red, made me furious and angry and want to punch walls, had me biting a hole in my lip. Adelstein succeeds on almost all aspects of a compelling read. The writing works well, although I think many of the conversations are complete bullshit (a trick he often employs is to encounter a professional, who then eloquently dishes a mesmerizing cultural vignette), while other conversations seem scarily fucking real. I believe Adelstein FEELS when he feels, and becomes distant and disaffected when he doesn't, and constantly updates you on it. His often crushing honesty is hugely affecting to the reader. I don't know if this is common among those who've experienced the book, but I think he pushes the reader for trust in the same manner that he combats the uneasiness, hesitancy and distrust of the Japanese population surrounding him...and thoroughly succeeds on both counts.
I can't think of a single book this year that has educated and moved me in the way this one has, and I don't believe I will find it. After reading it I found Adelstein's internet home and will be checking up on it from now on. This is required reading for the 21st Century, so hop to it kids.
EDIT: my bad! for the occasional internet nomad who stumbles upon this post, here's Adelstein-san's website:
http://www.japansubculture.com/
Thursday, March 3, 2011
proud young man
where within the inelegant slotted
arrangement of our churning liquid do
we
find hard particles to clench shakily in
the direction of others and strangers
and
there was the calm entity who slid an
erratic ballet through fits of bored
teenagers and suave collectives maybe
faking his calm or whether or not
central certainly the cheapest wheel with a
weird set of
darting eyes and delicate insecurities
sometimes
the careful adolescent finds
respite in anachronisms:
eccentricity and inexperience
erectile dysfunction and pubescence
allergies and cocaine
you dawdle parasitic on the sidelines of
the cool and re-tighten your boots again
and
daydream while maintaining mad
composure and really dig the freak girl
you never speak to her because you are
too brave
arrangement of our churning liquid do
we
find hard particles to clench shakily in
the direction of others and strangers
and
there was the calm entity who slid an
erratic ballet through fits of bored
teenagers and suave collectives maybe
faking his calm or whether or not
central certainly the cheapest wheel with a
weird set of
darting eyes and delicate insecurities
sometimes
the careful adolescent finds
respite in anachronisms:
eccentricity and inexperience
erectile dysfunction and pubescence
allergies and cocaine
you dawdle parasitic on the sidelines of
the cool and re-tighten your boots again
and
daydream while maintaining mad
composure and really dig the freak girl
you never speak to her because you are
too brave
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