oh, renoir

nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission
how are you feeling in ancient [november]
i am feeling like a truck on a wet highway
how can you
you were made in the image of god
i was not
i was made in the image of a sissy truck-driver
and jean dubuffet painting his cows
"with a likeness burst in the memory"
apart from love (don't say it)
i am ashamed of my century
for being so entertaining
but i have to smile
--frank o'hara

textual relations/e-ruptions
nineteen days are beautiful and falling down and running out. and thinking about them is more complicated than they are, is more complicated than this part of the street and something on the tip of my tongue that is yet to reach my lips at the point of exhalation, which is the point of enunciation, which is the point of proclamation. the point that is hard to reach cuz my pockets are already full of words and i hold on to them cuz i am worried they are running out, at least these particular ones that i hold. but of course i’ve already granted them some special power meaning significance that does not exist outside my head. this makes my thinking superior in a very literal sense; it surpasses reality. like the thought of it is enough. like waiting. like limbo. like i want you to recognize my interest in my patience and not in my vulgar hand reaching.

respect precedes permission, does not issue forth from blind affectual assumption: "go tell yr friends i’m still a feminist, but i won’t be coming to yr benefit."

what i was gonna say is something about truth, which is that it is being made anew. the reason i feel like i’m lying the reason i feel like i don’t know you is because we are in the process of making a truth, our truth, the lens through which we are valid.

what makes it hard is the splinter, the silver sliver. the coded gesture and the somatic register. do you feel me?

the double bind. caught between the sound of flutes and the sounds of sex. what is worse, that i know my vision to be inaccurate, or that you still don’t know yours is?

how is it that that which you never wanted is now all you ever had?

something about eyes shadowed, inside and out. i take yr hand. you are futilely holding down a piece of white paper that is blowing in the wind. it blows away. i love you, and you don’t pay me.

oh, don’t you smell nice, and oh, don’t you look nice, and oh, isn’t that a nice book in yr hand, and oh, isn’t that a nice polish on yr fingers on yr hand in which you hold that book?

i rub up against yr black puffy jacket and follow the boy with the duffel bag and the tube socks. i wanna say the prizefighter, even though i feel kinda anachronistic doing so. kinda like we say “bowie,” as if we know him or even know what it was like to listen to him when he was just another art student. and i don’t mean “just another” in a condescending way, i mean it in solidarity. is there nothing left to elaborate? collaborate? i imagine you have just taken a shower and put on a t-shirt and a pair of boxers and are standing in the kitchen. and:
"oh god it's wonderful to get out of bed
and drink too much coffee
and smoke too many cigarettes
and love you so much"

LOOK!
agape - prodotti
a new sidewalk bicycle rack is selected for new york city
beach house - used to be
berlioz - les nuits d'ete
b-52's - private idaho
bicycle rights! bicycle rights!
matthew bourne - swan lake
graham durward
fight bite - swissex lover
tom ford - a single man
foster + partners - sperone westwater gallery
garbage - queer
gym teacher
thrush holmes
grace jones - slave to the rhythm
kiddiepunk
annie lennox - every time we say goodbye
le tigre - les + ray
lykke li + q-tip - can i kick it
o'reilly smears san francisco with surreal pseudo-documentary
anon pairot - tape collection
michelangelo pistoletto
julie ruin - aerobicide
showstudio - insensate
six - thc superstar
toward the queerest insurrection
ward van gemert
were the world mine

LISTEN!
jennie abrahamson
bag raiders - shooting stars
marit bergman (ft frida hyvonen) - traveling companion
boy least likely to - the 1st snowflake
dark dark dark
differnet
embassy
fredrik
golden filter
icypoles
king str
mark kozelek - celebrated summer (i almost writ 'cummer')
shivers
sofia talvik
twelves
xx