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 wonderfulto get out of bed and drink too much coffee and smoke too many cigarettes and love you so much"
And when the body finally starts to let go let it all go at once not piece by piece. but like a whole bucket of stars dumped into the universe. Whoooh! Watch it go! Good-bye small hands, good-bye small heart good-bye small head My soul is climbing tree trunks and swinging from every branch
They're calling on me, they're calling one me...
Do you think I'm an animal? Am I not? Do you like fur Do you wanna come over Are we captive only for a short time Is there splendor, I'm not ashamed Desire shoots through me like birds singing (The way you move no ocean's waves were ever as fluid)
They're calling on me, they're calling one me...
I hit the mark! I target moon, I target sky, I target sun. Fall down on the world before it falls on you.
Like beggars, like Stars, like whores, us all Like beggars, like dogs Like Stars, us all
Shoot straight for my heart (And when you were near no sky was ever quite so clear)
Like stars, so small Like us. when we fall Like beggars, like whores Like lovers, Get Up! Get up...too far.
nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission people are electrical circuits, and i am not being metaphorical here. electricity exists the way it does having been modeled on our own bodies.
textual relations/e-ruptions to stroll the city at night, a simple pleasure, yr daughter’s leisure. the thing i call morrissey means more to me than shoes with heels that go click and long woolen coats.
the conflict between stasis and movement. all the points to draw lines between. the angle of a leg aligned with mine. most severely, eye contact. two points, two parallel lines, and the line that you see is the line itself.
i like it when you put the sticky thing on it. and i believe in windows. and i believe in doors. i believe in those points of access into and unto another world. the romance of interiority. it is the season. it has been the season. what mystical significance, signage, visage is invoked by “it is”? it is the unnameable and therefore the unspeakable. it drives you in. it warms you up. a flower’s petals falling before an open fireplace, protected from a starscape by skyscape by skyscrapers by the intimacy and therefore the sexiness of dormitory living. you see what i’ve done?
light coy beneath a humble sky. vacuity and sweet cypress. what you saw, what you felt – write it down. the difference between a real life vocal-chorded voice and an electronic din/tin. is confusing to me. is piss fountain. is heightened awareness. you have a favourite porn star? yr gay little hands. the fairytale of the fairytale – that you tell a certain story and attach a certain moral meaning to a certain course of events. hands and feet. they don’t make sense to me. an unraveling. an alienation. this is just the way you’re thinking about it. school is just thinking. sexing is just boring. porn is just acting. idealizing is arbitrary.
exhume these bones, human remains, humanity remains. whatever that is. the training is screeching not to a hault, but rather round the corner, a bound in the road abound in the road. just cuz you can’t see what’s in front of you don’t mean there’s no direction. just like just cuz nothing doesn’t seem unusual, unnatural, out of the ordinary, doesn’t mean yr experience (and i won’t even say of reality) hasn’t already been reconceived. but the hat, the apron, and the safety pin, the signs (which are the tools) of calling are calling. like wolf on mountain. like scientist from laboratory. the experience, the isolation of a cellular culture, of a cultural cell, of somaticity, generates reaction, generates genes. so many things to hang round my shoulder, so many parts to get dirty. you (a) pile of soft things, hairy shins. how i experience things in terms more of (a) time. you are only five some hours away, which is somehow less than an equivalency in miles, which is somehow more than bearable. judicious, appropriate. taking a hand, joining hands can feel interstitial and intergalactic. how did you get me to leave? how do you (re)move me from the rubble, a disconnected sneaker.
nocturne communique/nocturnal e-mission in the dark, the sparkle in yr eye looks like a tear.
textual relations/e-ruptions soft and flustered and supplicating, hold yr thing in yr hand at command. incant the spell of the rose and be still.
the primacy of presentness. how living in the past is really living in the present, for the reason you're holding on is a reason right now.
innocence and insignificance. to pick away and to lead astray. in a jingle jangle morning i found a red sweater on the street and my sweetheart's absence next to me. but a binding can also be a covering, a comforting, like holding something sensitive between yr teeth without biting.
i can imagine a mountain or a range of mountains not here. to the east. and blue water. and the insignificance of two standing, which is therefore the significance of two standing. but to the east has meant istanbul. and to the east means new york. how will you know where to go? how will you meet my mouth before my breath does?
(first the post of my latest zine was disappeared, then the post proclaiming this was deleted according to the terms of the Digital Millennium Copyright Act (DMCA). this is all very curious.)
ADULT BABY + DEADPAN SENSUALIST + DISAPPOINTED LOVER + DISKO DICK + DISSTHENTIC ACADEMIC + ENFANT TERRIBLE + ENGINEER OF BRICOLAGE + HOMOTEXTUAL ARTIST + ITINERANT BEGGAR-POET + MOMENT MAKER + MYSTERY PRIEST + PRISONER OF LOVE + RELUCTANT GENTLEMAN + SCHIZOID + SHY HUNTER + SLY FOX + STALWART LOVER
"Oh, Renoir"—it sounds like "au revoir." It sounds like the exclamation of a sculpture connoisseur! Together, it sounds like a farewell to bloated artistic declarations.
"A Journal"—A locked and flowery journal written in by a twelve-year-old girl. A scholarly journal. ((As s)cholar.) The combination of which—twelve-year-old girl scholar—seems apt enough, if not particularly apt, of describing the mental trappings of so many of our college-educated twenty-something peers. An eagerness in the wrong direction. Knowledge funneled through inexperience. Curiosity will kill our cool cats. Really, this is a sketchbook.
