(this is just a simple text cascade)

i know how it ends. the knight unprecedented for his time perishes. the dream, whether folly or fair perishes with him. what need have we of errantry now? but what of the jounrey?

this is a simple text cascade. i watch it and i can taste it and from my fingertips, this world is ambidextrous. down in the gully, down in the gully, down in the gully comes something rising. simic has been discussing with me through text and time the conception o f ethics and a notation for the modern era, as was borges with me just an hour before. merwin just watches on, a lameduck. no offense, merwin. no offense, my brother.

when it comes t othe matters of the heart, eschew. when it comes to the matters of the soul, rebind. when it comes to us and you and we, abbreviate and assume the absurdities related to adverbage.

this is just a simple text cascade.

I amm currently surrounded. There is Simic. There is Borges. Cervantes (Miguel). Websters. Casio. Huidobro. Steve Jobs. Inescapable, necessary.

What about invisiblity?

some mystical power. apprehend perverts and masterminds.

Backyards and Falling Stars

When the vanity is stripped away and all that's left is the open and honest narration of your life will you be pleased with the intimacies you've shared, or will you regret that you didn't tell all that you meant? That you forgot to say that one last thing to that one special girl who really held your heart. You know the one. That one who was perfect in every way, who had the right shade of lipstick for every day of the week, and it was always the same color but a slightly a different heat depending upon the weather and her mood. Or was that just your imagination, your idealized version of her? Was that what you wanted to take away? That lasting impression like a lip-print on a napkin left in jest when you talked and talked all night about music and bad dates and all that nonsense from eighth grade when you thought life was just about backyards and falling stars.

word flow

the secret is that they built atop it the corpse growing reeds and vines and two steps into the labyrinth we've been misplaced - imagine these buildings towering, this city of canyons and ravines and consider the story of the dragons who fought beneath lake waters and echoed the end of the world the way the norse grew a world tree who budded ragnar or a wormwood revelation at the gilded tower foot-- I've heard talk of alchemy and alembics and I wonder if that metaphor is not improper. this transmutation of rough core iron to ruddy gold like blood, liquid like melted sugar, precious like melted sugar; how many ways to challenge a quid pro quo I need this to get back in but I can't keep up with Huidobro yet though he exposes his secrets and his corpse is lush.

we must concern ourselves with the manufacture of new images
so repeatedly, I see a child on a cloud, yellow boots dangling
but it seems to pale against
Huidobro's "bird perched on a rainbow"

Ivy and buds and refuse.

on a red wine night

it's lost in translation on a red wine night. summer's almost over and he's in japan and she's in the room with the fireplace and i wonder when i'll be in that place that i'm meant to be. i miss them, you know, but what can you do?

and i've got these thoughts about him and her, not the same him and her but another him and her, and me and you, and me and him, and her and you. if i forgot it all, you'd hate me. if i don't forget it, she'll never forgive me.

and i just realized that all my letters are to you. it's all for you.

quijote

don quijote teaches many life lessons: pointybearded lancemen, and what i am supposed to do as an old one, my nose buried in books - the inevitable back break the inevitable fights and beats beatings i can't wait to toss my sowrd and wander the fray step by step leaving this all behind

not much has changes within the world underwater.  Soon the cycle could repeat itself, but I dont think any of us will let it.  Same day, different sh*t.  Feeling less like an artist everyday I dont think of my movie plans.  Artist anxiety at full throttle these past few weeks, worrying that it will fall flat, and people will laugh at me, my family will be ashamed of me, teachers will fail me.  Who gives a rats buttoot if I mourne and complain about the troubles of old, who needs to witness any transformation with me?  why do I have to be on camera, AND film it all?  these problems are mine not just for privacy, but because no one else wants them.  Palaniuk will snap me out of this.  Bukowski will teach me not to care.  But in order for this to work again I need to hate.  I need to feel despair, like theres no point in going on, and only this video can prove to be my release.  But that wont happen, things are going too well lately, and I wont let my self esteem plummet into that whirpool again.  I suppose that will be the true test of the movies quality,  whether or not I can still push the messege across when it no longer eats at my ankles.  I hope you all understand the dilemma.

its good to be back

taking inventory

perfect circle china doll cheeks, sewing machine, peach tea. the tickling hairs of invisible paranoia spiders. sticky keyboards (paint and honey). swedish crooners calling bluebirds home, killing all my old lovers.
this week's favorite colors: humming & electric.