happy birthday, mom and dad

my parents, aunt Yeya and cousin Lizette in a kitchen in Spain. not pictured:
me (fetus)

keep it going

you don't have to do anything
just get in line and
feel this way


just a bunch of baby huey

because it feels so right. and it is the record i've been playing over and over as i rip open cardboard boxes and drink Thunderbird on the floor in the middle of all of my possessions. because i have no chairs.

and it is perfection itself.

minute 6.

minute 2:05.


nil always

90 degrees it's september 22
an autumnal rumspringa or the
flyleaf on the summer before it's case-closed or else we're ascribing
meaning to
nothing like "per always", shouting
nothing, nil! heil! herr docktor herr face under quartzlight
zigfried follies with the bar-flies
we're outside the bar talking reverent reverend
about some guy's condo beautiful countertops
jacuzzi tub tah die for,
going back home to sleep on dirty rented carpet,
waking up late haven't eaten for, like, 17 hours,
naturally lifted,
or maybe just light-headed
, don't drink the lite stuff
except when i drink the lite stuff
today is just last night flipped inside out
upside down
like a jell-o mold it comes out
perfect and quivering,
i'm watching you put your face against the windowglass
and make alien faces slug trails teeth gnashing
learning to love you more, boo
and tomorrow i will, too
today i'm just hanging upside down by a
scuffed sneaker shouting nil, nothing, heil, herr dockter,
her face under moonlight or was it quartz
watching the seasons change like the sky in that chris isaak video like
yeah i'll always
love, again.



Picture 15

'astral cat', by David Starr Jordan, PhD, LLD, (1851–1931),
in 1891 the president of Stanford University and a highly distinguished ichthyologist for whom more than two dozen species of fish were named, including Jordan’s snapper, Jordan’s damsel, Jordan’s tuskfish, and the Yellow Irish Lord (Hemilepidotus jord­ani)

Nicola Tesla writes in 1893 on a Thought Projector which would capture a moment in the mind on a film substrate:
“I became convinced that a definite image formed in thought must by reflex action produce a corresponding image on the retina, which might be read by a suitable apparatus."

article on psychic photography here.

the ever-renewing allure of knowing by looking

what a real thought projector would capture:
that first layer of vision, ruptured by
words, half-remembered faces, interjections,
layers of other remembered scenes.
fog for scent and taste, lightning for fear, adrenaline.
and what about him. and what about him.
and what about
meaningless to any but



on the phone at the rest stop
overdosed on 700 mg of naproxen sodium, it's not a real drug,
just generic for aleve.
but i'll never get my stomach lining back.
somewhere in ohio everyplace is somewhere in ohio in this state
like they lost the compass to the accentless flat land here
i walk across to the grass and watch.
enormous people swinging their arms almost imperceptibly
smiling with ragged teeth crying hoarse
to get to the fast food restroom. that smells. like ellis island and drano.
teens doing kick flips outside the station wagons,
its like i'm watching
a piddling depression spin out,with red hawks jerseys on, i say.
my brother goes shhhhh! they'll hear you. fearing a mutiny amongst the travelers.
he's in dc. i'm in ohio.
i try to picture what he's doing but i can't
imagine it.

here the time is moving so slow,
my mind is going ping! speeding up slowing down.
watching strangers spilling out of themselves like the boundaries for
human beings exploded,
i'm lying back, watching the clouds bumble above
like elephants
( hemingway,
by the way.)


driving out to the city to see you, lights fading down its gone from like 90 to 70 degrees through the window a quietness amplified the ravens replacing cicada sounds one by one i feel every single one replacement like watching sand pass through an hourglass slowed down as if on promethezine and this is the end of my summer, just like that, trying to hold on to the moments, slow them down, fade them out, love them to death and let them run through my hands like soft water, residue. i wanted to give you something real but it's paltry like my name written on a worn piece of notebook paper. i wanted to give the world something once too but the feeling passed, and i went on leaving it behind like i leave behind the headlights slipping into the night's rearview mirror and driving into September.


being dawn

Song of the Rain Drop

I return for my wings,
let me return.
I want to die being
I want to die being
I return for my wings,
let me return.
I want to die being
the fountain.
I want to die away
from the sea.

-Gabriel Garcia Lorca, from Asi Que Pasan Cinco AƱos