Zanesville (2010)
Jezebel (2010)
Jessup (2010)
11/21/10
in the forest preserve in lyons
(after Robert)
in Lyons, the "forest preserve"
littered with dead deer, illegal sport
population control
,littered with litter;
all of it banal: thousands of
plastic straws, many colors, cigarette ends(the
american luxuries: riding in cars, smoking,
drinking x-tra large beverages:
simultaneously, an increase in pleasures)
shards of iridescence: broken cds.
shards of transience, moving through
landscapes at high speeds,
mindlessly.
the landscape doesn't mind.
here it waits for more reminders of
you, which it will break down
to styrofoam confetti, longer lasting than
that moment,( quick flash of your hand in the night, the air
on your palm; letting go. )
and longer than
your
entire life.
here
the foundation of Chicago
most of it now gone,
the remainder abandoned across
from a British Petroleum power plant(bp, yellow green),
which is busy, industrious
as this place is dead, forgotten.
6 cars in 2 parking lots,
assorted subjects sitting inside,
waiting, fucking, drugging.
still:
winter is the best time for forests
which a mile away from the highway
it begins to seem.
the wind passes easily through the trees,
everything sighing.
the movements of animals
amplified when lushness is
stripped away.
you can see everything coming,
in a winter forest.
there is the clarity of nakedness.
the slowing down of the earth's
processes
things falling apart slowly in the cold.
walk slower, conserve your strength,
pull your breath around your head.
when you reach the railroad tracks,
keep moving over the rusty ties, the
white stones caked with alloy
only stop
to take one in your hand
for
the spring.
in Lyons, the "forest preserve"
littered with dead deer, illegal sport
population control
,littered with litter;
all of it banal: thousands of
plastic straws, many colors, cigarette ends(the
american luxuries: riding in cars, smoking,
drinking x-tra large beverages:
simultaneously, an increase in pleasures)
shards of iridescence: broken cds.
shards of transience, moving through
landscapes at high speeds,
mindlessly.
the landscape doesn't mind.
here it waits for more reminders of
you, which it will break down
to styrofoam confetti, longer lasting than
that moment,( quick flash of your hand in the night, the air
on your palm; letting go. )
and longer than
your
entire life.
here
the foundation of Chicago
most of it now gone,
the remainder abandoned across
from a British Petroleum power plant(bp, yellow green),
which is busy, industrious
as this place is dead, forgotten.
6 cars in 2 parking lots,
assorted subjects sitting inside,
waiting, fucking, drugging.
still:
winter is the best time for forests
which a mile away from the highway
it begins to seem.
the wind passes easily through the trees,
everything sighing.
the movements of animals
amplified when lushness is
stripped away.
you can see everything coming,
in a winter forest.
there is the clarity of nakedness.
the slowing down of the earth's
processes
things falling apart slowly in the cold.
walk slower, conserve your strength,
pull your breath around your head.
when you reach the railroad tracks,
keep moving over the rusty ties, the
white stones caked with alloy
only stop
to take one in your hand
for
the spring.
11/20/10
11/19/10
Alexandra is my name
" Truthfully, I am "homesick" for a land that is not mine. I am haunted by the steppes, the solitude, the everlasting snow and the great blue sky "up there”! The difficult hours, the hunger, the cold, the wind slashing my face, leaving me with enormous, bloody, swollen lips. "
(Alexandra David-Néel in a letter to her husband, Eugene Néel, 1916)
11/17/10
judith butler motherfuckers
"You honestly think I give a fuck about what you wore today?
For real, real?
While you were outside of a Starbucks.
Tweeting low-res pics of your hindquarters.
Showing off your crotch blowout.
I was in a fucking mine shaft.
Fading my selvedge.
And reading Glenn O’drama’s bio.
On my iPad.
You city slickers slay me.
You really do.
But I guess if Rozay is a dealer.
And Yeezy is a martyr.
Then y’all are some rugged motherfuckers.
But on the real.
When’s the last time you heard it like this?
Henley and suspenders.
Scragglepuss beard and lived in White’s.
Clay pomade and fucking boulders.
Do they let you bring a shovel to brunch?
At Balthazar?
Didn’t think so.
Just because I look like a 49er.
Doesn’t mean my swagger isn’t on a hundred.
Thousand.
Trillion.
I’m chillin’ in the Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Kings Canyon.
Prospecting for steez.
You’re drinking a Sierra Nevada.
Somewhere near Flatbush.
Prospecting for chicks with septum piercings. "
via
fuckyeahmenswear
preach it.
(subtitle: macho can die as far
as i'm concerned.
faux
and worse yet "real") (yeah i 've been reading judith butler,
motherfuckers.)
11/15/10
china
We live on the third world from the sun. Number three. Nobody
tells us what to do.
The people who taught us to count were being very kind.
It's always time to leave.
If it rains, you either have your umbrella or you don't.
The wind blows your hat off.
The sun rises also.
I'd rather the stars didn't describe us to each other; I'd
rather we do it for ourselves.
Run in front of your shadow.
A sister who points to the sky at least once a decade is a
good sister.
The landscape is motorized.
The train takes you where it goes.
Bridges among water.
Folks straggling along vast stretches of concrete, heading
into the plane.
Don't forget what your hat and shoes will look like when you
are nowhere to be found.
Even the words floating in air make blue shadows.
If it tastes good we eat it.
The leaves are falling. Point things out.
Pick up the right things.
Hey guess what? What? I've learned how to talk. Great.
The person whose head was incomplete burst into tears.
As it fell, what could the doll do? Nothing.
Go to sleep.
You look great in shorts. And the flag looks great too.
Everyone enjoyed the explosions.
Time to wake up.
But better get used to dreams.
(Bob Perelman)
tells us what to do.
The people who taught us to count were being very kind.
It's always time to leave.
If it rains, you either have your umbrella or you don't.
The wind blows your hat off.
The sun rises also.
I'd rather the stars didn't describe us to each other; I'd
rather we do it for ourselves.
Run in front of your shadow.
A sister who points to the sky at least once a decade is a
good sister.
The landscape is motorized.
The train takes you where it goes.
Bridges among water.
Folks straggling along vast stretches of concrete, heading
into the plane.
Don't forget what your hat and shoes will look like when you
are nowhere to be found.
Even the words floating in air make blue shadows.
If it tastes good we eat it.
The leaves are falling. Point things out.
Pick up the right things.
Hey guess what? What? I've learned how to talk. Great.
The person whose head was incomplete burst into tears.
As it fell, what could the doll do? Nothing.
Go to sleep.
You look great in shorts. And the flag looks great too.
Everyone enjoyed the explosions.
Time to wake up.
But better get used to dreams.
(Bob Perelman)
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