Slowly

ripening slowly,

the skin is softening.

the shape is morphing, 

from sharp to curved, all 

as planned

Machines

Machines love our nature

our science fictions, our tomes

our bloody projects, call them what you want, i call them nations, or beach homes

They love our mixtures:

sex and scrolling, beer and weed, sweat and tears, johnson & johnson.

They wish to consume large amounts of us, in fact

so fascinated with our skin

its bruises, cuts, scars, birth marks, hairs, moles, dirt

the tears of silicon have been milked

and now their disgusting, perfect replica

would really like to meet us

Good War

sex is good war

the body a warhead

callously undressed, defused

and buttoned up again

then put away 

for later use 

Algeria

my youngest sister, a fearless talker

with crumbs on her face

once asked my grandfather about killing

he was proud of his medals

of his uniform, of his saber 

this we knew

but other of things

we did not

what goes on in my beautiful head

what goes on in my beautiful head

little fragments of should and should not float on in emptiness

desires and disgusts, some blooming, some wilting, make themselves known

fables and fictions leave electric traces streak across the brain like contrails

finger and wrist formations mechanical in nature tediously evolve

nothing that really serves the cause

sorry

i'm sorry, Poetry

daddy's not feeling

especially artistic tonight

crowd work

close your eyes

for a little while

imagine yourself alone

in an old church

your smallest movements amplified

by the musty stone

imagine the cavernous structure opening

itself to you, inviting you to release

yourself in the form of a guttural cry 

three, two, one

what do you hear?

1.24.24

nothing makes me feel 

more like my father

than being with my brother

but it is not just my father, possessing

it's also his father, and his before, and again before 

ages of bitterness, of lacking

compressed like kneaded dough, shaped and pounded

into an unspeakable form that sits heavily

inside me,

loathsome

bennie maupin's "ensenada"

pure pulsing wood conjuring

falling chimes, glass rims whistling 

mallet games eagerly tap until

a breath, almost, then a chord –

swells of brilliant colors 

begin to flutter in all directions

humans emerge from the landscape

pensive, but not exactly still

the drum fights the tall, arching sonorities 

the winds submit to the metal scrapes,

time enough for a dark thing to be said,

they regain their place, preparing for the end, or another beginning

out of the rustle emerges a cry, beyond pain or pleasure

simple proof of terrestrial existence

A Child

in dreams past there's been a child

vaguely, a boy

shapeless and radiant, possible like mornings

the petty, aimless whims 

that we built ourselves upon 

are placed gently in the pyre

i cradle the doubt 

wailing, screaming

in my arms until it is calm

i press the question to my chest

but no answer

as of yet

1/21/24

mother has identified

the issue and is diligently 

working toward a 

solution

la pergoletta

i have long finished the meal and

the waiter would like to remove me

from my gingham table.

an indulgent pause

has become loitering

and i will be on my way, but

i linger as if sleeping in, blinds drawn

guarded from the dictates

of clocks and calendars

Myth of the Sirens

Charming winged things,

The Sirens 

Are bored as hell

They assemble the choir and 

Tune up their lyres

Then fly off

To fuck with 

The Muses

translation of michel houellebecq's "la fin de la soirée" , an attempt

At the end of the evening, there is an inevitable disgust. There is a sort of mapping of terror. Well, I don't know; I think. 

The emptiness within, expanding. That. Untethered from any possible occurrence. As if you were suspended in the void, equidistant from any real action by forces, magnetic and monstrous. 

Suspended thus, powerless in your grip on the world, the night will seem long. And in fact, it will be. But it will be, though, a protected night; but you will not appreciate this protection. Only later will you appreciate it, once you've returned to the city, once you've returned to the daytime, once you've returned to the world.

At around nine in the morning, the world will have reached its peak activity. The world simply be turning, lightly snoring. You will have to take part in it though, throw yourself at it, like one leaps for the steps of a train car already leaving the station. 

But you will not reach it. Once again you will await night time – which yet, once again, will bring you despair, doubt, and terror. This will happen, again and again, until the end of the world. 

from 

Le Sens du combat,

Editions Flammarion, 1996

note: the word "écœurement" is translated to "disgust" which is probably too vague. it's a great word which is like nausea, but whereas nausea for me is really in the stomach, this like a nausea localized to the heart. always interesting to think about body parts and what words and feelings are mapped to them.

1.17.24

today was nothing –

i clocked in, 

i clocked out.

Dumb Little Scene

i wanted a mantra

but first, a captcha

i needed some help

but on hold, i was held

i asked for the waiter

then was handed a screen

took a napkin and wrote 

this dumb little scene

warning

ask me 

about my day

at your own peril

Strawberry Jam

across from you at the table

my elbow rests on something sticky

perhaps some strawberry jam 

fell off the morning toast

your hair is up

revealing your eyes,

two glimmering pleas

blink once, they worry

blink again, they hope

nesting dolls

my father called

he needed advice on a chord. 

the verse to Hotel California. 

a magical thing that happens to men when 

they approach sixty years old 

they all begin to talk

four ideas

1. 

    war against _____

    war against _____

    war against _____

    all things militarized 

2.

    you motion to me, sweet science

    with labels and inserts

    but what of the silence

    when the drug takes more than it gives

    or when the IUD breaks

3.

    does the well exist that i can drink from?

    does the creek exist where i can bathe?

    does the fish exist that i can eat? 

    does the air exist that i can breathe?

    does the fabric exist that i can wear without guilt?

4.

    "nothing is lost

    nothing is created, 

    all is transformed.

    all is the prey of death

    none is the prey of life"

        

    -Antoine Béchamp