Finite Intimacies: Two Ships Wrecking in the Night

What the World Needs Now

is Love, Age Consensual Love

(click on the map)

Now Touch Me, Babe. / What Was That Promise That You Made?

Talking Dirty on a Soupcan String Phone
(hook, line and sinker)

Douchebag Phone Message - Watch more free videos


Hiding the Evidence
(on Burying Pinnochio)

Force / Feedings





Trust
The Most Infamous & Intimate of the Five Letter Words

Time to Give Back, Give Back

Hi, My Name Is:

Swing me back up again. Bring me back something true. Or if not completely true, give me a good story. I keep writing what I want, what is loved, what misses me and how much I miss. Hemmingway wrote: “Do not worry. You have always written before and you will write now. All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

There are two kinds of artists. But only one will do. Will do. Only the writer who duels with himself, drools dreams of joy or otherwise drab crabgrass growing in the heartland of despair. The writer I want grows up, wakes with a belly of everything and nothingness, considers the weather, his cooling coffee, orange juice, the omelet like a swollen body to eat, even (and perhaps more so) enjoy. It’s a duty, a job, a consideration of life and afterlife. What for? What? What more? Where is this going?

I’ve learned enough to know I don’t know either. I know it’s July now. I know this letter I’m writing is being sent to a good place. A place with shared voices and a deep concern for connecting with each other through words. It’s clear we don’t have so long to live. This swelling concert of angels weep in falsetto. How beautiful they touch their faces.

And so I’m issuing this wild call to the canyon. Now is the time. Come out. Give me champagne, tubs of sewage, the kitten at the dumpster of what we leave behind, landfills layered with brown lettuce and how the light in an empty oil drum sings. Amputation, solace, grandeur, every one of God’s angels measuring the ounces of fallen sweat from our hair. Get out of the bones of the city and then the skin. Trying to understand the prayer. Singing anyway. Write the truest sentence you know. Singing. I’m going to keep believing. I’m going to keep believing. I’m going to keep believing.

Between Us

Between Us

I’d been gluing stickers of the cosmos on my ceiling again,
trying to receive a membership to the dark everything of the universe,
so it’s taken this long to respond to your question about bricklaying
which I know nothing about. Instead of saying I built this house,
I should have told you I only surveyed its being built.
But it’s not like you remember it. The lemon trees seem to be suffering
a reverse puberty, shrugging the acne shoulders of their branches
like what? I don’t know. I don’t know why the grass continues
to brown in patches or else doesn’t grow at all. The bonfire of spring
is in full swing. Last night I killed three rabbits trying to uproot
the squashes we planted together. And I repainted the barn
so I wouldn’t have to remember the planks that need replacing.
Now I think of their rotting more, what we’re left with. Is it
raining where you’re at? Is the city still like we remember it?
—the newspaper-wrapped shoe of a man on the subway tapping out a beat,
the dingy white strobe of phonebooths like elevators in skyscrapers?
Just now I realized I won’t be able to tell your children about phonebooths
without explaining to them—sometimes it was hard to get ahold of each other.
But what has changed? The metal weathervane above the barn swivels
to a stop. Stars taped on the fanblades above my bed glow in the dark as if
the rings of Saturn were not blocks of ice and space.

Fake Empire - The National

from the boxer album

Stay out super late tonight
picking apples, making pies
put a little something in our lemonade and take it with us
we’re half-awake in a fake empire
we’re half-awake in a fake empire

Tiptoe through our shiny city
with our diamond slippers on
do our gay ballet on ice
bluebirds on our shoulders
we’re half-awake in a fake empire
we’re half-awake in a fake empire

Turn the light out say goodnight
no thinking for a little while
lets not try to figure out everything at once
It’s hard to keep track of you falling through the sky
we’re half-awake in a fake empire
we’re half-awake in a fake empire

On Faith and the Faithful

(cut into pieces from W. C. Williams' The Orchestra)


Say to them:
'Man has survived hitherto because he was too ignorant to know how to realize his wishes. Now that he can realize them, he must either change them or perish.'

[...]The birds twitter now anew
but a design surmounts their twittering.

It is a design of a man
that makes them twitter.
It is a design.

Represent

I know little outside of desire. Outside my desires, to where I’ve been lured. Another desire convinced me I chose. Another that I knew what I was thinking. Each one wants satisfaction. I want congruence. I: 1) a mutuality, 2)walking compass of iron filaments. My life is a magnet wrecking ball never swung. Memory only serves penance. I don’t repent. When I swing, I’ll know I’ve been hit. I’ll hit nothing. Simply pass close enough to align each splinter of iron in the direction of swing. My body of curves and swath. The building will be demolished past nightfall, just after the abandoned bathroom ignites a silhouette in the chest high window. Bulldozers are giant arms of comfort. The rubble an unlit pyre of failed pyrotechnics. Fourth of July all over me. A war virgin. Afraid of fireworks.

JUDITH BUTLER'S GIVING AN ACCOUNT OF ONESELF

"If I give an account, and give it to you, then my narrative depends upon a structure of address. But if I can address you, I must first have been addressed, brought into the structure of address as a possibility of language before I was able to find my own way to make use of it. This follows, not only from the fact that language first belongs to the other and I acquire it through a complicated form of mimesis, but also because the very possibility of linguistic agency is derived from the situation in which one finds oneself addressed by a language one never chose. If I am first addressed by another, and if this address comes to me prior to my individuation, in what form then does it come to me? It would seem that one is always addressed in one way or another, even if one is abandoned or abused, since the void and the injury hail one in specific ways."