Friday, August 28, 2015

Wm. Notes

This guy is American as hell.  I mean, more American than me.  THE FIRST WORD HE LEARNED WAS ‘MONEY.’  He’s lived here longer, anyway.  Got a Mark Twain mind, but boy do his stories go on; is there a point? 

Yes, I began to nod off & he called me out on it.  Called me out for that weird mullet or whatever thing I have going on, too.

Dishwashers as sterilizers—

Snakes in the jungle; a pedal-operated sewing machine; striped scarves; alpaca hair; altitude, slope.

Do you know anyone who has worked at the airport?  I don’t.

Assemblage sculpture(not dada): truck bed:(wing)bird::plane(wing):Clippers
Literature & philosophy led him to barber.  His allusion to Marquez was of overt racism I edited out.  A black man shot his daughter multiple times at the post office & she was the only to survive.

Regular haircut clients, some balding; order, play with order by cutting into the hair at specific patterns; an international rigidity that allows for chaos//Prosperity of pension, of when a good, honest living wasn’t a rip-off.

The stitching will sew the hair under the mountains for clean lines.  The stitching will patch everything together in sacred cut-up, will be left undone, inviting the audience to continue it—dangling, menacing & sharp.

Let’s continue, assuming that ‘art anymore’ is unfinished & that there’s not enough time for a beginning, middle & end—it’s never that clean.  & so his meander makes sense in its negative capability.  You still think time is linear?  It's coiled like a snake & people get sick & forget things.

Thursday, August 27, 2015


Everyone goes through it & is worried about it.

Thursday, August 20, 2015


At gauzy dusk, thin haze like cigarette smoke 
ribbons past Chrysler Building's silver fins 
tapering delicately needletopped, Empire State's 
taller antenna filmed milky lit amid blocks 
black and white apartmenting veil'd sky over Manhattan, 
offices new built dark glassed in blueish heaven--The East 
50's & 60's covered with castles & watertowers, seven storied 
tar-topped house-banks over York Avenue, late may-green trees 
surrounding Rockefellers' blue domed medical arbor-- 
Geodesic science at the waters edge--Cars running up 
East River Drive, & parked at N.Y. Hospital's oval door 
where perfect tulips flower the health of a thousand sick souls 
trembling inside hospital rooms. Triboro bridge steel-spiked 
penthouse orange roofs, sunset tinges the river and in a few 
Bronx windows, some magnesium vapor brilliances're 
spotted five floors above E 59th St under grey painted bridge 
trestles. Way downstream along the river, as Monet saw Thames 
100 years ago, Con Edison smokestacks 14th street, 
& Brooklyn Bridge's skeined dim in modern mists-- 
Pipes sticking up to sky nine smokestacks huge visible-- 
U.N. Building hangs under an orange crane, & red lights on 
vertical avenues below the trees turn green at the nod 
of a skull with a mild nerve ache. Dim dharma, I return 
to this spectacle after weeks of poisoned lassitude, my thighs 
belly chest & arms covered with poxied welts, 
head pains fading back of the neck, right eyebrow cheek 
mouth paralyzed--from taking the wrong medicine, sweated 
too much in the forehead helpless, covered my rage from 
gorge to prostate with grinding jaw and tightening anus 
not released the weeping scream of horror at robot Mayaguez 
World self ton billions metal grief unloaded 
Pnom Penh to Nakon Thanom, Santiago & Tehran. 
Fresh warm breeze in the window, day's release 
>from pain, cars float downside the bridge trestle 
and uncounted building-wall windows multiplied a mile 
deep into ash-delicate sky beguile 
my empty mind. A seagull passes alone wings 
spread silent over roofs.

me in bushwick lol