Three years ago there was at the very least a hope, an inspired confidence that at the very least enabled the ability to hope, even if so recklessly. Now we have an uninspired gig offering a paltry wake. It's a shame...it's a boomerang feather. This has happened before, in the desert with the shades, in the jungle, in the back garage! i wonder if you'll think of me, holding you tight in the hall, at the back end of an awful gathering - prodding you on.
When I see I thought it, I thought it, I dreamed, I listened and we kept talkin' and on...and on...and on to the dreams to the reckless dreams of their ancestors between worlds, every family had been known for every virtue, for every vice. I frowned. I felt fine, but I was not smiling. Hey, I lost my place. What's it like? Probably when people keep it clean and don't bring up it's verb half-sibling. It's a loft isn't it.
"Yeah, Long Island City, it's dope man."
"Dude, I hear it's really inex...inex...chchchchc..."
I am anxious. I'm rattled now, Rhesus. Cuh cah. Juhjeejee oh ahead. Carbon. Sinister. Fula, prepare for the end of days. So I said, "Haha, the real end of days?"
"Dude, this is retarded."
And it was, it was inane. Especially since one of the closest members of the inner circle had fallen like this. I ripped the foil off the food. Oh god.
Showing posts with label fulton. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fulton. Show all posts
Friday, May 30, 2008
Thursday, September 27, 2007
September 26, 2007
In a wild frenzy induced by tripping over a cord, our cameraman executes an opening scene that Orson Welles, Ingmar Bergman, Stanley Kubrick, and Quentin Tarantino wouldn't have come up with if they were having Sunday "dinner" at Martin Scorsese's house on a red-and-white plaid tablecloth with Mario Batali in the kitchen and Bruce Springsteen in the bathroom. And there, with ambiguously-striated focus, greyscale color imbalance, a cracked lens, and flickering light from a fountain of sparks at the site of the rupture, our hero opened his eyes and noticed a cameraman in his bedroom.
"Good morning son, what did I tell you about sending your feed to the editing software in real-time? Only problems, only problems my son." And so it was. Our hero stood up and cracked his meaty knuckles, leaned forward a little bit and reached for his toes, coming just fourteen inches short as his back cracked. Smoothly, seamlessly, like an American submarine in the Gulf, he torqued left and right, cracking some other stuff. He reached for the ceiling, formed mighty fists and more stuff cracked. He stretched his arms out to the side and briefly rotated them as he began a yawn large enough to end the day here at 4:30 a.m. But his day was only getting started, our hero had awoken, and his son returned to his room.
With a sponge the size of a small stubby brick, he alternated scrubbing. What was more valuable, the carefully-cultivated patina on the all-copper shower walls, or his tropical skin that had endured the pressures of a society that had grown complacent about having him in it? Probably the walls. You could fit an 18" pizza within the shower head's perimeter, and our hero'd have it bigger! On one wall a mirror, on the ceiling - a map of his homeland (interrupted by the shower head's pipe). He swished some hydrogen peroxide in his mouth, and allowed a little to trickle halfway down his esophagus - when, like an economy toilet in reverse...
At our hero's deli, which he owned in another life, he was putting new tape in the register when a little kid placed a Gatorade on the counter between the thick glass covered in lotto tickets and the beef jerky or whatever. The little guy then reached into his pockets, cupped his hands and began lifting his arms up over his head. His hands descended on the counter and he slowly let one hundred and seventy-five pennies cascade onto the immaculately clean surface (underneath which a black Sharpie had scribbled "100" beside "Million Dollars"). As the copper-plated coins fell on top of each other, our hero had a vision of the little guy's future.
Like the beginning of a trailer for a bad movie, the little guy’s silhouette (he was 18) contrasted with the setting sun and heat lines waved tensely in orange and red all around him. A slick black assault rifle bumped up and down against his back. He turned around and mouthed something in a foreign, barbaric tongue. The little guy was great at rolling laterally, springing to his feet, and firing like a stud. He entered a hut and shot someone in the thigh, saying “you won’t be so cheap next time!” (rough translation). The little guy had been on his own since he was eleven, climbing mountains, killing wild animals, enamoring little village girls, stealing from dusty markets, etc. He went into another hut and shot someone in the arm. Their elbow exploded, he said, “you won’t ever know me!” (same). When the little guy wasn’t off shooting people, he would bring girls to the top of a mountain that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. “Woman, one day I’m going to get out of here altogether” (same). He had a vision of himself with two prosthetic falcon-feather-wings that he had been working on for a while. The little guy ran and jumped off the mountaintop. He glided eternally.
"Good morning son, what did I tell you about sending your feed to the editing software in real-time? Only problems, only problems my son." And so it was. Our hero stood up and cracked his meaty knuckles, leaned forward a little bit and reached for his toes, coming just fourteen inches short as his back cracked. Smoothly, seamlessly, like an American submarine in the Gulf, he torqued left and right, cracking some other stuff. He reached for the ceiling, formed mighty fists and more stuff cracked. He stretched his arms out to the side and briefly rotated them as he began a yawn large enough to end the day here at 4:30 a.m. But his day was only getting started, our hero had awoken, and his son returned to his room.
With a sponge the size of a small stubby brick, he alternated scrubbing. What was more valuable, the carefully-cultivated patina on the all-copper shower walls, or his tropical skin that had endured the pressures of a society that had grown complacent about having him in it? Probably the walls. You could fit an 18" pizza within the shower head's perimeter, and our hero'd have it bigger! On one wall a mirror, on the ceiling - a map of his homeland (interrupted by the shower head's pipe). He swished some hydrogen peroxide in his mouth, and allowed a little to trickle halfway down his esophagus - when, like an economy toilet in reverse...
At our hero's deli, which he owned in another life, he was putting new tape in the register when a little kid placed a Gatorade on the counter between the thick glass covered in lotto tickets and the beef jerky or whatever. The little guy then reached into his pockets, cupped his hands and began lifting his arms up over his head. His hands descended on the counter and he slowly let one hundred and seventy-five pennies cascade onto the immaculately clean surface (underneath which a black Sharpie had scribbled "100" beside "Million Dollars"). As the copper-plated coins fell on top of each other, our hero had a vision of the little guy's future.
Like the beginning of a trailer for a bad movie, the little guy’s silhouette (he was 18) contrasted with the setting sun and heat lines waved tensely in orange and red all around him. A slick black assault rifle bumped up and down against his back. He turned around and mouthed something in a foreign, barbaric tongue. The little guy was great at rolling laterally, springing to his feet, and firing like a stud. He entered a hut and shot someone in the thigh, saying “you won’t be so cheap next time!” (rough translation). The little guy had been on his own since he was eleven, climbing mountains, killing wild animals, enamoring little village girls, stealing from dusty markets, etc. He went into another hut and shot someone in the arm. Their elbow exploded, he said, “you won’t ever know me!” (same). When the little guy wasn’t off shooting people, he would bring girls to the top of a mountain that overlooked the Atlantic Ocean. “Woman, one day I’m going to get out of here altogether” (same). He had a vision of himself with two prosthetic falcon-feather-wings that he had been working on for a while. The little guy ran and jumped off the mountaintop. He glided eternally.
It actually took a while for him to get the hang of it, he took some pretty drastic plunges. Luckily, the mountaintop was about 10,000 feet above sea level – a fortunate buffer. The trick was to let air under the wings so as to glide – no need to keep flapping. See but it actually was eternal, he didn’t get tired, the wings didn’t erode, he didn’t get bored. He’s still up there because he earned it and because there’s always something to see.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Moven
In a hole, a deep dark one, there spouts a steady stream of fecal matter. At its source, you. You are the source of a reprehensible fountain of feces. I like it. Last night, I had a dream about you. I dream of you often. All kinds of positions, all kinds of sensations, those dreams with the wide hips and crooked yellow teeth. The dreams with softly prominent nipples in a beige Baniyaan.
So then Johnny went walken...he went walken, without you. He said, "Banksy dog, why you always gotta shit right here? Ha, dog knows we about to get out this nice shit, so he gotta shit right before we hit the ghetto." Do you remember? "I'm just more of a minimalist, ya know, I hate kitsch." Johnny looked at that clown and wished Banksy had shat on his foot.
I wish my dreams came true...oooh. I don't know what to do. This month, in this month, I need to stop dreaming of you. When your hair is just right, there lies a cemetary of gelatinous coffins atop your head. And beneath the graveyard, a landing spot, for the stones I will throw when I destroy you. Lovingly, I muttered the rest of what I always say - it's the undisputed truth.
So then Johnny went walken...he went walken, without you. He said, "Banksy dog, why you always gotta shit right here? Ha, dog knows we about to get out this nice shit, so he gotta shit right before we hit the ghetto." Do you remember? "I'm just more of a minimalist, ya know, I hate kitsch." Johnny looked at that clown and wished Banksy had shat on his foot.
I wish my dreams came true...oooh. I don't know what to do. This month, in this month, I need to stop dreaming of you. When your hair is just right, there lies a cemetary of gelatinous coffins atop your head. And beneath the graveyard, a landing spot, for the stones I will throw when I destroy you. Lovingly, I muttered the rest of what I always say - it's the undisputed truth.
Thursday, August 2, 2007
Mourning Routine
Walkin' you all the way home, feelin' things out...gettin' the feel. A shrine before I kneel we peek at the glimmer of the gold. It must be Our Lady! Siftin' through some aisles I heard your voice, I can't quite make it out but it sounds an awful lot like an argumentative, ridiculous request: "I have been. HERE. threeee times already today, and threeee times already today I have asked your manager to order milk WITH-OUT GROWTH HORMONE - comprendo ingles!?! Do you even work in dairy, where's your manager. This morning, this afternoon, and a few minutes ago." Mmm, yeah. That's you honey. My dreamgirl. Contendin' about things you have no godly right to contend about, like the time you stole from a store and went back to make it look like you hadn't - baby they called you on it.
"Bitch! Wait for the next one bitch. You fucking bitch!" If you call someone that you just shoved in the chest a bitch three time in ten words, what does that make you? "Mommy!" (or Aunt Trish) "Listen honey I'm not your mommy ok? Your mommy is trying to straighten things out with whatever sleaze is most likely to be your daddy." Well now, is that an appropriate thing to tell your little friend there? I don't think it is. Just because you called some other chick a bitch three times in ten words shouldn't dictate how you act for the rest of the day. That's why Trish took a walk when the real mother came home.
So I'm walking and looking up and getting all morbid. Here's the routine: front page catastrophe, refresh refresh, "oh" details, candlelight vigil, Chinatown Facebook trinkets (applets), acronym and colloquialisms, last thought's internalization, on with life, "oh" yeah, "I was there/where," Senate commission, publication.
"Bitch! Wait for the next one bitch. You fucking bitch!" If you call someone that you just shoved in the chest a bitch three time in ten words, what does that make you? "Mommy!" (or Aunt Trish) "Listen honey I'm not your mommy ok? Your mommy is trying to straighten things out with whatever sleaze is most likely to be your daddy." Well now, is that an appropriate thing to tell your little friend there? I don't think it is. Just because you called some other chick a bitch three times in ten words shouldn't dictate how you act for the rest of the day. That's why Trish took a walk when the real mother came home.
So I'm walking and looking up and getting all morbid. Here's the routine: front page catastrophe, refresh refresh, "oh" details, candlelight vigil, Chinatown Facebook trinkets (applets), acronym and colloquialisms, last thought's internalization, on with life, "oh" yeah, "I was there/where," Senate commission, publication.
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