One year, twenty-three hours ago my ideas took time. Dozens of spices. A mind occupied, just so.
Am I in some experimental state of forgery? No, I live in a red state. & how do I maintain the balance sheets, my resolute informality?
It’s another day of no hope. Almost the same as hopeless, yet different, jokes turn into sleep. & it’s dreams that forgive me for almost everything but paranoia’s belated redemption, trapping me inside a force field of ambitions to blur what’s real and yield authority.
I talk thus in a low register. To get inside you my face sports a few layers of sleep relief, aching in baby, calmly accruing intimacy to belie despair over entropy, a quiet start, zero gravity.
Government dotted with its joke mirrored hot pants.
Today's highlight from D.C.’s escorts: “You can change yourself into infinity, but still get the changes to the location from where you left...” That feels clear.
Perhaps my escort suffers like me from shaving in a symbolic realm.
Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, an étude-incarnation about the plu-construction of sensibility. The plot concerns D and D-2 who meet younger D-3 with a vinyl sleeve up his private place. I’m just using this idea as a springboard to bring the étude to mystical symbolism within a rational theme of imprecise turmoil, recycling once or twice. We witness destruction of a blues pub and its improvised scaffolding, disintegrating like runic practices, flung-out interiors silhouetted in acrylic behind projections of glass screening the ‘official’ episode. However I believe we’re past the middle and nearing the end of that theme; now it’s a higher number with incidents of homesickness without inebriation, long division, complex facticity that wounds tear open and heal slowly for enduring pain and disappointment and failure, climbing uphill and sliding back down just before turning 17, biting down, gritting my teeth, growing up a little, suffering a little moving in with my parents because they like me... I just don’t worry: It’s my best urban work, a tight 100 hours of narrative casually parading as self-help boilerplate turning in polyphonic leitmotifs. It’s on an uncapped Godzillian scale, reflecting what happens when melt re-ices, raising sea levels. Just hope I have the backbone. My greatest fear is going deeper into my inner trippy, conceptual junk — I’d be dragging a palm frond around at four a.m. That would kill my parents.
Add but an eyeblush of exposed material & this seems a desperate measure, and it is, in reckless hands, yet for a silent partner like you there’s depth to surface and un-despairing perceptions of what won’t be contained. If you’re the anamorphic type, you can pick a spot in informatics and be seen as well as seem on top, breathing life, o Swami, nothing to curate nor disbelieve.
D is still a little wiped. So is D-2. D-3 is frowning, ready to be seen. D-2 is blabbing. D is a little fucked up too. “Just starting one.” “Cool.” The thing is not to get fucked up too often.
it’s re-reading you, I sense loose projectiles “got thrown” into doo (implicative space),
a retrospective you and I may now never attain.
So you never know there’s an animal that needs you.
And I should know.
Someday the male coloration returns as a she-container with tinctures or inaudible signs from a long history
of decision making, preparing us for more adhesive behavior, more speech and extra sensory anger.
It’s a speaking animal that needs you, remember — and
CVS photo counter. I know him, he knows me, I admire him, he back.
Instructions are errands, the fake story in English I never tell v. real fake.
So much like the naked around Queen Antoinette’s. They were textually modern, respectable Europeans: They undressed for success, but also survival. They avoided bosses and careers that were intellectually focused, peering back and soaking up the city among savages of their own designs.
I’m my own boss.
The flamenco troupe apologized. Horizon I wasn’t sure, darts of light & algorithm that solve you and me for x
when we let them.
Own a tuxedo.
The subtracted j-walkers return with renditions of zealous counterculture.
I’m thinking of someone’s head, until my spinal column heats up, thinking of you.
Stranger Still: Kamel Daoud and Algeria
Adam Shatz in the NYT (photo: Ferhat Bouda/Agence Vu, for The New York Times): What impressed me about Daoud’s writing, both his journalism and his novel, wa...