blog factory

there's the kind of tragedy that begins with a seemingly insignficant detail that is overlooked...the letter left unopened, the phone call unreturned, the cigarette not put out, the dog that is forgotten to be fed...that's why i totally sweat the small stuff. cuz it's the little things that have snuck up on me in the past and im not lettin that shit happen again.

when i look back a lot of the time all i can say is, 'damn, i shoulda seen it comin!'

fucking hell i'd love to have a snappy site. y'know...lots of short, witty posts about the government and my big toe.

i'd ask questions and people would answer them in the comments.

last year at this time is when i took the hinges off and thought about shuttin down the blog but instead just came out to y'all as the liar/fiction writer that i was/am and then kept paddling along, upstream style.

it's all about hard work, i told myself. get rid of your romanticized views of art and put in the hours.

the long, lonely hours, in which i reconfigure my life with words.

an act which is both the power and the glory

as well as the shit and the hole.

sometimes, when it's late in the evening and everyone's out and about,
i tell myself im sick of nearly drowning and never getting anywhere.

im tired of living as a prince among thieves and a pauper among the princes.

...and yet it's my own ego which has brought me here.

(halos were found at the landing site)



i can't believe all those people were killed by the waves,

although when i saw the headlines on monday morning i didn't feel shocked--

merely loose.

loose and alive as i walked down the avenue in my boots like it was the end of the world.

trembling blue stars

i dont wanna write or think or watch tv or talk to anyone or read or clean or anything. im just gonna smoke some xmas trees and think of u and also the pickup i want to buy.

i like making my own private summertime, with the heat turned up ridiculously high so even with my drafty ass windows i can run around in a tanktop. i can blast music and lift weights. i can pretend that the sun shining thru the skylight is the sun shining thru my sunglasses on the beach.



i've put the music on shuffle and it's all soul and eurofag, one-for-one, for what seems like hours, in a defiantly never-ending routine, kinda like a girl going forever on double dutch.

i know it's gonna mess up somewhere, ya know it'll be a country song or hip-hop, or

oh wait. here it is--sonic youth.

how suiting that they are the break in the chain.

tonite im wearing a black glove on my right hand like sterling.

im imagining that im her

with her missing fingers and her tragic past

the several different versions of herself that were unceremoniously killed off

one after another,

chopped down like trees

then strung up like corpses.



i drank all nite

my sunglasses were broken on the kitchen table

there were lighters and drug baggies

and a pan covered with burnt egg..

i looked straight into her eyes for the first time in months.

"oh," she said, as though i'd touched her.

she held my shaky gaze as i imagine she'd hold my hand

if i ever let her...


while i looked, something gave in her eyes,

something i hadn't expected to see.



"what's going to happen, TRUE?" she asked, in that high-pitched, sing-song voice of hers.

"what's going to happen with all these blogs and all these ideas we keep coming up with?"

"i don't know," i said.

i looked up into the hair that covered my eyes.

"i mean, i think i know but then it's one thing to know and another thing entirely to DO. to make HAPPEN."

i took out a blue ball point pen and wrote the many across my hand, for no good reason.

"but you wanna hear somethin?" i said, while i still had her attention.

"ok, sure, " she said.

"lookin in yr eyes just now felt like steppin thru a broken window."

"well!" she said, taking her toothpick out to laugh.

"stepping inside from outside or outside from inside?"

"outside from inside," i said.

"ok, i guess that's pretty cool," she said, with apparent satisfaction.

sometimes i cant look u in the eyes cuz mine r somewhere else.

in the winter before they were destroyed i had a recurring dream about the twin towers in which i looked up at the them from the end of a street in brooklyn and watched as a piece of the sky opened and silver sparkles cascaded down like fairy dust. at this point in the dream something very strange and very meta would always happen--i'd actually think to myself while still dreaming: "this feels like a dream or a movie. i wish i had a camera."

then it would end and id be onto the next dream or dark nothingness or whatever. i didn't get too hung up on them. maybe if they were the only recurring dreams i had...but in comparison to some of the other things broadcasting in my head, these twin tower dreams were small potatoes.

they reminded me of a hologram--a beautiful, glowing picture that you tilt slightly in order to make something happen.

i walked that street--the street of the dream--every day on my way to the train. that winter i was still on the morning shift. i'd head out when the sun was coming up. the light hung over the avenue like orange laserbeams. i passed the corner where the mexicans dudes gathered in their dusty jeans to wait for work, and the row of warehouses where behind one of those brightly painted sliding doors, a drummer banged out some serious rock n' roll solos. i passed the drunks in front of the bodega and the kids smoking the first j of the day beside the towering pile of reappropriated aluminum. i passed the immense chainlink fence of the mechanics yard, with its rusted chassis and fierce-ass doberman/rottweiler mix guard dogs. they followed me with their suspicious eyes, but had given up on the ferocious barking/shaking the fence routine, as it failed to get a rise out of me.

if at any point on the street i paused and looked up, there'd they'd be, rising up over the treetops of the park just ahead...night watchmen keeping eye on all of us and the dirty going-ons in this dirty, broken ashtray smudge of northern brooklyn.

no wonder i dreamed of them...freud said that when all is said and done most of what we dream about comes from the everyday.

just as i dully repeated what i did, day after day, the dream of the sparkles repeated itself, nite after nite...

in some ways it made perfect sense, yet the meaning for its repetition...the insistence it had in making sure it was dreamt every nite...this didn't seem to have any explanation.

then, one freezing, grey morning in which everything glowed like it was lit from within, i trudged down that street, with the broken bottles everywhere and the wind carrying around the stench of truck exhaust and black plastic bags flyin through the air like wasted wishes...i had my head down and my scarf over my face, when all of a sudden i was gripped with a need to look up. i stuck my face into the arctic blast and blinked up at the towers...and there i saw, a single bright patch of sky open above them. i stopped--stunned. for it was just like the dream...

i watched as the first powdery snowflakes of the storm fluttered down from the break in the sky...

they floated, like falling angels or bits of confetti over the tops of the towers.

and just as in the dream i wished i had a camera, although i knew there was no way anyone could take a picture that would capture the sense of scale or space...

the flakes kept falling, more and more, faster and faster, but it wasn't until i was halfway across the playing fields of mccarren park that they started falling around me.

i felt honored, blessed even as i joined the crowd of hipsters and wannabes on bedford avenue.

i never had the dream again.





unrattleable

when u cant sleep, u miss out on more than a few z's. u miss out on the little moments happening all around u. u feel wiped out, not quite in sync with yr friends and family. if yr not getting a full night's sleep, talk to yr dr about AMBIEN--the #1 prescribed sleep aid in amerikkka for more than 6 years. AMBIEN, taken at bedtime, helps u fall asleep faaaaaast, stay asleep loooooonger, and wake in the mornin rested, not strung out. talk to yr dr about AMBIEN. or call 1-800-PP5-DO-DO.

BIG BAD.

u wouldn't know it by looking at me but beneath this cool veneer i feel so amped up, brimming over with emotions...like a sad pop song played on fuzzy guitar or a punchbowl from a dead relative that u can't bare to fill with anything except whatever happens to land in there by accident--melted birthday candles, a rusty bottle opener with a cracked handle, a spare set of keys--bills you don't plan on ever opening...


bear bair bare

i want to straddle u

undo yr belt and pull down yr pants

and do u while yr dancing in la-la land with me...

i see a starscape in yr eyes

as it rises over the city...

i see the flickering shadows

cast by the sad stories

that other people trust u with...

i've decided that water is the cure for everything before it starts

like this tickle in my lungs. im gonna flood that shit out.

hey 'green loogie' would be a cool name for a kid's punk band...

like the kind that would be on a sitcom episode. silver spoons or some 80s wildly capitalistic shit like that.

those reagan years were dark days. i was too young to get the details but i got the vibe.

these days are darker.




yes, i'm aware that writing like this

with these broken-up sentences and these extra spaces between the lines does not constitute poetry.

i just like the way it looks.

but going deeper, i write like this cuz i'm constantly tracing the arc of my own thought patterns...which directly effects my ability/disability to type.

in other words i get sick of what im doing so i hit space

either that or im excited for what's next and hit space to get closer to it.

plus i like it to look like lyrics

especially the kind written by someone whose attention span

was clipped short by endless hours of mtv at an early age

(cuz u know im secretly a rock star)





anyways i gotta give it up to my big bad boy, anti. i got my boring blook from hell last friday and it's the sheeeet, mahn. it looks so, so good. of course i'd already read everything in it when it was first online but it looks amazing to see it in print. the layout and everything. there's a big b&w pic of my boy on the back cover (nice stubble) and on the cover a super-duper close-up, over-saturated pic of a fat ass hit. on the binding (which is very professional and not at all cheap and falling apart like i thought it would be) it says 'a stoner's blog turned hardcopy'.

i really like how the blog url is nowhere to be seen. nor are there credits or thank-us or a title page for that matter. or a fuckin, 'about the author' wank-off page. page one is a post, the last page is a post...they're headed by a date--no pix. just text, one post after another...it totally reads like a real book--only better, cuz anti can actually write.

i gave the book to a chick who really hates reading things on a computer screen and has therefore spent little to no time reading blogs. but she's read like, everything else in the world...in several languages. hey, she said, after thumbing through a couple pages, i like this guy. then she proceeded to read several of his posts out loud in her german accent.

lemme tell ya i got such major kicks out of that.

i sat there on the edge of my bed listening with my head cocked. it was a pretty wild experience--i was hearing the words of one friend through the voice of another. both of whom happen to be smart and funny and highly-observant as well as cynical and uncertain and confident, all at the same time.

it occured to me--it's not about country or creed...it's about being a certain kind of person...

damn, i thought. maybe there's a fabulous future in store for all of us afer all?

maybe it's really going to happen.

...all this from something called a blook. jamie and i were wondering about how it was going to look and what one could do with their blog as a book that they could hold in their hands. we didn't come to any conclusions, but agreed that it would be cool just to have it, and we were both excited to get a copy of anti's. jamie said he was waiting to order it until he could work out a plan so that anti could sign it. oh yeah, i said, cuz of course i want him to write something in my copy as well. but i placed my order when that shit was still 17.27. werd to the nerds.

so i guess i just have to go out to LA and get that shit signed in person.

whaddya say annnnnnnni?

as'd ifhsdfia'

(man i'll tell u im just in a state of flux right now...it's not good and it's not bad, just like in the song. it's just dense, yo...and complicated. i mean, it's deep when this blog feels like an anchor in the silvery swimmmmmmming sea)

life's rich pageant.

rockwitit.




peace.

idle hands are the devil's playthings.

the devil's playthings are the devil's playthings...

"falsegirl"

trueboy


i'll be yr mirror

i'll be yr plastic toy...



u be my blog.






tony pierce

i think that if i ever get rich and famous i'll still do my own laundry.


for a while i dropped it off with this lady, then i had her coming over and cleaning up after me too.

talk about losing perspective...

she'd come over at 8AM to find me doing lines off the kitchen table, eating doritos and drinking heineken as i counted the money i'd made the night before.

i liked to take each bill and press all the creases out of it before placing it neatly on the appropriate pile.

the cleaning lady would stand in the middle of the room with her coat on and stare at me as i haphazardly and unsuccessfully tried to cover up what i was doing. she listened as i went on about how i was "extremely concerned" about the birdshit splattered across the bedroom windows. and the grout in between the bathroom tiles...what could be done to get that to be a perfect white--not an off-white or almost white, but a pearly, heaven-sent white? she nodded and looked down at the floor while i spoke. i really could care less about any of those things but i thought that by taking a tone i might seem like a together kinda gal and less like the fraudulent waster that i was.

when i was done talking she nodded her head and got straight to work. it turned out she could really care less too.

the one person she hated, though, was fitz. it started right away, the first time she saw him she made tisking sounds under her breath as he flamed-out about something. she made us coffee and practically shoved the cup at him.

"hello?" he called out, his voice syrupy-sweet.

"may i have cream instead of milk for my coffee? i believe there's some on the door of the fridge...could you bring it to me, por favor?"

"i am not spanish," the woman said, clearly offended.

"my language is arabic," she said, shaking with anger.

"oh yeah?" fitz said, narrowing his eyes.

"well you're in new york now, sweetheart. you'd better hurry up and learn spanish."





mcdonald's in canada.

My edges might be raw and bleeding but deep down in my tootsie roll center im rather old fashioned.

Sex means something to me. So does friendship.

My definition of sex is a shared activity between two or more people during which at least one of them cums.

(it's similar to my definition of soda which is something that fizzes when u shake it.)

My definition of friendship is when i decide for someone.

That means that no matter what i'll keep all their secrets and get their back in a fight, and i won't hate them if they get piss drunk and break into my apartment when im asleep and secretly take a piss in the bathroom sink.

it means i'll give them money for a ticket to seattle even though i think it's a bad idea.

it means that when the food comes i won't slap their hand away if they reach for something on my plate

"help yrself," i'll say to them.

(and cuz we're friends i won't even have to say it out LOUD)

it means i'll keep silent and won't ruin the ending for them...

it means that just one minute in their arms is enough


it means that no distance is too far.

i can walk down that road forever...