tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-243342072024-02-20T14:17:00.472-05:00Gameboy PoetryOccasional Rumination on Digital Culture & Modern Media.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger47125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-56042429982510398272007-06-11T12:27:00.001-04:002007-06-11T12:27:31.391-04:00in absentiaEvery english teacher is a failed actor, <br />an english teacher once told me- <br /><br />he was a failed poet,<br />if there is such a thing- <br />and recalled often nostalgically <br />how he held the microphone for allen ginsberg<br />in central park, <br />one summer... <br /><br />he used to shuffle about the room<br />holding the norton anthology<br />like it was a scene from hamlet<br />overpronouncing the syllables<br />and making the latino girls groan <br />when he mispronounced lorca. <br /><br />he said that poetry <br />was the conversation between<br />heart and mind<br />a transmission of emotion<br />that travelled between a world that understood <br />and one that never could<br /><br />only the emo kids got this,<br />and nodded as though they understood <br />gripping the wrists they had tried to free<br />from society's manacles. <br /><br />in the mornings, during homeroom, <br />he used to read his sonnet of the day,<br />except the day before christmas, <br />when he read My Last Duchess<br />and asked the class to consider the materialism<br />of the coming holiday season. <br /><br />once a year, in the spring<br />he held the school's annual poetry contest<br />suggesting poems for those who didn't know<br />and listening expectingly to those who did<br />when they got up to read in front of the class.<br /><br />he had a weak spot for cummings, blake, and berryman, <br />but nothing placated him like ginsberg<br />so it was not often surprising when a go-getter girl <br />read 'selections from Howl' in a manner they had practiced <br />with him on monday afternoons, <br />and thursdays<br />during the free period. <br /><br />one november, <br />it came out-<br /><br />he had been sleeping with some of the girls, <br />who had come by for help with their verses<br />and found him. <br /><br />he was investigated, arrested and indicted <br />the girls were supeonead to testify against <br />him, and cried<br />as they recalled how much they loved him<br />and didn't blame him, and how beautiful he made the words<br />for those who hadn't thought of them. <br /><br />he was found guilty. <br /><br />one weekend, his wife came to clean the room<br />taking down the photograph of whitman on the wall, <br />the somber rendering of poe in charcoal, <br />the picture of ginsberg addressing the crowd at prague<br />having just been crowned king of the may<br />back to the camera, arms raised<br />like a literary messiah.<br /><br />she took down the large definitions of poetic terms<br />from the sides of the chalkboards,<br />and brought the clumps of paper and posterboard<br />to the dumpster in the back, <br />and discarded them. <br /><br />when we got back, <br />with a new teacher, <br />with rumors of the trial floating like hungry coyotes <br />down lockered halls, <br />the only thing that remained in the room<br />was the one thing she couldn't reach:<br />'poetry <br />is the conversation between<br />heart and mind<br />a transmission of emotion<br />that travels between a world that understands <br />and one that never can'<br /><br />it never came down. <br /><br />even after the teacher was killed in prison,<br />in a fight, <br />and the school was condemned for asbestos<br />in 1995. <br />even then, <br />when the halls were gutted<br />the banners taken down, <br />the teachers and students moved<br />to a school across the street. <br /><br />even then, <br />the words remained,<br />the words of the failed poet <br />the english teacher, <br />who said that all english teachers were failed actors<br /><br />except him.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com28tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-41869762275849342322007-05-21T16:49:00.001-04:002007-05-21T16:49:17.200-04:00We are all <br />looking for love <br />or reasonable fascism.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-22401932259324894742007-05-15T17:00:00.000-04:002007-05-15T17:16:51.199-04:00What happened to your faceI was on the phone with an ex-girlfriend when a backlit man opened my door, and said my name slowly. <br /><br />"Zachary," he sighed, "Zachary..."<br /><br />I looked up from my bed, and tried to see who it was. <br /><br />"Hello?" I asked. "Hello? Who is that?"<br /><br />"Zachary there is no time." The man responded and stepped into light, "You are in great danger."<br /><br />The man was horribly disfigured. His face was grotesque. It seemed that his nose had been terribly broken in some unspeakable accident. He was carrying a large metal book, which appeared to be quite heavy because he repeatedly raised and lowered the book, struggling to reset his grip. <br /><br />"Jen," I said to my ex. "Jen, I think I'm gonna have to call you back..." <br /><br />I hung up. <br /><br />"Who the hell are you?" I asked the stranger, "And what do you want?" <br /><br />He stepped further towards. <br /><br />"Zachary, do you not recognize me?" He asked. "I am you!" <br /><br />I recoiled in fear. Me? Surely not. It was not possible. <br /><br />"I am you Zack, I have travelled back in time to give you warning. So horrible calamity is about to happen to you, if you do not avoid it." <br /><br />"Me?" I asked. "You're me?"<br /><br />He nodded. <br /><br />"What happened to your- to my, face?" I asked. <br /><br />"There's no time for that Zachary. You are in great danger. This evening, a man will approach you claiming-"<br /><br />"No seriously man, that can wait." I interjected. "What the fuck happened to your face? That's what I concerned about."<br /><br />"THERE IS NO TIME!" <br /><br />"DUDE, What the FUCK happened?" <br /><br />"Zachary, there is no time! Later this very evening, a man will approach you claiming that he-" <br /><br />"What - Happened - To - My - Face?" <br /><br />"I will tell you later..."<br /> <br />"Damn it man, tell me now!" <br /><br />"THERE IS NO TIME!" <br /><br />"I NEED TO KNOW!" <br /><br />"YOU ARE IN GREAT DANGER! LISTEN TO ME!!!!!"<br /><br />"WHAT THE FUCK HAPP-" <br /><br />The large book came crashing down on my face. It was heavy. It was crushing. I could feel my nose compress into my face. There was no time to react. <br /><br /><br />"There!" the stranger explained, "Now you know!"Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-3817694388082091302007-05-01T15:18:00.000-04:002007-05-01T15:19:06.601-04:00My Daemon<object width="450" height="400"><param name="movie" value="http://goldencompassmovie.com/goldenCompass_blog.swf?id=63136"></param><embed src="http://goldencompassmovie.com/goldenCompass_blog.swf?id=63136" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" menu="false" width="450" height="400"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-72805270239109057622007-04-09T01:40:00.001-04:002007-04-09T01:40:57.675-04:00The poetic moment has passed<br />it dwindled in the shop keeps <br />was laid off, left, downsized<br />shunted, made the small, out-of the way,<br />a corner in the mega-bookstore<br />a series of collections, <br />left in second hand book stores<br />where aged hippies smoked on the porch<br />and gestured inside that poetry was <br />'in the back' by the bathroom<br />while even now, they remembered<br />Auden on the green and could recall<br />if asked, what it had felt like before <br />poetry crested and fell away- unrequited.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-39277654467562463092007-04-07T18:05:00.000-04:002007-04-07T18:08:47.002-04:00You Don't Comment on my Poems Anymore or the Lass that Loved a Sleeping SailorThe poem I wrote when I was listening<br />to the Beatles didn't work out<br />the way I hoped it would.<br />Matt played frisbee instead <br />he gave in to the elliptical (perfect)<br />over the keys <br />and the pressure<br />the tension of writing<br />something he wanted to be good<br />or, at least, true. <br /><br />Middles are the worst parts<br />the frisbee reminded<br />resurrections are only possible when<br />the dead can rise<br />but they have to die<br />(and dying's never fun) <br /><br />I have scissors on the desk<br />and maybe I will cut this part if I don't like it <br />well, enough. <br /><br />Middles, ends, they almost move the same way<br />progressing seemingly <br />to this ephemeral conclusion<br />an artificial construct<br />things don't ever just end<br />expect people. <br /><br />And then again- <br />their ends are called,<br />not ends at all.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-24111317207802985012007-04-01T09:34:00.000-04:002007-04-01T09:46:57.720-04:00introspectionit was dawn or something like it<br />black box, light at the end, streaming<br />consciounsness, moving images, more than <br />shadows, almost corporeal, <br />if you could look through, into the place it was real<br /><br />faces absent, absorbed, <br />a boy hooking up with a girl<br />in the upper left<br />in the place where society didn't really mind<br />and smiled because society too had lost something<br />of itself in the dark hall<br />the shadox-box projected corridor, <br />the dreamscape society had loved and lived to <br />love when society was young and naive and still <br />believed. <br /><br />the man had been hacker once, <br />he was on parole and living a tough life<br />when the beautiful black woman<br />had come and tempted him back <br />for oral sex, cash, techno soundtracks<br />and the promise of eternal glory: <br />he hacked the gibson in the thirty seconds<br />with a gun to his temple, and still <br />made the benediction, and cracked NASA with a<br />smile on his face. <br /><br />Houdini, some sort of victorian wet dream, <br />for the age of the actual and still yet the <br />decieved. if he fell in the river, bundled <br />and chained, he really did fall in the river. <br />and sink and struggle and emerge from the waters<br />unfettered<br />no actor, a legend, amortal<br /><br />but did houdini really fall into the river?<br /><br />i've seen the photographs, and the posters,<br />i've seen houdini smile out from amusement park<br />rides named in his honor with cheesy senace subplots<br />he'd never had approved, <br />but still did he fall in the river? <br /><br />i was somewhere across middle earth, <br />when I remembered what the dwarves had awoke there<br />and stood back in horror to observe <br />the master of the secret fire <br />do combat with that ancient evil. <br /><br />i was the movies.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-85412499382222407792007-03-31T16:28:00.000-04:002007-03-31T16:44:04.191-04:00i don't know what you think of me but want to know because i need to know what I think of myselfi don't know what you think of me<br />i know that I'm the one standing on the desk<br />raising cheap rum to the ceiling <br />pretending i'm something. I've always liked the word presume because I presume, and hope that other people presume, and expect that if I pretend others will presume and believe in something I don't believe in, which is myself. I imagine that when new borns see me with half closed eyes all they see is future, and I hope that when I laugh with people or experience something with them, or have an adventure with friends, that I can make it worth it because it will be amplified. <br />you know me, I'm the one people know straight through and know nothing about. I give them one side, and a lot of it, <br />I have never been myself,<br />I have torn the veil, <br />I have never reached out and cut it, <br />because I couldn't reach it, <br />and didn't have a knife, <br />and was scared to cut it when I could, <br />becuase in short I was afraid. <br /><br />i'm the kid who sang in the shower, because I just needed to be heard. <br />i'm the kid who was never good at anything, especially all the things I wanted to be good at. <br />i'm the kid who needs an audience, <br />i'm the kid who is more wealthy when someone thanks me <br />or says, when I do not expect it, 'that's amazing you know, i think that's amazing'<br /><br />i've never done anything amazing in my life. <br /><br />i'm the kid who doesn't what to think about mirrors<br />i'm the kid who's hopped up on Lacan and dropping mirror stage allusions,<br />the kid who practices faces and impression against myself (like an athlete I never was)<br />i'm the kid who didn't look in the mirror for three years, because I didn't think I liked the kid i was.<br /><br />i'm the kid whose attractive in that 'this is the variable that doesn't fit' sort of way, or at least, i hope i am. <br /><br />i'm the kid who wants to be cool, <br />all i ever wanted to be told, 'was your the best'<br />all i ever wanted people to be proud of was that 'i knew him' <br />or 'he was a crazy kid, but amazing'<br /><br />i don't know who i am, <br />i identify with shadows and peter pan<br />i imagine that poetry is a woman who is starving herself down the hall from me,<br />and i need to find her, make her eat, <br />convince her of what i know,<br />tell her she's beautiful and let her grow, <br />i think poetry doesn't know how beautiful she is, <br />and has forgotten that prose is the second, uglier one that walked into the party,<br />not the ivory princess that launched a thousand ships in a verse,<br />and made prose beg forever for the lip gloss that uttered the words<br /><br />i think the poetry lost her mind or her memory<br />i can't give her a new mentality,<br />but i can remind,<br /><br />which is why all I utter is trite, cliched poetry, <br />when I'm out of my mind, or crazy, or drunk on the desk, <br />pointing to the sky, wishing she can see me and will presume, <br />pretending that I am what she presumes, <br />and not the liar-theif that wants you tell him something <br />he is so he can know what he should tell you<br />he believes. <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />i never expected for that.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-90143486037768445602007-03-25T14:24:00.000-04:002007-03-25T14:45:06.596-04:00Ridiculous Techno - Erotic Videos Part II<object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/BcK_meFtnbA"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/BcK_meFtnbA" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pasdDicu0Ms"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pasdDicu0Ms" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hw_pSs1oqIk"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hw_pSs1oqIk" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/l4sROwAZ6Jc"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/l4sROwAZ6Jc" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br />And this one's just hilarious<br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/SCcoOe_oA-E"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/SCcoOe_oA-E" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-33654450200898908342007-03-08T14:28:00.000-05:002007-03-08T14:29:09.314-05:00Dream (I felt the colors repugnant <br />and fell backwards through the well<br />and was cascaded<br /> like wine from a decanter <br />into a glass I could not see<br /><br />it was a green & dream<br />but not like christmas, no, indeed<br />the world was suddenly a field <br />I played soccer on once <br />in Ipswich, by a small <br />1- lane highway and a 7-11<br /><br />but the highway was not there <br />(and neither was the store<br /> I recall) <br />and everywhere around the field <br />was corn, where we lost the ball.<br />A friend kicked it far, high, <br />soaring over the goal, and I, <br />the goalkeeper, went to get it.<br /> between the stalks I saw <br /> a light,<br />but could not for anything<br />find the ball.<br />The corn bent high and low in the wind<br />and I was in Ohio) <br /><br />(Once in a dream I cannot place, <br />I was on a road in Ohio<br />a road I'm sure I could find<br />if needed on an older map. <br />I was bicycle, on it, that is suddenly<br />a yellow bike with thin black lettering<br />reading 'wasp' in a momentary<br />moonbeam. <br /><br />I rode north, a crossroads unfolded<br />there was a green sign: <br />cleveland 20 pennslyvania 5<br />you are here and a map <br />that had blurred in the rain. <br /><br />I took a dirt road, that appeared<br />between the choices i was afforded<br />and walked northeast, the wasp<br />was gone. <br /><br />It was a long and twisting road,<br />beech trees aged and yawning wide<br />threw up arms that sagged with concern <br />for some event long since past.<br /><br />Ahead, an old house, blue, though the<br />paint was chipping from grey wood<br />and left the house naked with pock marks<br />like a sick grandfather,<br />smiling through the pain.<br /><br />i stopped, there were two men,<br />digging up, two graves, four feet into<br />the mild earth they looked up and glared<br />Ankou! <br />I had a bike again, <br /> between my legs with heavy <br />feet that would not move,<br />behind the men were scampering out <br />brandishing cold metal and screaming <br />Ankou!<br /> the legs sprung suddenly to life<br />I cast off and rode back like<br />the wind through the screaming beeches<br />with boughs a fury. <br /><br />the scene became a street in a <br />town I used to live in <br />the street unmarked but I knew it <br />was named River ave.and catching <br />my breath, graveyard behind, <br />I saw a girl I had been in <br />love with in middle school once <br />and she smiled and said)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-35948040253693856762007-02-25T19:57:00.001-05:002007-02-25T19:57:37.394-05:00friends are the only ones who let you down and that's why they're friendsAmerica east side providence risd inside the white room. <br />ideology uncertain tall blonde gorgeous inside the white room. <br />40 (ppl) abbreviated jumping singing dancing they know the words inside the white room. <br />she can't feel her hands he can't feel his face both feel each other inside the white room. <br />dirty bathroom drinks $1 free if you know tony or say you do inside the white room. <br />sunglasses black hair brown shoes ironic t-shirt silkscreen <br />from a paper bag drinking your eyes<br />they won't let go, they just feel her whole body <br />inside the white room. <br />on psycadelic dementia man in the corner only recognizes red <br />on euphoric hope girl in the bathroom smears the lipstick red<br />on incidental curiousity new boy gapes wide eyed and red<br />on intentional feeling they won't let go nowhere to go let's just go<br />inside the white room. <br />she the one he wanted was <br />he the one she didn't imagine or know was<br />they america east side didn't expect was something out of oblvion<br />inside the white room. <br />he another, tall blonde standing with drinks mojito he knew tony<br />drinks free if you knew he was the one that made the world round turn & turn<br />the blonde isn't he obvious was god defiant <br />the fallen deity angel-sheared and hipstered<br />a neuter providence americana experiment gone awry and washed <br />down the pipe lines of society satan <br />inside the white room. <br />he the other the lover knew which way was out but couldn't convince his mind <br />to make the steps as he clutched her oh how he wanted her <br />if he could only have her would she remember him<br />did she know him goddamn and goddamn who cares <br />he struggled to the door and pulled her here he said here <br />and the went out from the dissonance and the punishment<br />inside the white room. <br />it was whizbang in the corridor a sort of pollack in dynamic 3d <br />spitting white boys trying rap to try to impress the angry white girls <br />who didn't know why they weren't back <br />inside the white room. <br />it was a composition in green white &red<br />that's what he told her that's what she said<br />when the got back to a dorm room he said <br />he knew the owner its my friend he said<br />she didn't know what the fuck that's what she said<br />it was inside outside the end is too cliched who wants to hear about the obvious<br />the expected conclusion nay or may have transpired why do you care <br />the he and the she if they turned out a we then why would you care<br />what happened to me, back before we, back he + she, <br />back blonde and tall in the corner dreaming on pychosis <br />and putrid poets spitting rhymes without girls respect<br />back satan and static one thousand wishes and revisions<br />and wishes for revisions all sifted and unsaid in time <br />the moments recollected were something else in <br />there the recollected unrevised the edition left unprinted<br />the devil knew tony gave drinks for free if you knew him<br />providence risd side east america <br />inside the white room.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-66984362847688870292007-02-22T17:20:00.001-05:002007-02-22T17:20:21.880-05:00introducing the book<object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xFAWR6hzZek"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xFAWR6hzZek" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-18119628827953207472007-02-12T01:36:00.000-05:002007-02-12T02:00:30.782-05:00i like running in my robe,<br />seeing my shadow showing the robe <br />thrown out behind me in the wind.<br />don't say it, but you're exactly right, <br />i look like a wizard running across the quad.<br /><br />academics used to dress like this-<br />they still do, in some places of the world<br />where knowledge is coat and tie affair<br />not something casually lectured to kids<br />in uggs and sweatpants, checking their email<br />on macintosh notebooks. <br /><br />[i get the feeling that people are feeling sad<br />in keeney, a friend came by on his way to a long walk<br />it was 1:41 in the morning, a long walk meant<br />an hour plus- with headphones, listening to something<br />indiscrinable, there's something in the water I <br />promise you.]<br /><br />i am foolish as hell <br />i want to major in love. <br /><br />the way a dove shook down on me<br />her feathers, reminded me she was <br />an angel when the phone rang and she <br />had to go, tip-toed around the fact <br />that she was not in her room, and left <br />me sad and smiling simultaneously. <br /><br />there's a suggestive illustration <br />on a dance album my brother gave me<br />and my mind dreams of x-wing fighters<br />attacking a death star that is made of <br />my professor's emails. <br /><br />a sailor's life is drowsy <br />and insatiable when the weathers<br />down and the waters cold, frozen,<br />forbidding, <br />Still. <br /><br />i had a dream that we were <br />film noir, trusted private eyes<br />that talked like the maltese falcon<br />real Humphrey Bogart<br />in a room that was nothing like our <br />room except that it had our flag, <br />with the triple x's<br />and a Botticelli- framed in gold, <br />but you couldn't tell because it was <br />a black and white dream. <br /><br />a few boys from the hall<br />messed up the bathroom real good. <br />it was a twisted cavern listern <br />now. <br /><br />i asked the boys what they made of it<br />and they laughed like they hadn't done <br />and said stuff like 'if i did this,' <br />'if I had done this,' or 'I would'<br />and other hypotheticals,<br />I told them to defend it as art <br />and they agreed.<br />they laughed and confessed that they <br />would call it an art thing, 'if they got<br />caught' 'if they had done it' <br /><br />a stillness hangs in the air that is <br />uncanny. the heats on, and on high, <br />we dream of arabic women from persian<br />harems that tempt good christian men<br />from their foolish religion. <br /><br />i felt the floor for a couple of hours, <br />and told my joy that the word was tactile<br />'tactile, joy, it's all so tactile' <br />'foolish,' I later explained, 'it was all so foolish' <br /><br />i willed myself to boston. <br />i tapped into the core that will run <br />even when the interface will not<br />atm, pin number password, how to ride<br />an electric chain, train, <br />cognizant just enough to know that i <br />needed to get to the University<br />listening jsut enough to hear a man <br />tell another man that he needed the b line<br />and I followed that advice. <br /><br />love, is the spirit, that moves the great<br />waves, it is the storm off the coast that<br />we're all waiting for. <br /><br />the surfers, and the sailors, and the mothers,<br />and the runners, and the teachers, and the firemen. <br />because life's just more interesting when there's a storm on. <br />always, it gives you a chance to remember who you are,<br />what's inside. <br /><br />nice days are a distraction, a flirt, <br />a promise, but no assertion. <br />the storm reminds you who you are, <br />what you have inside to entertain yourself. <br /><br />the robe's out rippling behind me,<br />i like running in it, <br />i feel like a wizard,<br />i feel like an ancient scholar,<br />an academic, <br />i feel like me, and smile <br />to remember myself.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-58264385361675681262007-02-08T00:36:00.000-05:002007-02-07T02:02:43.569-05:00Valentine’s day snuck up on me like some homeless guy at a train station. I turned around when I registered the stench and heard the shuffle of social obligation.<br /> <br />“Spare Change?” He asked cruelly, unconsciously demanding.<br /><br /> I squeezed by him without contact, painfully avoiding the conversation hearts, Disney valentines and required bouquets of flowers. The paragon of prepackaged amorous obligation excused me from its requirement as conscientious objector.<br /><br /> I spent the day like a horse with blinders, carefully filtering the images of the day to a level I could deal with. Some girl came up to me with pink hearts painted on her eyes and asked if I’d be her Valentine. I flipped her off, but not before reacting with a look of awkward isolation.<br /><br /> The day passed painfully slow. I wasted three class periods while the teacher went around the room with candy and questions.<br /><br /> “And who is your valentine, Jack?” my teacher asked sweetly, a siren of temptation with a bowl of m&ms. <br /><br /> I flipped her off, but not before shouting, “fuck your contrived corporate capitalism” at the top of my lungs.<br /><br /> I spent the rest of the day in the Dean of Discipline’s office discussing my comments to Ms. Shreigger. I apologized for the outburst, and for my disillusionment. I expressed my condolences that that Dean was forced to be a middleman in the American capitalistic system. A yes man, I may have said, pausing only to take a watermelon Jolly Rancher from his famous bowl of confectionary.<br /><br /> The Assistant Headmaster had me sent to the School Psychiatrist. The shrink identified with me quietly, confiding that he really didn’t “dig” the whole Valentine’s Day thing either. I asked where he went to college. He said Dickinson. We talked about Pennsylvania and water-skiing before he filled in a piece of paper “recommending” that I be able to return to class. I shook his hand, he winked at me, I got weirded out and left in a hurry.<br /><br /> I skipped advisory, Church assembly and my ‘afternoon obligation’. The athletic director put a note in my box explaining that if I missed one more Squash practice, I would be removed from the team and disciplined.<br /><br /> Dinner was Macaroni & Cheese with Meatloaf. I asked the student server where they came up with the combinations. He said he didn’t know, that I should eat what I was given and shut the fuck up. I asked him if they had any cupcakes without hearts on them. He said they didn’t.<br /><br /> “Besides,” the student server continued, “A heart’s not gonna kill you.”<br /><br /> I told him to shove the cupcakes up his ass and flipped him off. The Dean of Discipline saw me do it, and demanded that I spend the rest of dinner assisting the student server.<br /><br /> I got back to my room, had study hall and sketched Anime characters that I remembered from my youth. A friend stopped by and asked if there was anything I needed.<br /> <br />“Got any porn?” I asked gently.<br /><br /> “Sure, but why do ya need it?” He responded.<br /><br /> “It’s Valentine’s day.” I explained softly. “And I’d really like to make it special.”Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-69441521990891732102007-02-07T01:56:00.000-05:002007-02-07T02:02:43.708-05:00in haiku or something like it, some thoughts I had before I went to sleeppart of waking up early<br />is seeing what the world looks like<br />with sex in her hair<br /><br />part of sleeping late<br />is pretending that the world only<br />includes the two of you<br /><br />part of taking a nap<br />is remembering that the girl is<br />probably running somewhere<br /><br />part of staying up late<br />is knowing that the term 'midnight<br />oil' is total bullshit<br /><br />part of waking up to an alarm<br />is smiling when you think about the times<br />you didn't have to.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-81646456563530532232007-01-28T19:26:00.000-05:002007-01-28T19:27:22.848-05:00It's a metaphor (a haiku)I pulled the arrow<br />out of the dripping wound<br />but the damage had been done.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-32685704415570600392007-01-24T02:23:00.000-05:002007-01-24T02:24:46.953-05:00i was thinking about your pillow<br />when i looked at the snow<br />and thought 'the problem with the pillow<br />is that the pillow is mostly slept on,<br />but rarely slept with'<br />what a poor pillow,<br />dealing with the sweat and grit,<br />the blood and the tears-<br />and it is not any pillow<br />(for pillows are not interchangable)<br />that pillow has a history,<br />that pillow has been written on a hundred times<br />that pillow has been washed<br />but you can't take experience out of a pillow<br />pillows remember the tears,<br />pillows remember when the two heads<br />were better than one-<br />the pillow remembers being stripped<br />the pillow remembers sleeping around<br />(just for the first semester, it was a naieve time)<br />the pillow remembers the beds<br />the beds that were nice,<br />and those that were hard, callous,<br />unfeeling<br />the pillow remembers the music in the morning<br />the sweeping of waves along the ocean<br />(both the real, and the unreal)<br />(both the ones that were dreamed about,<br />and the waves that crashed incessantly<br />in the still room three stories up, a mile<br />from the beach, with no noise besides the boy<br />beside, sleeping and dreaming love<br />in uncertain proportions)<br /><br />that pillow is just a pillow,<br />but what if it was a metaphor?<br />we, we who float six inches above<br />the ground dreaming, and walk a foot below<br />the ground when our thoughts are sad,<br />we-<br />we are the poets, and princesses,<br />and runners that attribute meaning to things<br />we find close to one another.<br />and in the electric midnight air (or 1 am air,<br />or 2 am air,<br />I really don't know when it was,<br />but I was beside you (the boy you will<br />remember) and didn't care)<br />then, in that air,<br />I said the word was charged-<br />the name was charged-<br />it was filled with meaning<br />the pillow is more than a pillow<br />it is a metaphor,<br />a stand in for someone I believe in<br />a person who got slept on<br />but not with,<br />and I put my hand under the pillow<br />that pillow, not any pillow,<br />the one with the story,<br />and the mystery, and the narrative<br />I cannot read,<br />and I whisper into the pillow<br />and cry into it,<br />'you are beutiful,<br />you are dawn,<br />you are the first snowflake,<br />the electricity in a neon sign,<br />you are happiness,<br />when my head is on you,'<br /><br />and i will sleep with forever,<br />but never on,<br />I believe.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-28043647133769131792007-01-19T23:49:00.000-05:002007-01-19T23:57:33.295-05:00three sonnets in the soduku style<span style="font-weight: bold;">one. </span><br />In terms of apples, your last story was an orchard<br />I wandered through the trees<br />Picking the most delectable fruit.<br />I carried a ladder on my shoulder<br />and used it to climb the trees that were high.<br />I lay in the boughs,<br />reading,<br />up where the apples touched the sky.<br />In terms of clouds, your first story was a hurricane,<br />and the second, a nimbus- tightly wound,<br />but as for the last, well, the last was an orchard,<br />either in terms of apples,<br /> or of clouds.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">two. </span><br />The following woman is unscripted,<br />she trespassed on the shoot<br />and found her way into<br />a scene,<br />there- you can see her.<br />She's the one in the back wearing<br />the brown baret, the pageboy cap,<br />as though she had a part in the movie.<br />If you're not paying attention,<br />you don't even notice her,<br />she fits in, like, ,<br />but the studio would not have it,<br />'that woman was unscripted' they said,<br />'do the scene right'<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">three. </span><br />I realized suddenly,<br />that all my poems would have sounded<br />better, if Ogden Nash or W.H. Auden<br />filled the by-line<br />and included them in a collection<br />or on a recording<br />distinguished by their<br />aged voices.<br />My, this poem itself,<br />would seem an insight-<br />and of interest, if<br />only, Auden or Ogden<br />could have found the time<br />to read it.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-17100432406820894442007-01-19T23:32:00.000-05:002007-01-19T23:36:43.947-05:00dissonance in the stop & shopI have always admired the seafood<br />section of the stop & shop,<br />the lobsters sit complacently,<br />except for the single naysayer<br />who climbs incessantly and no doubt<br />whispers 'the end is near'<br />to the rubber-banded brethern.<br /><br />A tank away, some crabs<br />have already met their maker.<br />Their detached claws lanquish<br />on processed ice for the erudite<br />shellfish afficionado.<br /><br />Behind them, a pile of FRESH!<br />Clams lay, like a strange Dali painting<br />explained with the sign FRESH!<br />LIVE CLAMS, wild caught<br />as though the shellfisherman tracked these<br />clams and flushed them out of the tidal<br />flats using only his bare hands and an old<br />trusty clam rake-<br /><br />(my, what a champion a man like that must be!)<br /><br />a woman behind me, noticing my uneasy<br />and engaged pause, breaks into my moment<br />and decries the seafood.<br /><br />“This isn't the place to buy seafood honey”<br />she tells me,<br />“If you want them fresh, go to Anthony's.”<br /><br />I ask her if they have wild caught clams there<br />she looks unsure, but answers yes.<br /><br />I thank her for the advice,<br />and press my hand close against the<br />glass of the lobster tank to engage<br />the disengaged, shackled<br />crustacens.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-33047027748574637412007-01-09T17:29:00.000-05:002007-01-09T17:58:23.367-05:00Techno is the porn of the music worldThe following is a gratuitious collection of near pornographic techno music videos. They are posted in the name of cultural studies, for, techno videos strangely seem to feature permutations of the same pornographic content despite being made years apart and by different artists. <br /><br />What is it about Techno that suggests SEX in capital letters? <br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/06tvsGxaZVc"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/06tvsGxaZVc" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Benny Benassi - Satisfaction</strong> <br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/X0X0CQTgFyY"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/X0X0CQTgFyY" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Eric Prydz - Call on Me</strong><br /><br /><strong></strong><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/7LjbbhXSOQE"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/7LjbbhXSOQE" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br /><strong>Vinylshakerz - One Night in Bangkok</strong>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-40240870656280455052007-01-08T23:47:00.000-05:002007-01-09T17:18:03.775-05:00Facebook Relationships & the Apocalypse: Dating in Ones and ZeroesMy libido is at an all-time high on account of access to Cherry Coke. You’re wondering how this fits in. I’m sitting in front of a computer about to change my relationship status on Facebook, and I’m scared out of my mind. <br /><br />Once upon time, before Facebook.com or the need to propagate a digital identity, people declared relationships only so far as it was necessary. Homies might ask a friend if he was dating the girl he was sleeping with. Girls might ask what the deal was with the boy they’d seen stalking their sister. Parents, invariably, would ask “do you have a boyfriend?” in a tone that was at once incriminating and inviting. (“Yes mom, I do, he’s 23, owns a Ducati motorcycle, a apartment by the Brooklyn Bridge, and drives up here twice a month to have sex with me.”) In short, these were simpler times. At best, you were committed to someone with the verbal admission of ‘being in a relationship’ and at worst, other people were aware of this.<br /><br />Of course, it didn’t take long for the iPod generation to reinvent dating statuses. Given their comfort on the computer and their willingness to engage in orgies of online, instant messaging, it seemed inevitable that kids would start defining their relationship statuses via the web. With personal podcasts, relationship blogs, and match-making websites available for global consumption, dating had become very much a part of the digital landscape. Websites like MySpace initiated a wave of people defining themselves in terms that anyone on the internet was capable of discovering. It wasn’t that MySpace was the first forum to do this, it’s just that that’s where it started to get interesting. <br /><br />A couple of months ago, Facebook.com made a number of changes that fundamentally altered the way the service worked. Before, college kids had rocked out on photo posts of drinking everything imaginable and by messaging one another between digital “walls” where only a person’s friends could see what was written. This was the swinging 60’s of Facebook.com. People posted photos of raw debauchery and thought little of it. Only once Pornography moguls, potential employers, and Hilary Clinton got a Facebook did things become a problematic. Suddenly, Facebook was open to everyone. Teamed with a dreadful creation called the newsfeed, which digitally shared a user’s actions and profile changes with friends, Facebook was suddenly a world of harsh exposure. The naked people drinking and dancing in the digital bohemia had been rudely cataloged and reported. Gone was the golden age of unaccountable, unconcerned documentarians. In its stead, the age of the Facebook feed-er had begun. <br /><br />But back to me. Sitting in front of my computer, things are about to get dicey. For a while now, my Facebook relationship status has been an empty field, failing to appear under my posted personal information. In this day and age, with Facebook stalking at the level of modern art, every detail on my pixilated profile is up for interpretation. Nuance and experience have suggested that the relationship status is the absolute pivot point for the Facebook page. After a person (or a group of people) has methodically rated your looks based on tagged photographs, the relationship status is what will separate the men from the boys. <br /><br />If you are single, and wish to share this under your provided information, you have many options. The one that will simply, all-out, never do, is the most obvious. You can never declare yourself as simply “SINGLE.” This looks desperate. Instead, declare yourself to be in an open relationship with Donna Summers or something else funny. At best, leave it blank. Mystery is, and will always be, the best way to attract other crazy people that are available for dating/hook-up/kinky engagement purposes.<br /><br />But again, let’s talk about me. For me, declaring myself to be in a relationship (not a joke one with Pikachu, Yoda, or Foghorn Leghorn, but a real one) means an absolute end to my sexual autonomy in the world. The moment that I change the status on Facebook, every one of my friends will be notified of the change via the ubiquitous newsfeed. What’s more, anytime some cute girl down the hall decides she’s up for a hook-up and thinks I might be game, she may be confronted by my digitally verified commitment. Ignorance of adultery becomes noticeably more difficult. <br /><br />So what are the perks? Well, most notably, the same problems I’m dealing with will also plague the person who I getting into a relationship with. Suddenly, her friends know that she is committed and are strangely willing to look out for me, even if I am not present or they do not know me. Also, other moral-free men like myself may be put off making a move on my new girlfriend. But mainly, the perks of declaring a relationship on Facebook is the brief flurry of excitement, notoriety, and celebrity that accompanies the announcement. Your guy friends take the time to check her out with her tagged photos and to rate her on your wall. (“dude! new girl = nice work. She’s prob a 8.5/ 9 on a good day. You tap that yet? ;) ” ) Her friends friend you and do the same ( “Honey… congrats on the new bf. He looks really sweet” ) Ultimately, you feel like Bennifer or Brangelina for a day. You are also, however briefly, in a confusion-free state. What’s my relationship status? I don’t know, check my Facebook. <br /><br />Keeping up with the Orwellian irony of it all, declaring a relationship on Facebook is a lot like buying something from Amazon.com. First, you change relationship status to “In a relationship” from a drop-down menu. Next, you are asked to fill in the name of the person you are dating. Facebook’s gerbil-driven search combs its archives and finds out if someone is registered under the alias you have provided. Finding a list of girls with the same name, Facebook will ask you to “Choose your girlfriend.” Responding to its prompt, I pick my recently won spouse, and move on. Facebook photo glittering, I click “Add as girlfriend” and complete the process. A confirmation email will soon be sent to my gf for formal certification. There’s no fooling around. Facebook wants to make sure that this relationship is seriously understood but both parties. This, after all, is a sort of contract. <br /><br />“Add as girlfriend” didn’t strike me as weird until I was on Amazon.com a little later. (Apart from my new girlfriend, I have few friends and spend hours wasting time and money on the World Wide Web). After finding the “book” I was looking for I formally purchased it by pressing a button titled “add to cart.” The connection was eerie. Had Facebook really used the same language as Amazon? Had I purchased a girlfriend? I checked out my status on Facebook. I logged on, and tried to edit my relationship status. That same piece of information that had precipitated a flurry or fame and notoriety suddenly seemed like an creepy intrusion of the computer world into my own life. Facebook seemed to be growing closer to Kubrick’s HAL by the minute. Sure enough, while trying to change back my relationship status to single (just for a test mind you, my relationship was going quite well) I was confronted by a strange message. “Do you want to cancel your relationship?” <br /><br />Cancel?! What the hell had I got myself into? This girl was not a magazine subscription. I couldn’t just cancel her. Moreover, how the hell do you cancel a relationship? (I’m sorry. This just isn’t working. It’s not you, it’s me- and I think we should cancel our relationship”) Flashes of digital hell flashed in my mind. Was this the Matrix? Was Blade Runner automating my dating? I couldn’t deal with my current situation- I needed to take a stand and change things on Facebook. <br /><br />A few days later, my girlfriend changed our relationship to “It’s Complicated.” One of three possible options for those who are “an item,” the “it’s complicated” terrain is by far the most unstable and confusing. We’d talked about it, but I was still lost in the ambiguity. Complicated suggested falling apart. I thought we were in love, I thought we’d talked about things, but just like that the “in a relationship” status had been pulled out from under my feet. I was losing my girlfriend to a Brave New World. I didn’t know where to turn- I went for a round of Google stalking. <br /><br />Hopped up on Cherry Coke, the libido screams for satisfaction. You’re wondering how this fits in. I have yet to get off the computer. My relationship is currently ones and zeros. Facebook has made me a socialized machine.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-59976616632917147412007-01-02T03:12:00.000-05:002007-01-02T03:19:37.331-05:00Romances of a Digital IdentityI was walking back from a rehersal for Shakespeare on the Green and I had the idea for this short film. Splice together segments from the Matrix, Hackers and Star Wars to create the modern romance. Later, while indulging in intense consumerism at the Providence Place Mall, I had the first conceptualization of the digital romance. Traditionally, the romance was understood from a chivalric model. What was introduced from courtly love and the Morte d'Arthur eventually grew into a celebrated genre of human thought- the passionate tales of love and how love is to be pursued and manifested in society. <br /><br />The advent of the digital age fundamentally changed the way the world worked, but has yet to truely pierce the heart of the romance. Looking at these high-tech, sci-fi classics only exposes this understanding. While the romances take place with a new techno-eroticism and allow for the pixel to co-exist with the passion, the digital age has not really changed the romance. Luke has a new excalibur in a light saber, Neo needs love to be resurrected, and Crash Override can only be humbled in his love for the girl. <br /><br />Has the digital age changed romanticism? Or is this just LCD screens and chivalry? <br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"> <param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/f28sjfOtxoQ"> </param> <embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/f28sjfOtxoQ" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="350"> </embed> </object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-67739908635316098512007-01-02T03:06:00.001-05:002007-01-02T03:11:29.688-05:00people don't believe in poetry anymorepeople don't believe in poetry anymore.<br /><br />They did once,<br /> when they were little<br /> when they still believed in fairies and<br /> clapped through performances of peter pan<br /> begging Tinkerbell<br /> <br /> <span style="font-style: italic;"> breathe!</span><br /><br />Poetry was part of that life they lived<br /> before DARE programs or cynicism,<br /> before dances, before Holden Caulfield,<br /> before people told them they couldn't just like it-<br /> before people told them there was something else in it.<br /><br />Poetry was an imaginary friend<br /> he was the late night joker under the sheets<br /> she was his first kiss,<br /> he was a pirate, a king, a knight in shining armor<br /> she was a princess, a queen, a knight in shining armor<br /><br />there were faces peeking out from commas<br />and sword fights in exclamation points<br />there were castles in stanzas<br />ships in hyperbole, alliterative adventures,<br /> white chalk on black asphalt<br /> words formed and existent forever<br /> reclaimed by nature in a drenching rain<br /><br /> but always there.<br /><br />Poetry was what they begged<br /> their fathers & mothers & brothers & sisters<br /> & aunts & uncles & neighbors & babysitters<br /> to read.<br /><br /> (Just read what this says<br /> read it again,<br /> what do they mean?<br /> What happened before that?<br /> Where do the pirates sleep?<br /> (How come it sounds so pretty?))<br /><br />Poetry was bedtime, mornings, the wheels on the bus,<br /> the light through the trees changing outside the brick school<br /><br />Poetry was the tear in Dad's eye<br /> (this one always gets me)<br /> the confession, the slow sigh, the laugh,<br /> the enlightened twinkle, the never ending conclusion,<br /> the end too soon-<br />(I think that's enough for tonight)<br /><br />(no,<br /><br /> no it's not)<br /><br />On the bus home, down the sidestreets,<br />Poetry was the wind on the road<br />it was laughter, it was hopscotch,<br /> a trite norman rockwell moment<br /> a raw experience they wouldn't find the words to<br /> until years later.<br /><br />Poetry was a passion that no one else understood.<br />It was sneaking up to the beach for the full moon<br />climbing onto the garage roof and watching the fireworks,<br />repeating the sentences when the night was cold<br />writing the words when the day was alone.<br /><br />Poetry was what happened to them when<br />Dad got back from work<br /> and told them to put the book away<br /> (I think it's time...)<br />It was what happened between the lines<br />when the teacher asked them<br />what it was really about.<br />It was what happened outside the dance<br />when they spit blood for the first time<br /> and sat alone on the car ride home<br /> answering that (yes the dance was good)<br /> and that (no I did not dance with the girls)<br /><br />It was the lie about the fat lip,<br /> It was the sob that escaped in the room<br /> It was the conviction, it was the understanding,<br /> It was the brazen foresaking, it was the silent withdrawal<br /> <br /> It was a shrug.<br /><br /><br />(I think that's enough for today)<br /><br />(no,<br /><br /> no it's not)<br /><br />Poetry what was died<br /> when there were no longer dragons in the forest<br /> when santa stopped being real questionable line.<br /> when a word became only a word<br /><br />Poetry was what stopped keeping them up at night<br /> with the certainty that a monster was under the bed<br /> with the conviction that the cliché was always possible important line, cause you indulge in cliches<br /> with the understanding that there was something separate<br /> called the ideal.<br /><br />It was when the shadow stopped being a friend<br />the night became just a night<br />dawn lost her meaning<br />the summer was no longer fireflies<br />and magic, just books you had to read<br /> and arguments.<br /><br />Poetry was what they stopped listening to<br /> believing in,<br /> writing,<br /> reading,<br /> hoping for.<br /><br />Poetry became the unexplained.<br /> The toys that mom threw out when she was cleaning the attic,<br /> the baseball card collection.<br /> it was something they used to do,<br /> and confessed sheepishly that they had believed<br /> and laughed with the others who too had believed<br /> and condescended.<br /><br />Poetry was the unmistakable whisper that they heard<br /> when they walked through the buzz of life<br /> and felt disconnected again,<br /> it was the surging of unbridled emotion that told them<br /> (you are in love!)<br /><br /> but still they did not believe.<br /><br />It was a tingling before they knocked on the door<br />the sudden belief that the moon was more than the moon<br /><br />the unexpected, uncontrolled desire to run and never stop running<br />it was the understanding that the words were written for them:<br /> (you, yes you,<br /> I wrote this for you)<br /><br />Poetry was what happened when they lived how they wanted to<br />Poetry was what taught them they could fly,<br />Poetry made them heroes<br />Poetry kept them up all night clapping and screaming<br /> <span style="font-style: italic;">Breathe! Damn it! I want you to Breathe! </span><br /><br />But mostly, people don't believe in poetry anymore.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-24750633633864466522006-12-25T20:54:00.001-05:002006-12-25T20:58:51.698-05:00Indefinite BohemiaI got a pair of GEEK boxer shorts for christmas and it makes sense. In the four days I have been off from school I have accomplished one thing beside buying presents for the family: I now know how to podcast. So forgive me this first adventure. It's a crazy little demo I did on the Lapple featuring Epic Trance and T.S. Eliot. For those of you out there who remind me to stay out e, adderrol and what-not, here's a reminder to keep on reminding. You have no idea what craziness I can get up to when I'm alone.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.ourmedia.org/node/278333">Indefinite Bohemia</a>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-24334207.post-1159670348221235802006-09-30T22:32:00.000-04:002006-09-30T22:39:08.316-04:00Darth Vader Calls The Emperor<table xmlns="http://purl.org/atom/ns#" border="0" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0"><tr><td colspan="2"><embed id="VideoPlayback" src="http://video.google.com/googleplayer.swf?docId=-6021365693605761325&hl=en" style="width:400px; height:326px;" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"> </embed></td></tr><tr/><tr><td>Darth Vader Calls The Emperor after the death star blows up.<br /> </td></tr></table>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0