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(a deep, modern retrospective)

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it has been about 8 months since we started working on this apartment and it was only today that i finally set up a bed in my room and installed a light bulb. unfortunately the switch for this light is in a separate room, so for now i have to bend the sleeve of my shirt over my hand and screw it on and off, but that's better than no light at all.

for the past 7 months I had been a waiter at an expensive and casual restaurant near the Holland Tunnel in TriBeCa until I was fired on my birthday via text. I will always remember that immediately upon turning 24 my whole shabby method of sustaining myself, my rope bridge between indecision and adulthood, fell inexplicably into the void.

i haven't really thought about it too much, nor have I been particularly hurt by the news, but still, it's kind of degrading.

yesterday I sat in the second floor seating level of the Whole Foods down the street for two hours. I ate sushi and drank chocolate and talked about hipsters and movies and music and zines with two guys younger than me when I should have been applying for jobs at some office or other. The day before I had an uncanny sense of my own ability but it all seems to fall apart like a papercraft pelican when confronted with what appears to be the available series of opportunities. i'm too old for recent graduate training programs at Deustche Bank and I'm too poor to invest in anything other than my stomach, which is empty anyway.

Perhaps I'll read the New York Times and respond to an article every day until they publish some of my thoughts. Maybe someone will give me 150k to start a s'mores store. Marla's dad needs construction workers and Pies n' Thighs needs boys to pick up chicken bones off tables so more people can sit down and eat more chicken. These aren't options; these are the rippling actions of others dancing before my eyes like silly ghosts. Taco gondolas.

The only thing worse than feeling infinitely indecisive is knowing that everybody is just waiting for you to get over it or fail quietly. People can only take so much of other people's problems before their skin grows tiny teeth that growl against understanding. I can't blame them.

In Africa being gay is considered an abominable act, and many of its nations seek to ratify this sentiment into law , if they haven't already. I wonder what all its growing boys and girls will bloom into under such strict moral codifications: bigots, ignorant ambivalents, and guilt-asphyxiated paranoids most likely. I prefer America. At least here we hide our hatred well.

Rally for sanity my ass.
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Today i had a vision of my happiness:

It was a shard, wrapped in masking tape, in the middle of an endless abyss of blue-black water, pressured in on all sides. I could not see the bounds of this vast containment, but i felt its impossible rotundity, its lack of orientation and gravitational deficiency. Inside this shard, swaddled by a sticky cheapness, my happiness glowed brightly though no light escaped its packaging which was done shoddily and without care.

Bubbles sat precipitated, unmoving.

Bob is dying half a country away and I havent lived a life worth my own god damned standards, not even halfway. I have been told now by two superiors in a row that i exemplefy precisely what it is they worry about concerning my generation. I am disrespectful, too curious, unable to discern what is appropriate from what is not, distracted, priveleged, undeservedly confident.

I wonder who the hell they've been dealing with for months, cause i sure as swords don't feel any of those things live within me. Maybe i am so hopelessly disconnected from reality that my gestures cannot signify my soul, cant relay my intention even the small distance between my own mind and my own body without warping like wet wood. Twisted.

Soon enough I will need goose feathers to keep warm on this river i sit next to like a shrink. It glitters with the light of New Jersey and my skin is more dry than it's ever been in my life. This is misery, i think, then think again. This is someone else's heaven, someone else's dream. Venus is out in all her gold tonight! I squeak like a deaf rodent on a rail as the infinite weight above me balances and does not crush, marvelously.

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Current Location:
US, New York, River Ter
* * *

To learn the Tarot, many wake and draw
Examine and imagine, write prophecies daily
Internalizing lifes possibile forms classicized
Into a deck of cars

Today i draw from the waves:
"what has my destiny been, the sharp-pointed pyramid that has pressed on my ribs all these years? That I remember the Nile and the women carrying pitchers on their heads; that I feel myself woven in and out of the long summers and winters that have made the corn flow and have frozen the streams. I am not a single and passing being. My life is not a moment's bright spark like that on the surface of a diamond."

A belief in destiny has been built and weathered like a pyramid within me. Thousands of years ago, men slave to lug up ramps impossible burdens whose fruit ripens slower than history's: solidity rushed to a later death.
I do not remember anyone a thousand years ago, but the smile of my mother ten. It is above me, and the smell of paint that has dried for a decade still has more color than the ink i have bought to paint my picture in a mirror. What did i find running wet across paper that does not echo against the obscured walls bordering this letter into emptiness?
This is the shortest summer of my life and always will be. Rotted, my grandfather's corn grows unaware of the passing of lives, or of miniature worlds crashing together, to a halt, or of rent not being paid, or buttons pushed accidentally, or backpacks worn with holes out their bottoms (i can always keep them filled). I am hardly a being at all without you. Still certainly I pass, and I wonder when I am not with you what you think of me. A gray-haired old man who has loved much and learned little - He speaks to me with preemptory comforting, a lifetime of which could not prepare one for loss or for longing. Cut tethers and let them lay beautiful around you, rushing headlong into a later death.

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US, New York, Church St, 118
* * *

This is my first livejournal post via iPhone. I am wondering how often, if ever, I will do this again.

Below my feet the sand of Avalon burns under the sun. Around me there are four cousins, one in-law, two aunts, one cousin once-removed, a godmother, a godfather, a mother, and myself. The lifeguards sit in a white wooden bench raised seven feet from the dark sand in front of us, and the neighborbood bathes within their gaze, constrained to an area one hundred feet wide and wet.
There is a young man here today that was here yesterday as well, and although i steal a glance at him with frequency (out fifty yards into the sea, stalking soaked upon the beach five yards away) i wish more than anything that he would disappear. He is tall and brown haired and beautiful. The more i watch, i know, the less he will be so.

Back home (where is that?) i have my own beauty. Such trivial observations echo earthquaked a state away. Where am i most happy? On a beach, a shoreline, neutured by nearby relations, filled repeatedly with fresh tomatoes, wine, salt water? in a stifling cavernous apartment, unfinished, nestled blocks above catastrophy, unable to procure even the most basic needs as my father has done? On the road, in a car i no longer have, unhinged, undedicated, passionate in the absolution of all approving passions, making of the earth a parachute to slow the fall we all are making, we the living?

It is either the sound or the sight of waves unending. Virginia, we will pass with stones in our pockets, all of us. mine are made of shame, another rounded still as the brown haired boy treads dark sand, returning to the ocean, laughing.


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* * *
after Ammons, Sphere 26.



You, my brother, would love to come home. It is quiet there where no troubles return to their nest. But it is all a trouble by and through your assessment of quietude, your blind welcoming
to a merriment that lies at best like a glass veil over a roaring, deep, and endless ocean. I stare from the other side, a burnt sun reflecting white inside my eyes, brown still like all our cousins'. You are dancing nowhere on a surface that will break.

And when you came home still as when I come home, and as mother stands over the grave of her mother, and as Father over his or in the garden of his father (rotten, ripe tomato smells so unlike a salty sea) you wear the face of many answering things. They strike like chords resounding in empty space, littered with still life.

You can't tell you're home because it is never the one you visit while you are away, never the easy nest.

Even the most skilled flyer, the raptor with the sharpest beak, the agile talon, the hundred hundred year-old home, must build it piece by piece, must rise each morning with the light and scavenge for what each new day, what each new charm of progress calls for. It is never the same search, but always tedious and requiring an instinctive self-discipline. Hidden in smoke, this ancient urge fatigues within your lungs.

But what of my home face? With what thing's answer does my expression mold between here and the pass of the Hudson? The thing is self, and I a coward mostly. Crack the breaking surface and fall in to me, or lift me through the air. There we will race what doom shall follow us, what death's thin quake will travel. Years spent running, with no breath to catch. Our breath lies without us resisting. Unstoppable motion races over glass, ocean waves of sound, its roaring not so much a hunter but a warning sign from something wide and great beneath you. Brother --let our peace shine and not be shabby, and love be our propellant in place of pain.
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* * *
so silent as I slip the scissors, blade up and shining, crack through plastic, tear.
and a quarter cup of blood drips out into a plastic sheet my mother held for holding things for short amounts of time:

what little monsters there are inside of me! i wonder, as you lay next to me and breathe asleep, whether or not I will crush you with the hardened weight of memory tomorrow, or the next day, or if my wondering itself turns the day into a nightmare. i have lost the sweetest tendrils that used to hang off the tips of my fingers, eager.

nestled into the fold of my right hip, a black and white french bulldog, and i fall asleep with my hand the size of all of it.

rest, wake, past. outside a window, my comrade notices how a skyscraper cuts through the cloud cover and lifts the sky like a plastic package off a hunk of easter lambs meat, lets a sunny bleeding happen, and rains of light pour out into the stone of a city that if i do not conquer now, will never. two people told me i looked tan.
* * *
I wrote some years
ago a digitized hide

an invisible canvas
of minds extended
out of my closest field of apprehension

onto which
perhaps I could gain a component
of friendship so to gather

up often and in parts
what used to be a human
present.

It is colder than a man
but wider too
and stretches over me

a web to lie beneath
breathing light across
a body difficult to name

in between a place
of wanting to move
and not moving

of not doing what one wants.
Am I just pretending to not know
or is it true

that I cannot sense this thing
that knows the difference
between what I want.

* * *
the glare match was a sour wrath between us:

four years since achilles and there is some dead boy i have loved, in my armor, at my feet;
i run in circles screaming
and dragging my enemy at my most vulnerable heel,
waiting for his father to stop me
or some god to pull me by the hair and say:
"you do not know what clockwork has been wound upon that mountain, fool. stay your sword
and most of all, that heart no home to wisdom."

black poles stuck in pavers mark my end
as friends feel for last things
in the sunshine of (in so many ways)
a newborn summer doomed.

* * *
Evil

I am without a plan,
stranded like a fool on an
island of indeterminates.

Good

But a plan seems the most
terrible of possibilities
right now, the situation
at home and abroad
indicating a significant
necessary caution pertaining
to anything risky, or quick,
or entrepreneurial will be
most definitely required.

Evil

I am with no settling,
no sense of things and how
they are to be arranged.
There is a soft fear
inside my conscience.

Good
But I am equipped with
things. An education, a
sense of wonder and ambition.
There are courses set ahead
that are not easy, but wanted.

Evil

I am repelled by anything
I have tried or succeeded in.
Not a single activity or product
of my labor has given me
satisfaction.

Good

But I am told, through words
and circumstance, that I
am of worth and loved. These
graces don't deserve to be
received with such dispondency.

Evil

I am not ready to die.

Good

I'm not about to.

* * *
things die between seasons. its the one more change that kills them. as if everything ending could be bearable if maybe it didn't turn so cold.

i am so far lost. just do what i should do now is the way i'm thinking about it. school, read, do it get it done. afterward, who knows? i'm clueless and somehow not afraid. new place, keep people. maybe i'll move to LA or New Orleans. maybe just do some helping. learn a little consequence of labor and not thought. woodcarve or fish. build houses i will never use. feel definitively finite and find what i want to make better and show. investigate prepositions. write less lists.

so tonight is Heroes and a paper for Japanese Monsters. Derek is visiting, Kromo's angry i'm leaving, X will play FIFA and somewhere JJ is 22. this weekend I am too. 21 was unreal: life packed up and flown and flung across the world and back like a boomerang. 22 will be its opposite: life unpacked and wanting, maybe wandering like a big wet river. this is almost the worst time in our history for me to be graduating. maybe that's good for me, or maybe it's not. at least it's a start.

PEACE
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