in defense of meaningless pleasure

She who cries without tears stands before the cameras and begs for forgiveness. I am in a generous mood, begot by boredom. Miss U.S.A. goes out drinking, blows a little coke along the way, and ends up with her tongue inside her fellow beauty queen Miss Teen U.S.A. on some dance floor in Manhattan. Moments of low inhibition and raging hedonism are allowances we make to those we celebrate, particularly one chosen to embody our blondest aesthetic ideals. We have -- well, I suppose we have not; a panel of free-agent celebrities has judged this young woman against our reproductive ideals and deemed her to be the finest in the country. It was Kansas this year, corn-fed and coal-powered, an old-fashioned gal from the Land of Tomorrow. She defines what is possible for the rest of us. If she can't let go and dance into the night, what and how much can we expect for ourselves?

AC

dogs

sightseeing

Never met a stranger I could not devour

A gallery of the divine

Foosed, Untied.

Short listenings of sundry guitars.
Oh, what a time you had.
Was it we? I was doing nothing
as always. You pictured the city outside
one hundred years ago,
when living on top of one another
meant something,
but inside the blank walls
did nothing, said little.

Until you close the window
softly now,
let's not wake
the downstairs baby,
close the window
to concentrate the vision
of red brick walls,
we may never -- shh,
let's not wake
the downstairs baby.

Flores

We as a species should comsume more broth

Morning, becoming day

Out, night sky

Unnaturally situated, I left behind
a position less holy than bedazzled. What, with your
necklaces and arms behind your head,
pillow concealing the hands that may go anywhere yet.
Funny you should mention that -- we pretend
it's day inside, but come time for skin to be bare
we turn off our lights and act like children.
Comfortable, but not attractive.
That is not what I want,
but we should all be so lucky.

I wanted to say, "Tomorrow will be a nicer day than this," but we were both looking for something much more probable. Better to hang your chances on, say, the slow wobble of Earth relative to its orbital plane, and the predictability of the seasons: "Tomorrow will be one day closer to autumn."

 

 

 

 

Kidnapped in Riverdale, negotiations in progress

The living

To what we may look forward

I have been missing, in spirit, so to speak, in so many words, for almost exactly one year, a few days more. That might have turned into two years, maybe three, maybe ten or thirty-two, by which time the internet as we know it will have swallowed our collective consciousness whole, with benign intent, but unable to forecast (the lack of appreciation for non-determinism being the tragic flaw of our generation's technology) that our digital souls would digress, as is the tendency, into sex and combat: the two as inseparable as one and zero, the two known states of the binary bit (that purely human invention that either cannot count its own two selves or cannot understand the concept of nothing -- never both, but never neither, the exclusive or).

If not for the gentle reminder from our exclusive reader (you know who you are, wink), this so-called blog would surely stagnate through those traumatic years. And when judgement comes (sex and combat beget judgement of the highest order) I would be forced to defend these dusty pages without the benefit of having written in any rebuttal ...

That rebuttal might be that I am bored beyond the limits of man. I have spent the better part of two months in my apartment. After a time the walls turned into a meadow and a lark flew overhead, but after that passed I was a prisoner with a left knee for an iron ball, or an iron ball for a left knee, depending on your outlook.

I can walk without limping now. But I have higher aspirations. I would like to fly away to a new place, to see an old friend. There is something about new places, and old friends.

If only I could fly anywhere, everywhere ... not even like a bird, although that would be very cool ... I would settle for a coach seat. The thrill of takeoff, the relief of landing, and the hours of melancholy in between.

Is it true that spiders eat the souls of sleeping airline passengers? Yes, but they were forced to. They used to eat our dreams, you see. But Ambien killed off that preferred staple.

Because I cannot sleep on airplanes, I have avoided this miserable fate.

Here's to flying.