Accretion / 5.22.16 / 8:58-9:28

So there was nothing, right?

And then everything.

Or, at least, the formulation of everything. Fragments, movements, impetus, etc. whatever.

It doesn’t matter.

I mean, it matters, sure as my skin bubbles in the sun and skies grey and dawns fade and love is perfect oblivion but tonight – as most nights – I’m not concerned with the temple of progression no matter how minute her infractions.

I want to know what was or, really rather, what wasn’t.

The void.

The nothing.

The cock that called the flash.

The hand that held the gun.

No no no.

This isn’t about God.

Or is it?

Let’s say it is. Let’s say God made all that is and was and will be forever until…is there even an until? It seems like the Catholics wanted there to be a final scene considering how judiciously they sold me on the rapture but I don’t think their end times are really playing on a universal level. They just want people to be like them so that heaven is a place as palatable as the ground we trod before we decided there was a god, not just a god, but THE GOD whose temper was mighty and unjust considering the thrills HE designed with the instrumentation of loins and will and…honestly, I don’t want to get into debating the merits of Christianity here because there’s only so much time in this session and we all know there are some discrepancies in the scripture so, yeah. YEAH!

Let us suppose that there is a god or GOD or G-D and let us suppose that his image is a simulacrum for cosmic agency (why not?) or the powers that be and will and accrete and concede and everything, everything, everything.

Let’s just say the universe is the workings of a relatable being because nature is a distance and science is a fog and let’s just say he’s a man for the time being because my projection of omnipresence needs a gender and my relation to form is limited to what lives between my legs.

Okay?

Okay.

It doesn’t matter.

The argument is wasted.

But the considerations I’m trying to assess is what was before and HOW was there a before. ALWAYS is not an answer. I don’t believe it. And the big bang is great and all and CERN is doing their thing and I will always be fascinated when they come out with another Biggs and shit but that still doesn’t answer a goddamn thing about the time before everything.

The emptiness before the millennia.

What was before there was a was?

What preceded the zero hour?

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Ask Your Body / 5.21.16 / 8:23-8:53

I am fat but one day I will be thin and you will always have been.

From the first light until the abyss.

That constancy must be challenging.

That omniscience? Shit. It’s a wonder you aren’t a fucking lunatic feeding off the flesh of your children like Saturn or New England. It’d drive me crazy after the first month, let alone millennia.

I mean, infinity’s a motherfucker if ever there was one and here you are once and ever. To be and have been and always as always is until everything and everyone learns to cease which I’ve heard, recently, is a very real and future tense possibility and that terrifies me though I know I should be long shuffled into the ether before all that is was and – at that point – I’ll just be (if I can still retain a sense of singularly in the monolithic singularity) electric dust on the clouds in the vacuum ebbing and returning shifts and shadows like nothing, nothing, nothing before or since because each every – though united – is unique, so…

Is that what happens, then?

Is nothing the pitch?

Who knows?

If you don’t, then what good is omniscience?

I can understand if you’d rather not say because oblivion worship is rather passé and your dime and dozens are very much invested in the clouded cornerstones but FUCK I need to know tonight.

I need to understand that living is right.

Because sometimes it feels like a sham and I’d gladly take my exit if there wasn’t some notion of now and forever consequence.

So what is it, then?

Where does it end?

Where did it begin?

Burroughs intimated that you pulled the trigger but before that, there had to have been something. All the everythings can’t simply happen with a reasonless blink into being.

So what?

Why?

Are you the egg or the chicken or the farmer or the dell or what the hell?

When I was a boy, I believed earnestly and effortlessly and then my mother told me she was going to die but she didn’t and then she told me everything was going to be fine but it wasn’t and so I learned about fear and I learned about death and I learned about lies well before my time and all that knowledge has made me a mess of a man who might as well have been excused already but since I am tied to bodies and breaths and life I won’t so immediately because I’ve always held fast to the idea that the great grace would survive but if it doesn’t, then what?

Was it never meant to?

Is this whole matter happenstance and if it is what came before and what is bound to come after?

Where does the infinite begin and when can it end?

I’d say this is the real question and it is but the fear that keeps me up late and foolish is the wondering of where it began.

There was the big bang, right?

But what WAS before that?

And if there wasn’t, what was?

 

 

Convert a Melodic Element into a Rhythmic Element / 5.12.16 / 9:03-9:33

I think I saw. I said I saw. I should have a saw. I do have a saw. Two saws. Three, actually. Three saws or four if you count the jab which you outta. Four saws, then. One pull, one jab, two hand. Wait! No. I have far more than four saws. Five. Six. Eight?

One pull saw. One jab saw. Two hand saws. One hack saw. One jig saw. Two circulars. One reciprocating saw. And the last four are electric which counts, right? Of course, so then I should probably state that the jig saw’s something of a fucked saw since I lost the screw that kept the guide straight and without a guide you’re goddamn saws gonna go all over the place so that’s moot, then. Yes? No? Whose to say?

No one listening.

Reading, I should say.

So let’s settle on eight, then. Eight saws that can function for a dollar and a dime but only three of which I’ve used in the temporal line of work that found me with this unexpected collection of teeth and the jig saw is probably fine, really, if I only use it for projects that beget a certain wabi sabi something but even then…no, not really because that phase of employment (which lord help me is ended with the resurgence of my payday as sociopath) has left me wanting something more than jagged edges and splinters and the doe-eyed acceptance of a lady whose just happy I remembered her birthday let alone spent days and days and days taking shape.

But it’s just a box, eh?

Just nothing?

Boxes are the basis.

The shape is the base.

The block on which we build our case for Western (or any, really…modern, primitive, arcane) civilization up and up and out, often, to the heavens and ocean and in which we keep our precious if not unmentionable everyday things.

Just a box?

Go fuck yourself.

This isn’t simply some square nee rectangle frame. This is an object of three-dimensional heft. A capacity. A place and every woman needs a place like every name needs a face and so the I couldn’t just use any old instrument in the creation.

No. No.

I required accuracy. I required tact. I required the lines that I measured and marked be divided evenly and cleanly and – yes – of course I took sand paper to the edges because only a heathen son of a bitch would hand a box over that hadn’t been smoothed over before finishing but there’s only so much forgiveness you can afford in your plane before the piece reads more like a slop-sink buffet at the mongoloid school for perpetual inchoate rage than an object presented to be dutifully received.

And yeah, yeah, yeah it wasn’t perfect but imperfections beget charm and hearts and arrows slung over the rainbow and into the proverbial Rubicon where so many idyllic designs have found their untidy angles laid waste and maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t have been such an idiosyncratic projection had I just stuck with the circular (electric) but something about the buzz just seemed disingenuous that day or days and the funny thing is is that it wasn’t until I incorporated battery power into my endeavor that damn thing went askew but that’s nothing worth splitting the beans of the bed over because with a little stain and a lot less poly the damn thing just screams ‘FROM ME TO YOU!’

Use an Old Idea / 5.11.16 / 10:09-10:39

When we talk about the Bovary Boys we need to understand that they treasured nothing more than the taste of cum form a dead man’s sole, bar coke sucked back up the shivers of a bloody nose and the Ramones played at any speed other than that which the good goon Johnny had intended unless, of course, it was a Sunday mourning and then that shit was 33 until the dusk done screamed “HEY HO! LET’S GO!” until jean vests stood for vestments and the only offering to the godless mophead was violence and Bud and soon enough they were the talk of the post-progressive no-wave, no-hows like “How the fuck they doing this madness now that we’re one queen away from winning a federal holiday? Can’t they see we’re on a peace trip? Don’t they know that the average New York American is cool with cocksuckers, muffmunchers and all sorts of temperate butt stuff so long as it’s served with cornichons and lisps and the private excitement of existentialist adolescent yen or aesthetic arrest or whatever, whatever just so long as its other enough to not shake the roof from the shack of progressive appellates?”

And knowing they were known was sometimes good enough for them.

Considerations made their young fucks blush just enough to temper the panther (the called it). Let him sleep just enough to let the moderates get safely to their deluxe city slums before the anarchic Allin skullfuckery took hold and B-C looked less like a wasteland and more like Shiva raining her solemnic savagery down upon the non-believers with a fury that – to this day – no one particularly believes.

But it was.

And some say it is.

And its hard to say whose right and who might just be full of shit because most of the bodies that laid themselves before the indignation of the Boys never made a claim to know what happened.

“Drunk,” they said.

“Drugs.”

Or nothing. Often nothing. No word nor peep nor scowl to recount what transpired between that one sip cold sip and the taste of heel piss that would follow them (and thereafter ruin their) home except those the Boys carved in their visage right before the body went cold and one last, desperate Christian plea shaved the honesty right away from their beautiful dying.

Jimmy cherished that.

Johnny preferred a less poetic message.

Reverse / 5.4.16 / 10:37-11:05

Wait, wait, no I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean to be that honest. Really. I mean, I wanted to be honest, believe me, just not aloud. Make sense?

See, the thing is, I spend most of my time alone and in my head. Speaking trips me up. I forget I’m not on my couch in my apartment, staring at walls or blank screens, wishing, waiting, hoping for something different to fucking happen. I forget I’m in public and there’s these . . . rules.

So, yeah, forget I said anything. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.

Though I can’t lie; the power trip feels good.

To feel that sense of awkward ooze into the stale air. To see your mouth open and close like a dying fish as you try to find the right response. There isn’t one. Stop it. Stop searching for something that isn’t there.

I’ve learned to do it. So can you!

But then again, maybe you don’t want to listen to me. I don’t know how to act in public. I pull wedgies and don’t know the meaning of heels and burp and curse and I walk a little funny. Okay, a lot funny, I’ve got this thing with my back and my legs are uneven . . .

Look at you, pretending to give a shit! Bravo!

The level of disconnect while you attempt to connect is written all over. Right there. Between your dead eyes. It’s kind of sad, actually. This is a chance to talk about something other than the weather and a Kardashian’s ass and all you can actually think is-

This bitch is crazy.

But I want you think about it. Long and hard. After we’ve finished this beer and have gone our separate ways. I want you to think about this crazy bitch and all her ramblings and if somewhere within there is some kind of fucked up sense. It may not be yours; don’t try to possess it, you fuck, this is mine, but . . . just think that maybe I have a point.

Somewhere.

How’s your beer? Tangy? Mm. Fuck you.

You ever been so lonely, you could taste it? I have no idea what the fuck that really means, but, lord Jesus, I think I’m close. I hardly remember what it feels like. To be with someone. To have a friend I could rely on. To fuck someone. To kiss someone. It’s odd, being a grown woman who hasn’t kissed a man in years. Well, being a woman that secretly adores affection and intimacy.

Sh. Tell no one.

Be Extravagant / 5.10.16/ 10:43-11:13

Two boys died and one boy didn’t and there was a girl and she survived too but she lost a limb just above the joint and – in the ten years since – has littered her nub with tattoos of spiders and sparrows and lines that spiral up her shapely thigh like ropeburns on a bedpost.

And yeah, I think that’s sexy.

Who wouldn’t?

I mean scars are much more my cream jean scene what with their soft pink lifts and tragedy but ink on nubs just make my heart hum like nothing since I stumbled on anime at the tender age when I still thought the whole pussy ran up front.

But then porn happened and my whole brain went crazy with deepthroats and gangbangs and gape and I think before that it was this one Helmut Newton photograph of a naked lady in an alligator or maybe it was the one of the black heels on the dash.

Actually, it was definitely White Women that shaped my yens and my M is often suffering for it though my practical inclinations have gone more Taboo since I’ve reached that phase of occupation wherein I understand that wet Italian models are nothing more than potent potable held up by bennies and champagne and that’s just boring, boring, boring Sidney so let’s just say it’s Kay Parker or Honey Wilder or death in the bedroom.

Actually, let’s not.

I am open to the wilderness of sexual proclivity now more than I have ever been which is a sin because of the opportunities I let squander for the squared-off implement of love and meaning and simpering being and bitching about my woes when lusting after the feel of a bygone nub is about as exciting as that one time I fucked a pillow pile to the overdubs of Emmanuel.

One time?

We both know that’s a lie.

The truth is that it was probably only one or two times that I actually came and I’ve often been lead to understand that fucking isn’t really fucking unless someone cums which is why blind forays in East Side shitters don’t mean a damn thing to the kids anymore.

Yet open, I remain despite closing the doors to indecent succor because it helps my fantasy foster a contorted notion of the girl next door who – I’ve heard – drinks shots out of her prosthetic when the mood takes her or if a boy asks if the boy is as pretty as the dead one I didn’t know because the other one was homely as sin.

Spring Air Premium Collection Noelle Pillow Top King-Sized Mattress / 5.6.16 / 10:25-10:55

I am lying in my Spring Air Premium Collection Noelle Pillow Top King-Sized Mattress, thinking about the coming day.

This morning I will be wearing a two hundred thread count Egyptian cotton sky blue dress shirt handcrafted from a mill in Turin, and the other elements of my daily routine will have to adjust accordingly. I will start with a shower, first a lather of custom-blended Oribe signature shampoo to leave my hair silky and scented with the subtle fragrance of French perfumes, and then an exfoliating body scrub infused with Mediterranean salt and the essential oils of grapeseed and apricot to massage away the dead cells and rejuvenate my skin. The water will be cool enough to avoid damaging my collagen. Wrapped in my machine washable Pine Cone Hill signature solid shale gray bath towels, I will walk to my second bathroom and style my hair back with a pewter comb cast by hand in Salisbury, and then I shall use my Sedu professional follicle preserving hair dryer and a potent mix of Pinaud Clubman hairstyling gel and Giovanni ultra-sleek to hold my hair down into a textbook example of a high fade pompadour. I’ll put on my Warby Parker Ripley’s before my clothes, following a top down approach to ensure the cohesion of my appearance, and then I will stand for two minutes in the center of my room with my eyes closed, allowing the air to dry my skin evenly from head to toe. I will slip on my 100% silk handmade Zimmerli boxer shorts (complete with mother-of- pearl fly buttons) and follow them with my dark wash denim slim-fit Kiton jeans imported from Italy. The shirt will be next, and I will have to still the fluttering of my heart as I wrap the temperature-regulating fabric around my chest and button the crème-cut ivory. I will fold the sharp collar once, quickly so as not to crease the fabric, and then I will roll up the double cuffed sleeves in a strategically casual look. A Battistoni X-printed necktie and matching pocket square, a single breasted Gucci blazer, a pair of brogue trim Burberry leather wingtips, and a Salvatore Ferragamo suede belt will complete the ensemble.

And, after that….

I am lying in my Spring Air Premium Collection Noelle Pillow Top King-Sized Mattress, thinking about my shirt. There is so much to look forward to, but when I think beyond a certain point I become worried. My friends tell me to take it one step at a time, and I agree with them in this regard.

The first thing I shall do is lift myself from the stonewashed linen of my bed sheet set, avoiding the hefty frame of my purebred Tibetan Mastiff that is sleeping by my feet. I will walk across the Brazilian Chestnut finish of my hardwood floors, covered with a selection of artfully faded medallion designed machine washable throw rugs, and stop to look out the floor-to- ceiling windows that overlook the noontime cityscape. I will appreciate the view for an amount of time before sitting at my mahogany partner’s desk and browsing the forums on my 27-inch Apple iMac with Retina display. I will indulge in languorous procrastination for as long as I wish, and then I shall take a shower, starting with the custom-blended Oribe signature shampoo.

Still lying tangled in my bed sheets (stonewashed), I watch the shadows flickering on the high ceilings.