i wonder what it would be like to hit
the median head-on. the world becomes
hot metal and pressure. i'd hear my tires
claw the pavement, smell something burning.
all of it, too much friction. too much...
maybe my body would be light, all the bad
parts filtered through another sphere
and kept away from me.
i'd be
another animal caught on
the wrong side of headlights.
20090228
.ואלס.עם.בשיר
Like rocks around a dying campfire, Lee's living room has a ring of assorted wrenches, handlebar tape, and chains lying in it. And from the fire within, we have brought Capt. Nemo back to life, a veritable two-wheeled phoenix.
Some cosmetic changes to be had, Lee asserts: a lavender phoenix. Strangely enough, the rest of the colour scheme is in an Easter egg theme.
With spring around the corner, reincarnation motifs are just all abound!
וגם אני יראה "ואלס עם בשיר" הלילה. שמעתי שהוא ממש טוב. אני מרוגש.
20090227
when god speaks
just listen: the birds in the holly tree
speak in tongues. their voices
rise like smoke, like a sacrifice.
i wouldn't have known it either
had i never felt that hurt before.
i was alone in my bedroom, watching the night
pull down its shades, the colour of an old bruise.
it frightened me, how little i wanted
to live another day.
i could never feel this whole again.
speak in tongues. their voices
rise like smoke, like a sacrifice.
i wouldn't have known it either
had i never felt that hurt before.
i was alone in my bedroom, watching the night
pull down its shades, the colour of an old bruise.
it frightened me, how little i wanted
to live another day.
i could never feel this whole again.
.spicy.thai.burrito.
Last time I saw Matt & Kim, Kim was in and out of the lady's room while Matt was talking to us. Apparently, she had eaten some spicy Thai burrito, and was trying to brush out the taste and smell on her breath.
It makes me wonder if I'll recognize what she had for dinner tonight, through all the sweat.
It makes me wonder if I'll recognize what she had for dinner tonight, through all the sweat.
20090226
on letting go
mostly i feel lonely
when i think of you.
i had watched the tree
outside my window
and how the wind
ran through it,
pulled it toward
the west. how can
one move when rooted
that way?
i toyed with the thought
of seeing you again
and thought
better of it.
when i think of you.
i had watched the tree
outside my window
and how the wind
ran through it,
pulled it toward
the west. how can
one move when rooted
that way?
i toyed with the thought
of seeing you again
and thought
better of it.
.unfindable.cities.
A trip to the library today revealed that despite my recollection of having returned Italo Calvino's Invisible Cities, the library does not in fact have it shelved anywhere. The implication, thus, is that apparently I have made a mistake.
Maybe I never returned it after all.
"Check around. It might have slid under a car seat or something."
It happens, right?
Except I don't drive. So now there are invisible cities all over my bedroom, being by nature undetectable. Not an altogether disheartening thought, in retrospect.
Maybe I, like Marco Polo, will plunge my hands into the unknown and return with a fistful of silk and pasta.
Maybe I never returned it after all.
"Check around. It might have slid under a car seat or something."
It happens, right?
Except I don't drive. So now there are invisible cities all over my bedroom, being by nature undetectable. Not an altogether disheartening thought, in retrospect.
Maybe I, like Marco Polo, will plunge my hands into the unknown and return with a fistful of silk and pasta.
20090225
.time.an.origami.rock.
It seems, for once, that my hand-drawn calendar is synched up with the mainstream ones. For a brief moment, I'm entertained by the image of recycled sheets, with shaky grids drawn on sitting on a white rack next to a perfectly quadrilateral, calendar of cats in buckets, the whole package cleanly sealed off behind a transparent film, as if cuteness were a sexually transmitted disease, waiting to spring off commercial merchandise to ruin your life forever.
And when that brief moment is over, I have finished drawing up the next thirty-five days of my life, not even bothering to use a straightedge this time. If these little boxes were houses, then poor March looks like a straw house waiting for a wolf to come along.
And what becomes of the thirty-five expended, experienced days?
I begin to think of the linguistic ways of talking about how one travels through time: we like to think of it in terms of the putting the past behind us, the future in front of us. We envision ourselves boldly stepping forward into tomorrow, as if we were retrieving a baseball we failed to catch from the past. The shining future is like the sun in our eyes.
And the Chinese, I seem to remember, and perhaps even the Vietnamese (to be honest I can't even remember off the top of my head), have a way of envisioning us falling through time, like a marble falling from the past above down the stairs to the deep pit of the future. One can't seem to fight gravity any more than one can fight tumbling into tomorrow. Surely if Newton had been Chinese, he would have realized the fourth-dimensional qualities of time concomitantly as he had notions of gravity pounded into his head by an impertinent apple.
But perhaps we can offer another metaphor, for they lurk under every pencil with lead in its belly. Why not think of time as nothing more than a sheet of paper, ripped off the wall when we are through with it?
Nobody moves us.
We are the movers,
the page turners.
Time is nothing more than ink in a pen, and when the veins are too dry to draw up any more numbered boxes, you are in some trouble, buster.
Time is nothing more than a leaf of scrap paper, fallen from a tree of trivia and flipped over, recycled. It'll be crumpled up when we're done with it, and if the trash hasn't been taken out yet, well by George, we're going to just fold it into itself a little more and shove it into our pockets to dispose of later.
And when our pants come back from the wash, and we extract the shredded pulp of discarded time past, we'll spread it around our palms, thinking it a digested concert ticket, and try to recall exactly where we were, and what all that blowing in our ears was.
And when that brief moment is over, I have finished drawing up the next thirty-five days of my life, not even bothering to use a straightedge this time. If these little boxes were houses, then poor March looks like a straw house waiting for a wolf to come along.
And what becomes of the thirty-five expended, experienced days?
I begin to think of the linguistic ways of talking about how one travels through time: we like to think of it in terms of the putting the past behind us, the future in front of us. We envision ourselves boldly stepping forward into tomorrow, as if we were retrieving a baseball we failed to catch from the past. The shining future is like the sun in our eyes.
And the Chinese, I seem to remember, and perhaps even the Vietnamese (to be honest I can't even remember off the top of my head), have a way of envisioning us falling through time, like a marble falling from the past above down the stairs to the deep pit of the future. One can't seem to fight gravity any more than one can fight tumbling into tomorrow. Surely if Newton had been Chinese, he would have realized the fourth-dimensional qualities of time concomitantly as he had notions of gravity pounded into his head by an impertinent apple.
But perhaps we can offer another metaphor, for they lurk under every pencil with lead in its belly. Why not think of time as nothing more than a sheet of paper, ripped off the wall when we are through with it?
Nobody moves us.
We are the movers,
the page turners.
Time is nothing more than ink in a pen, and when the veins are too dry to draw up any more numbered boxes, you are in some trouble, buster.
Time is nothing more than a leaf of scrap paper, fallen from a tree of trivia and flipped over, recycled. It'll be crumpled up when we're done with it, and if the trash hasn't been taken out yet, well by George, we're going to just fold it into itself a little more and shove it into our pockets to dispose of later.
And when our pants come back from the wash, and we extract the shredded pulp of discarded time past, we'll spread it around our palms, thinking it a digested concert ticket, and try to recall exactly where we were, and what all that blowing in our ears was.
20090224
mother
on the phone, she says,
I'm sorry I wasn't better. I should have
stayed with your father.
I should have
stayed for you.
she says getting older is just
god's way of making you dwell
on how shitty you've been.
the days repeat like a song
stuck in your head. everyday
she sees herself leaving her daughters
with the man she no longer loved
and not looking back.
I'm sorry I wasn't better. I should have
stayed with your father.
I should have
stayed for you.
she says getting older is just
god's way of making you dwell
on how shitty you've been.
the days repeat like a song
stuck in your head. everyday
she sees herself leaving her daughters
with the man she no longer loved
and not looking back.
.not.tooth.nor.nail.
A point of contention, no doubt, but the issue of zombie defences always seems to be on the forefront of cautious minds. What really is the best way to protect yourself?
And if you ascribe to offence as the best defence, then what is the ideal weapon?
What does it say about a person?
I'd wager that the latter group would be in better shape, and would taste better.
Unless tender meat is your thing.
In any case, if you were a zombie, you would probably one the fit people on your side.
And to leave the question of offence in the air for a hot minute, I still maintain that the best plausible protection against zombies would be chain mail. Because ask yourself, what on a human body can really get through chain mail? Not tooth nor nail. In fact, you might be hard pressed to even disassemble the metal links by hand.
The argument goes that a group of zombies en masse could still rip you apart in theory, or maybe more realistically, smother you. But really, if you're up against such a horde, let's face it, you're probably screwed anyway.
No the only real question is how one pees from inside such a fortress.
I suppose you're just going to have to deal with some rusty joints if you want to make it out of here alive.
And if you ascribe to offence as the best defence, then what is the ideal weapon?
What does it say about a person?
I'd wager that the latter group would be in better shape, and would taste better.
Unless tender meat is your thing.
In any case, if you were a zombie, you would probably one the fit people on your side.
And to leave the question of offence in the air for a hot minute, I still maintain that the best plausible protection against zombies would be chain mail. Because ask yourself, what on a human body can really get through chain mail? Not tooth nor nail. In fact, you might be hard pressed to even disassemble the metal links by hand.
The argument goes that a group of zombies en masse could still rip you apart in theory, or maybe more realistically, smother you. But really, if you're up against such a horde, let's face it, you're probably screwed anyway.
No the only real question is how one pees from inside such a fortress.
I suppose you're just going to have to deal with some rusty joints if you want to make it out of here alive.
20090223
.headful.of.hiss.
A look in
the mirror tells me
I could cut my hair tonight.
Don't you remember that feeling you get sometimes, if not usually, after you cut your hair? A hesitant moment, spanning days and nights, as your head acclimatizes itself to the shift in weight.
Maybe you can see better now with the hair out of your eyes.
Maybe you stagger, blinded by light, unfiltered
and you can't seem to hide the fact that you have been sleeping through class
and your best friend's wedding.
I could cut my hair tonight,
shave off those snakes
and watch as all those paralysing secrets slither away.
the mirror tells me
I could cut my hair tonight.
Don't you remember that feeling you get sometimes, if not usually, after you cut your hair? A hesitant moment, spanning days and nights, as your head acclimatizes itself to the shift in weight.
Maybe you can see better now with the hair out of your eyes.
Maybe you stagger, blinded by light, unfiltered
and you can't seem to hide the fact that you have been sleeping through class
and your best friend's wedding.
I could cut my hair tonight,
shave off those snakes
and watch as all those paralysing secrets slither away.
ladybug
there's nothing lady-like about you
on your back, capsized on the sidewalk.
cross your legs, pull down your
skirt, narrow your eyes, your gaze
on nothing in particular.
here you are, kicking a goddamn
tantrum. sun on your belly like the hot breath
of a man until he
stomps you clean through.
on your back, capsized on the sidewalk.
cross your legs, pull down your
skirt, narrow your eyes, your gaze
on nothing in particular.
here you are, kicking a goddamn
tantrum. sun on your belly like the hot breath
of a man until he
stomps you clean through.
20090222
poem from our window
thick fog where you breathe
on the window pane.
you draw
a heart in the quick-fading white
because it seemed like
the right thing to do.
outside, the world is just
another specimen behind glass,
everything cataloged.
here is a sparrow
caught on the wind.
and here,
the gray you find
swarming in the city.
but it seemed new
when your cloud of breath disappeared
and we were part of it all.
on the window pane.
you draw
a heart in the quick-fading white
because it seemed like
the right thing to do.
outside, the world is just
another specimen behind glass,
everything cataloged.
here is a sparrow
caught on the wind.
and here,
the gray you find
swarming in the city.
but it seemed new
when your cloud of breath disappeared
and we were part of it all.
.the.curtain.calls.
A laminated chore chart, waiting to snap in names like Lego bricks.
A Nalgene filled with root beer up to the "Made in USA".
Fingers still smelling faintly like bike grease.
Winter winds afraid of being forgotten.
I'll be done with this script tonight.
A Nalgene filled with root beer up to the "Made in USA".
Fingers still smelling faintly like bike grease.
Winter winds afraid of being forgotten.
I'll be done with this script tonight.
20090221
money
when i was a child, i saved
my five-dollars-a-week
to see what
$100
looked like.
at the time i thought
it was all the money in
the world, those crumpled
bills, nearly war-torn
from tours in my pockets.
my father lost his job, and i never
saw his shoulders slouch like that.
i pushed my money
in his hand and he said,
honey, this wouldn't feed us for a week.
my five-dollars-a-week
to see what
$100
looked like.
at the time i thought
it was all the money in
the world, those crumpled
bills, nearly war-torn
from tours in my pockets.
my father lost his job, and i never
saw his shoulders slouch like that.
i pushed my money
in his hand and he said,
honey, this wouldn't feed us for a week.
.what's.he.building.in.there.
Did you ever have Tinkertoys as a child? Or K'nex? Of course you had Legos. Everybody had Legos. Especially sons of clockmakers.
I built little houses
at first. And cars later
down the line, followed
by ships, and tanks, and subs
and I grew weary of
human transportation altogether.
I wanted to build something, not to move me around in this universe, but something that was an aspect of the universe itself. I wanted to build something pure and unarrogant, something that was prescribed by the universe, and not imposed upon it.
So like all little boys
I looked to the
stars:
blueprints for a grandiose machine
Have you heard that Tom Waits song, What's He Building in There?
That might as well be about me. What am I building in there? and out here? and everywhere. The stars are a subtle plan, but there is method in the madness, and as I narrow down the possible connections, my great device inches closer to completion.
::::::
"What's he building in there?"
"A celestial machine from the stars.
And he's not constructing it.
It's building him."
I built little houses
at first. And cars later
down the line, followed
by ships, and tanks, and subs
and I grew weary of
human transportation altogether.
I wanted to build something, not to move me around in this universe, but something that was an aspect of the universe itself. I wanted to build something pure and unarrogant, something that was prescribed by the universe, and not imposed upon it.
So like all little boys
I looked to the
stars:
blueprints for a grandiose machine
Have you heard that Tom Waits song, What's He Building in There?
That might as well be about me. What am I building in there? and out here? and everywhere. The stars are a subtle plan, but there is method in the madness, and as I narrow down the possible connections, my great device inches closer to completion.
::::::
"What's he building in there?"
"A celestial machine from the stars.
And he's not constructing it.
It's building him."
20090220
.the.juggernaut.vs.the.blob.
After Netanyahu flaps his right-wing agenda in the Knesset and receives the blessing of President Shimon Peres to become the official Prime Minister, he does the unthinkable and schedules a diplomatic talk to resolve the whole tired Palestinian affair with an all-star cast of Israeli political raptors: Livni, himself, Lieberman, Barak. He even goes so far as to invite some Palestinian officials. Nothing too radical, mind you. We'll just ask that Abbas fellow if he wants to attend.
He doesn't.
And as the meeting starts, off the record, someone begins on an off-kilter note, perhaps hoping to break the ice.
"Did anyone read comic books growing up? I was a big fan of the X-Men, and I talking about one of those typical all-star crossover fantasy battles. Namely, what would happen if the Juggernaut ran into the Blob? An unstoppable force colliding with an immovable force?"
"Strangely enough, I asked an expert once the very same question. And don't ask me what his expertise exactly was. His answer was quite simple, if unintuitive: both parties would simply do what they weren't supposed to. The Blob would be sent reeling, and the Juggernaut would stop dead in his tracks."
And a third voice chimes in impatiently.
"Oh, don't be preposterous. They solved that very question in the comics, when the Hulk, who admittedly is stronger than the Juggernaut, was able to pick up the Blob. And I suppose Blob's immovable nature is only defined by his relation to the ground beneath him, because when he was hoisted up he ripped up a great deal of ground with him."
"How interesting. So in a sense, the Blob never moved, as he was still stationary to ground he was upon. How clever a solution to move an immovable object by displacing the entire system it is immovable within."
"Yes, yes. But let's move on to politics."
He doesn't.
And as the meeting starts, off the record, someone begins on an off-kilter note, perhaps hoping to break the ice.
"Did anyone read comic books growing up? I was a big fan of the X-Men, and I talking about one of those typical all-star crossover fantasy battles. Namely, what would happen if the Juggernaut ran into the Blob? An unstoppable force colliding with an immovable force?"
"Strangely enough, I asked an expert once the very same question. And don't ask me what his expertise exactly was. His answer was quite simple, if unintuitive: both parties would simply do what they weren't supposed to. The Blob would be sent reeling, and the Juggernaut would stop dead in his tracks."
And a third voice chimes in impatiently.
"Oh, don't be preposterous. They solved that very question in the comics, when the Hulk, who admittedly is stronger than the Juggernaut, was able to pick up the Blob. And I suppose Blob's immovable nature is only defined by his relation to the ground beneath him, because when he was hoisted up he ripped up a great deal of ground with him."
"How interesting. So in a sense, the Blob never moved, as he was still stationary to ground he was upon. How clever a solution to move an immovable object by displacing the entire system it is immovable within."
"Yes, yes. But let's move on to politics."
20090219
.obtaining.mass.
Not to give you the wrong impression about my habits and obsessions, but I was reading an article the other day about the race to find the Higgs Boss. There are only two contestants really: the LHC at the CERN in Switzerland, and Fermilab in Illinois. In case you're not aware, the LHC had a supermagnet malfunction back in the fall or winter sometime, and is offline until maybe September, giving the fellows at Fermilab a bit a cushion.
And let me add that by race, I want you to imagine asking a 6 year old to draw you a treasure map for something he may or may not have buried at some point.
Not to say the Higgs boson doesn't exist; it's just still hypothetical, if not predicted.
In any case, what is it exactly anyway? Well, I can't give you any technical answers, and I certainly couldn't draw you a picture, but as with most things, I can describe it to you via its effects on its surroundings.
So, all you need to know is this:
The Higgs boson is a hitherto unobserved massive scalar elementary particle that would explain, if verified, how massless elementary particles acquire mass.
And here our ship is dissolved into flotsam and jetsam, and we cling by on timbers of splintery intuition. Massless particles? Acquiring the property of mass?
And what if we go one step further? What if we say sayonara to the lab coats altogether and talk about emotions and relationships closer to our hearts and lives:
Is there some minutia that explains how love acquires the virtue of passion?
that explains how hope is seeded with desire?
Maybe if we keep crashing against each other with all the force and velocity of modern life, we might be able to sort through the wreckage one day and say,
"Yes, life did acquire living."
And let me add that by race, I want you to imagine asking a 6 year old to draw you a treasure map for something he may or may not have buried at some point.
Not to say the Higgs boson doesn't exist; it's just still hypothetical, if not predicted.
In any case, what is it exactly anyway? Well, I can't give you any technical answers, and I certainly couldn't draw you a picture, but as with most things, I can describe it to you via its effects on its surroundings.
So, all you need to know is this:
The Higgs boson is a hitherto unobserved massive scalar elementary particle that would explain, if verified, how massless elementary particles acquire mass.
And here our ship is dissolved into flotsam and jetsam, and we cling by on timbers of splintery intuition. Massless particles? Acquiring the property of mass?
And what if we go one step further? What if we say sayonara to the lab coats altogether and talk about emotions and relationships closer to our hearts and lives:
Is there some minutia that explains how love acquires the virtue of passion?
that explains how hope is seeded with desire?
Maybe if we keep crashing against each other with all the force and velocity of modern life, we might be able to sort through the wreckage one day and say,
"Yes, life did acquire living."
name that abstraction!
define happiness:
a warm gun, according to The Beatles.
define your life's philosophy:
to let the world blow my mind
define passion:
let's touch eye balls
define neediness:
squid's wheel of wellness
define wonder:
a cave
define hope:
the holly tree on my mother's front lawn
define hate:
sexual repression
define heaven:
two pools of golden lava
define hell:
the shit garden that is my backyard, only with little gargoyles prancing around instead of my dogs
define god:
the north & south poles and all the electrons in between
define lust:
smelling the scent of a lover on your pillow
define violence:
wearing a codpiece at a milk bar
define health:
celery = negative calories
define mad:
Beakman's World
define sadness:
a puppy underneath a raincloud
define love:
codependency
a warm gun, according to The Beatles.
define your life's philosophy:
to let the world blow my mind
define passion:
let's touch eye balls
define neediness:
squid's wheel of wellness
define wonder:
a cave
define hope:
the holly tree on my mother's front lawn
define hate:
sexual repression
define heaven:
two pools of golden lava
define hell:
the shit garden that is my backyard, only with little gargoyles prancing around instead of my dogs
define god:
the north & south poles and all the electrons in between
define lust:
smelling the scent of a lover on your pillow
define violence:
wearing a codpiece at a milk bar
define health:
celery = negative calories
define mad:
Beakman's World
define sadness:
a puppy underneath a raincloud
define love:
codependency
20090218
mosquito
got caught in the sticky jelly of my eye,
whizzed in like a kamikaze man.
destroyed with a blink. see a wing
float on the crest of a hot tear,
the ruin you brought here.
whizzed in like a kamikaze man.
destroyed with a blink. see a wing
float on the crest of a hot tear,
the ruin you brought here.
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