filters of my house

>>>>4.30.11

stench. hits.

>>>>>

Your

your strange devotions –

Your strange devotions accelerate

Your strange devotions accelerate, then regulate

my prose,

Aware of your presence, your eyes lessen how I

demonstrate.

A portrait of Lena, she embodies your once-lover,

Who loves another, we love each other. We live

Together, we inhabit an interesting intersection

That compromises in order:

1.)    to mimic

2.)    to play

3.)    too forward

4.)    “touché”

5.)    to help-see, to add-a-layer

6.)    of her, to us

I won’t say anything, but I must.

But I will say this one thing, until I learn to trust:

>>>>

fantasticwhore

>>>


or, "The Opposite is Equally True: Lena the 5th"



Lena is not invited to the wedding of her old friend, the virgin bride.

"Why not?" she wonders. She telephones a mutual friend.

"The bride considers your presence a moral detriment, given your past of prostitution and whoredom."

"That answers that," Lena says. She hangs up and takes out a piece of paper. She begins to write the virgin bride a letter. Lena finishes the letter and reads over it before sealing it in an envelope the same pink shade as her cunt.


My lovers and I wait seven hours to sleep together and two years to say "I love you." 


Will you still love him, virgin bride, even after you've had two years to satisfy your deepest perversions of hedonism? The "love" you felt in reality is your bubbling repression of carnal desire. My retroactive advice to you, careless tosser of sacrosanct words, is to not inhibit your desire. Do not let a ubiquitous appetite determine the rarest phenomena of human existence. In popular culture the two are often confused, so I do not blame your for your common misunderstanding of Love.   


Do not practice abstitence. At all costs, do not practice abstinence. 


Lena is satisfied with the letter. She licks the edges of the envelope and presses its folds together. She walks to the mailbox and fills it with her letter. She returns inside to an empty bed.

>>>

November

Blotmonað


lit. "blood-month;" "month of sacrifice." (Old English)


Thus an appropriate finish, with both blood and a sacrifice. 





Observations of November:


1. steering wheels of vehicles may control nothing
2. people I have never met know I exist
3. solitary joy
4. bad timing is good timing on a larger scale of time. 
5. "the chief cause of failure and unhappiness is trading what you want for what you want now."


>>>out

"I am doing what I have to do."

This is what you have to do? This?

i'm waiting for the day

patience ascended.
"you'll need it" she said
"to mend aheart asunder."

"mend" i said. "not him.
wounds aren't covered in
fatuation and months."

"you wish him to pine?
you leave him to dogs?
you will expose him to wind

and subject him to cold?"
"no patience i still need you
around. but for mending no

he knows to heal he helps
himself. to feel, i wish
us to be by ourselves."

"darling" she mused "you
are honest and sad. some
things aren't easy. why

add an obstacle?" "i am
serious" i said "when i
said, when i sent him."

two northamerican panoramas.

outside or inside: one feels him

wave. waves.


she or he. she or one. one or one. one or none.
.

crown on the ground.

"Does this mean anything to you?"

"Nope."

a.) cerulean is my favorite crayola

b.) watched "The Runaways" at the dollar theater

c.) undergraduate infatuation with graph paper

d.) invitation for stranger to draw on body

e.) interior castle - St. Teresa

f.) permanent diversion tactic

g.) jewelerrry. 

what you think?

Flying Lotus - Cosmogramma (WARP195)

Usually this space is reserved for my silly things; however, the only thing > words is, for me, pop music.

Several record releases in my life have truly excited me. I love almost everything - really. Since I was 15 or so I've obsessed over obtaining every new album deemed worthwhile. And all of the worthwhile albums released before me, my existence. Whatever I enjoyed most typically ran analogous to my emotional state of being, whoever I was dating/trying to fuck, my location, more and more contextual data etc.

One begins to sense patterns after so much listening. Divorcing music from yourself, applying some tonal New-Critical lens and analyzing the sounds for themselves.

"There is nothing new under the sun." -Ecclesiastes 1:9

Accepting this as a personal aesthetic maxim, for music, for art, the only segway to originality is (counter-intuitively) bricolage. And not just mash-up-ed, mixed medium bullshit. Really weaving together existing product to create something completely unresembling its prototype. We are lucky to have computers and technology to lubricate this process. Nothing depresses me more than an unapologetically referential folk song released in 2010. Nothing.

Which is why Cosmogramma excites me. Because I don't know what it is, but I know what it could be. What parts of it could be. I want bitches grinding me to "Do the Astral Plane." I want MF Doom spitting rhymes over "Computer Face." I want "And the World Laughs with You" playing at coffeeshops and "Recoiled" to be Autechre's new single. But the thing isn't all disjointed; the cohesion suggests that, yeah, genre is becoming less indicative of physical content.



I wish instead of backlashing against the increasing reliance on internet/biochips/bleeps/beeps/emoticons people would just admit that efficiency in communication is as much of an artistic merit as anything else. A good expression of this is electronic music. The evolution of it is just astounding - the only audible medium really keeping up with the times.



I mean, Thom Yorke is on board. Come on. Radiohead has always succeeded in tapping the currents of the universal subconscious.



Keep workin it baby.

Album drops May 4th. Like cocaine though headphones.

Mandatory Spring Poem

the infinite springness regenerates for some
doubt, cycles despair and loneliness. A new
start to something old. Winter is an excuse
without sun and skin; spring they will ask
why you are sad again. why are you sad
again. Do the violets not move you nor the
dewdrops defuse the lead-heavy hours? Are
you lonely for someone - I miss the sadness
in everyone. I need to begin a chemical
routine, like a flower soaked in pesticide
on a beautiful spring day in Tennessee.

for Rene Descartes

I feel so disconnected

old friends are far
new friends are new

I feel so disconnect

I'm nobody
and who are you

I feel so discon

give me that
watch me do

I feel so dis

what luck
damn blue

I feel so

alert:
untrue

I feel

through

I

grew

I feel

a third
debut

I feel so

what I
now knew

I feel so dis

traced myself
how you drew

I feel so discon

faultless in pain
greenvelvet hue

I feel so disconnect

ready to test
paradigm view

I feel so disconnected.

blues n bugs

 

 

Making Friends Stream

become quiet pretension
rooms they fill up the people
with themselves under.stand
ing under stars

more and more bored growing
more and more bored knowing where
you came

from

where



I left
I want to leave.quiet pretension
twice bodies with themselves with
out me just as well with me just
as well

more and more bored less forward
keeping quiet pretension filling
under themselves under
the stars standing under a
social grace I got left out:

Second

We are both second
s apart, thrown together
for minutes a day.
The space next to first or
the time it takes for

Hope to evaporate
from my childish daydreams.
Doodling playgrounds for my
invisible companions.

For a second I thought
for a second thought to
become primary – it’s not
as hard as you thought.

It takes a lot
to smile these days.

For a smile it takes
a lot these days.

Holy Ghosts

I touched an a priori love with the
same invisible hand that directs lust,
breaks trust then waves them off.

Absence is:
-subtraction of sex.
-abstraction of the rest.
-like formulaic espresso pulls.
-breathing steel and straws, they blow.
-rootless trees and our gutless poetic slush.
-cigarette-splashes, the smell of dead matches.

A guardian specter.

Lectured in your technique, my body
resigns from pursuit and memories
imperceptible but residual reemerge as
impossible.

On Leaving

to Juan Pablo, who knows.

A few things stay the same. Coffee in the mornings, Tolstoy at night. My nails are still the same orange they were when I left but the fingers that hold them are tenser, the hands that hold them are tanner, and the body that holds them traumatized by absence. Who knew hours could be so hard, who knew vulnerability could be so easy. Time and space, my mortal enemies, I am keeping them close. Stitched into my emotional fabric, unravel, burn; destruction of the fibers remains an impossibility. But they are not the only ones committed to orientating my reality.

I am puzzled by my sudden willingness to violate my own maxims, as if I could be the one exception to the very system I erected.

non poem 1

I hardly share anything. But people hardly read anything. The bore of academic lore coupled with an isolation becoming more and more

- evident, unavoidable, or worst of all, innate -

warrants some sort of creative outlet. That I don't throw away. The beauty of the internet, a billion pieces of html forever floating. Anonymous as you like it.

Fuck Sincerely,

K.