and then i begin to forget myself. and it is good that i do so, for i am becoming trapped by the mirror every morning, seeing only the death mask, emotionless, frozen. and so i forget myself, fumbling my fingers against her passing breath, touching the space in my mind where she just spoke. is it wrong to speak of god as a woman? god is perhaps sexless, but i like to think of her as woman, as something beyond me that creates me, that i can press against and thrust against and beat against but only lose myself in. she accepts everything i do, even when i scream, even when i punch the walls, slam the doors, stare at myself in the mirror all day trying to scare myself. sometimes i try to kill her, stopping everything that tries to come out of my mind. but i think i love her, i think i do because then i forget myself again, and i find myself reaching out in the night to sing, i discover myself looking away from myself out the window at the street, listening to the night, listening to the night sing. and then maybe i slip out a few words, maybe i smile, maybe i look the same, but something’s come out of me, something’s changed. i figure that i must love her when i lose myself in dreams like this. i must be still alive.

if god is a woman, than i think that i’ve got a reason to believe.

but then i’ll remember myself, i look back, and i’ll catch my breath, my face setting into the lines where it’s been broken by time. what’s the next line?, i’ll think, where was the word that i’m looking for? my muscles snap like reeds in my ears. i look at myself, frozen as a rock in the mirror. when will it finish? i’ll think, when will it be complete?

she waits for me patiently, the night, singing, for me to fall asleep, for me to forget myself.
the sun rises and the garbage men wake me,
and i wonder
has this happened before?
why has this happened



Watching. Distant our minds grow from our bodies. We gaze at ourselves through the television, intelligence pouring from our faces like the fall of water onto rocks, streaks of lightning from a clouded sky breaking into the earth. We become objects, glistening with light, charged forms of desire, tremoring, moving across the surface of time like possessed animals, indefinable symbols.

Do you see the flood, O man in the suit, O man of the mirrored fortress?
Do you see what you have ruined in yourself? Do you think words will save
you now? Do you think that your past will teach you how to breathe

There is no narrative that can encapsulate us. We are not a nation, we are not a generation. We are eyes, taking out the world, giving in the world.

We are love,
consuming everything,
holding onto nothing.

(Feb 7, 2000)

Did i say “love”? Such a trademarked term, traditional, safe. Not love, then. It is the experience of the moment i’m speaking of, the pushing forward like the prow of a ship through time, the forward falling pulse of a hi hat in a jazz stream. It’s the refusal to hold back any longer, the sudden spontaneous agreement to let go of everything and let yourself be whatever it is you are doing, whatever it is you are feeling. it is letting every single wave of consciousness that hits you run through you, refusing to stop, refusing to fall back onto what is known, what is certain, what is dead.

so then when you watch, when you sit and gaze at these dead images moving, dancing before your eyes, you are looking past everything you see. you know that these forms are meaningless, these words, these illusions. but you go with it, you let it take you, because you are no longer scared, you know that there’s nowhere that you can go that will take you away from what you aren’t. it is acknowledging that you could never possibly capture it, that you could ever possibly understand. it is accepting that every moment is a death, every moment is a birth.

we are the dead watching the dead,
living somewhere
in between.

here’s the scene

Gorgono (turning): the city. it floods me veins with broken light. my blood cuts across my vision and sometimes all i can see is cells, chaotic, strewn throughout my body fighting.
Jana (skipping): i would like to love it, i would like to feel good sucking in the brown air like a vacuum, wrapping my eyes around the passerbys. i’m even easy to use. and all you got to do around here is plug in, lay back, and play.
Gorgono (dancing): but somewhere deep the drum keeps the language running. the television could talk to me forever and never tell me anything i didn’t already know.
Jana (stripping): i’ve got a double mask. i’m breaking ahead, waiting around the corners, ensnaring every divorced movement of my radiation-glazed skin. i’ve got a double mask. i’m watching myself appear like a screen in the scenario. i’m nobody you can get in touch with. the only currency i take is sacrifice.
Gorgono (pumping): i’m watching myself. i want to fill every slot in the channel of time. i’m breaking apart. i’m flooding. i’m a thousand faces reflecting light shining in from nowhere.
Together (collapsing): i the city. i-and-i, we the system. how far we go before we come back?


\\\jurisdiction. coming off of the royal poop deck like a king of some mystic, ancient world. biting into a corn dog, dribbling Squirt down my chin. i look out upon my precinct, the corner of 64th and Krinkle. good. i pull at my crotch authoritatively. ain’t noone gonna tell me what i got, cause i KNOW what i got. my secretary tells me i look like David Hasselhoff. It’s not really my face exactly, but that presence of domination, of a manly blandness. that makes sense to me, cuz i remember back when i was a kid, watching Star Trek and eating Mom’s meatloaf, how i could relate to Captain Kirk, his potbellied assurance, the suave way he moved in his futuristic 70s uniform, as if it were a second skin. I think I’d be popular in Germany.

jacobs wife

1053L: jacob told meto to sit. it was a foggy night. sandwiches in the dark. i sniffed hopefully, alert.
1054[input]: i was the lettuce. i was still crispy then.
1055224yg: jacob was coughing, nostrils flaring, watering eyes. when he finished, he chugged me down; i quenched his thirst. gatorade: more efficient than water, and better tasting.
108652:L there is an intense concentration in the gut that takes place in the act of consumption. a brutal silence accentuated by smacks and swallows.
19057hrlo”: marlboro reds. 1 every hour, two after a meal. surgeon general advises: when you give away your mental freedom, you poison your body to survive.
1hru90: i am a teapot, short and stout.
1060gy89: none of it mattered. but it was complete somehow, harmonized by the chipping of the white paint on the side of the window.

purple motion

signing my name, i suddenly feel like i’m drowning. there’s a part of me here that i can’t see that’s flowing from me and coagulating into a larger system, something symbolic, invisible, representative of a certain quantity of moments i’ve sold of myself, exchanging my time for a shell, for a brand that i can exchange with anybody. i sell my freedom, my boundlessness so i can be defined, so that i can be represented, seen, and experienced. i become an image, i become a dead thing to be resurrected in others eyes.
drowning feels like breathing fire, a shredding ecstasy that consumes whatever i held as my own, whatever i held back as distinct and separate from the rest of the world. at first it’s blinding, painful, frenzied–but soon it’s filling every cell, incorporating every space with maximum efficiency into a purposeful stillness, a frozen potential, a waiting that knows completion.
i break apart then into the ocean of energy.
and somewhere, in some darkened room at some certain time i smile down upon a somnolent form and fill their current dream with light.

Watch the Movie

past the obvious, there is, of course, the not-so-obvious–and beyond that there is Captain Cream. but irregardless of the endless stream of permutations that a helix could create, there is an ultimate sense of, how else to say it, BLUENESS. like the energy that you can see manifested when you stare at a white wall and stop focusing on the wall–maybe it’s different to you: jimi must have seen it purple. i’ll say blue because i feel it as blue–when it flows, it’s all heavy, all beautiful in a distant sort of way the way a blue sky can be. minds me of a dream i had when I was like 9. i would run and turn into a dragon and fly up into the sky and through a trapdoor in the sky that would take me to a place that was wonderful, mysterious, secret, inhabited by a motherly female–it was like an apartment in an alternate universe, everything was black and white and objects kept moving around and changing into something else and it was like that strange perverse universe that children enter into when they play the role games that adults wistfully and somewhat sheepishly emulate in hollywood movies. and when i woke up i was real sad because it was so real, because damn it felt right and it would never come back, i would never fly. took me a decade to figure out that all that is real, all the dreams, all the gossip, all the stories and myths that people jizz out like sprinklers in their mind and all the sentences you stop and cross out and throw in the can. now i know i’ve got it, all the time, the trapdoor in my head, the dragon in my spine. it’s always there, blue, waiting.