whispers in the game

There comes a time when surviving becomes more than just surviving, but also the way you might lie. You didn’t sense the temptation because you’ve already made the choice: nothing can be worse than what’s passed behind you. It was the worst time of your life, because the last worst time was better. Always you were certain the most recent fall was final. Now this conceit will be your undoing.

You may eventually live a shade of black that’s indiscernible to anyone else from every other maximum loss. This is because no one wants to live in a world that permits what you’ve seen, so it’s just easier to erase, correct, and forget. And when it happens, you’ll ask what happened to common sense, ask when it was the world decided to stop treating you and so many others like human beings, and therein lies the biggest conceit ~ a reason you can take for why this is happening, if you still need one:

It was never about you, nor anyone else. Vonnegut tried to sway us all with his aphoristic “so it goes.” Tried to hint at the indifference behind the stories we tell ourselves about being alive. And it is this: the story is always more important than your life. Narrative is just as powerful as ever. Moreover, it is also the most unconscious, and therefore real, force.

But when public desire becomes simpler than a children’s book, that’s when the full tour of american horror really takes you, and without recognition, or end or help or hope of catharsis. The language of recovery is too complicated for relating. So you can live a little hell, but you won’t be allowed to say it. You just have to take it. And smile.

Welcome to real life.

This is where the first-person is supposed to resume, but, as Derrida knew, I had to say something, even if nothing is all I’m allowed. Maybe someday I’ll say more, but I just can’t now. Please understand. Maybe in five, or ten, or twenty years. I know, of course, I can choose when to say, but not when I’ll be heard. That’s up to something much bigger, and slower. I don’t know when or if it’s ever really coming, but.

Thank you, reader, for sticking around.

I can, however, speak to the general. In the last two years, I’ve rethought friendship like never before. And through the seasons I found a new kind of sincerity, more visceral and unrelenting than ‘new sincerity,’ more self-aware than modern, more tender than nuanced. I’m finally writing again, although very, very slowly. The weight is heavy, and I spend most days not being crushed.

For instance, no one knows how I really pay my bills. When someone asks, I tell them I have a private sponsor, letting the third s of anonymous plurality slip silently by. Sometimes I laugh, in a scary sort of hysteric wave, at the new depth behind cliche lines like wishing one knew then what one knows now. If I could go back to 2014, or even 2016, and warn myself of what was coming — what I’d find — I don’t think I would have believed myself. If I cited my proof to that very young man, he might even commit himself. What’s shocking is my feeling like it might have been the better call.

Sometimes I look in the mirror and see myself like ripped stitches of one finger of an unseen and very sinister puppet. It checks this body I use out, assessing its eyes to see what it can really do for me. It’s so strange seeing the object before the subject, to view yourself as something to work with, instead of that old and naive first person.

I’ve been nearly silent on social media because I’m almost ready. There’s nothing to carry on, only a new direction. And I know, since it’s not about me, I don’t owe the past a thing.

Everything before was exhibition. For better or worse, I am whispers in the game now.



we’re all millipedes now

seven roars of banality, the semi-truck screams maddeningly down atlantic ave

silent omissions, the guise of truth

not not relative, but

fatalistically unreliable, and

what can one mean to say without transgressing

we live in violent currents, eddies of self-referential transgressivism

‘i am transgressed’

qualities within include not

empathy in fear, hearing the echo, cochlea searing

we’re all millipedes now

walking there and back looking screaming

demand, signal, revenge,

seeing only the hundred-fifty scratching forward ignoring

our six hundred dragging back.

call that strange, call this life.

there was a poor jersey girl who fell to pieces. not because of anyone doing something to her. nothing could touch her. the reverse is truer in constraints. that was the problem. not being able to touch anyone. to be non-feely. not going on, but calling it so. parabolas of meaning whose maximum semantic intake is too known to care about. notice what? i will not explain by first-person allegory. i had a concierge of too little mind. she was all heart. i hesitate to write about any of it because of how heartless it makes one sound. she wanted nothing, so nothing is what i gave her.

it’s strange aging. you start to see your former ideal selves as quantifiable, categorizable, things. neologisms apologized for, and the march of memes carries on. one would say what a strange time to live, excepting the omission of calling that strange. calling this life. does everyone get so lost that they wake up one day, as nobody, suddenly in mock awe at the strewn remains of the past ten years? totally empty? oh you can work up a narrative, give it its due popular yield, as a narrative, but you remain the difference, inside.

i wonder what will come next. i hope i’m not. i hope they are. i know i’m afraid of finding the reverse again, which is to say the same old coda, the end that won’t just be itself. all one can do now is work. alone, never; together, a clone.

what are you lookin at

One comes to crave meaning so much one learns a new way of craving. I can’t even say desire because the term is so wrapped up in Lacan and how speaking about Lacan reverses the work Lacan suggests one desire by, yet there exist entire publications designed to pull the curious and unrecruited in to act as confirming gaze for psychoanalytic milieus transferring young souls into the academic bank. This is not a cynical rant. I have no interest in mania, or passivity, or being being-seen. Sometimes I think television … and I suppose now all moving images on//with dual narrative screens are simply religious icons, the better to practice the fantasy of being seen and judged by embodying that gaze for a screening of a future perfect self.

truths that’ve finished with me

(this is a code)

“Popular themes of the genre include murder, suicide, depression, abuse, mutilation, war, religion, barbarism, drug abuse, terminal illness, domestic violence, rape, homosexuality, incest, pedophilia, child sexual abuse, insanity, nightmares, disease, racism, homophobia, sexism, disability (both physical and mental), chauvinism, terrorism, genocide, political corruption, torture, and crime.”

ever wonder why the impulse to laugh wells up as one reads on to where such sentences might and inevitably may full bore take you …

there are many reasons why i’ve not added to this blog in months. the easy answer is that it’s a symptom of distraction by something, and the easier answer comes from impulsively projecting one’s own, but alas dear reader, i can now say these myriad reasons encapsulate a tripartite of competing drives.


i’ve consented to shoulder some complicity by way of vocation; I now write for a publication in the financial district, where i spend as much time spreading the myth of innate hierarchy and naturalized capitalism as i do lining bankers’ pockets with rhetoric about why banks must be the foundation of economic trust. since suffering from amnesia in this case would be more farcical than not, the truth is that this first major distraction in my life is about bullshitting “definitively,” as my boss’ boss would say. but i can’t really write about it here, because i need to eat, and he’d probably replace me for holding the entrepreneurially uncouth beliefs i truly do about such perfidious phantasms as of late, late capitalism.


the old drive: to write, and write well, i.e., in secret; alone (for me). for me, art making should not rely on an immediate social circle’s confidence, both because i don’t have the heart to fool my friends into becoming a means and not an End, and also because why the hell should I cash in my works’ potential for a short-term relationship with one person?

i do however enjoy casually eschewing truths that’ve finished with me into the farcical ears of ideologues, whose eyes exude eternal superiority joined by manic laughter and self-parodying impressions used to rebuild a sense of lacking autonomy. it should be noted that per the Greek etymology of autonomy, the word has nothing to do with independence; on the contrary, it has everything to do with dependence on a set of rules or laws that determine the entity’s position and function in a greater system of laws, circulation, mediation, et al. was it Nietzsche who said that people don’t want the truth because it destroys their illusions? in the abstract it’s quite banal, but face-to-face with those in the concrete, known psychologically, socially, known sexually … it’s anything else.

sometimes i wonder why i’ve chosen a life this intense; why i continue to choose to swim on the surface of words, metaphor, discourse and argument, instead of building a submarine (religious following) or warship (brand) to leverage legal or financial or psychical violence against those I could much easier deem an obstacle embodied than a person whose liberty i might oppress. only in allowing oneself to be vulnerable – by remaining honest and open enough to risk damage from others’ violence – can one know another as oneself. this is why in my travels i’ve never acquiesced to those who claim the masque artiste, and yet refuse to re-spect who they speak their title to, i.e., em-path(os)-ize. hypocrisy really gets on my nerves. let me explain.


The worst, beyond the Derridian sense, although still very much an issue of grammar, is when an artist, formerly irresolute to practically self-eschewing and sociopathic portent(s), later starts to believe, whether from acquiring a degree, publication, illness, or simply the tested patience of any arbitrarily recognized life-event (à la Badiou), that they have already empathized enough, cared enoughdone enough to be bothered to care or feel or think for anything but their own good again.

it’s a weakness of the heart, and a weakness of the intellect; when the latter feeds off the former for security, and this is when a person slips into fascist thought-patterns.

speaking of grammar, let’s break the fourth wall and let the fury go for a minute. the very first post on this blog involved the retelling of a tale of abjection. Much the same as its recent reccurrence in my life, a sophistic stranger sorely lacking in self-referential awareness, in that they know neither what they were doing nor to whom they leveled it, leveraged sex and sexuality to obtain cultural capital. Ever the compulsive fucking saint, I tried to diminish the extent of their violence, both times picayune and both times psychical, by explaining the hypocrisy at hand.

This is probably out of my idiotic (literally) conflation of Kant’s bi-conditional dictum, “you can, because you must!” mistaking the possibility for greatness in a constellation of another’s young personal (con)fidence for the will to make that self something great. try to remember the last time you asked someone a question as ostensibly boring as, like, hey: why are you living that way and were really heard.

so, memento.

never underestimate youth’s fear of being wrong.

unconscious and heroine

sometimes i catch myself wishing poetry on myself. not to say such things are wished for, no, rather I

(I! think!)

poetics are cursed.

a turn away from empty tethers of commons and civil unions, to the real;

to be denied more than lived.

bodies become slow death(s) of self(s) expressed in ephemeral jest(s), and no one else was certainly there, or you were also she who you sought the whole fucking time.

because there-then was always a lie, because already never was.

the weird new know –

No’s knowing my favorite poets are all women.

fitting telling.

While one may not hero worship,

unconscious and heroine may be two terms

more synonym than not.

bushwick impressions precede its expressions

It’s the second week of mine here at my new little palace in this cozy corner of Bushwick. There’s not much to look at outside the front door besides a community college across the street and the big L station buried under what looks like an abandoned mortuary. It’s funny that it looks that way because the other side of it is the biggest graveyard in the borough, or so I like to believe. When I’m doing a bad job of living and waiting at the station in the day all anyone seems to be able to do is gaze out at the thousands of tombstones rolling away to the horizon under a gray sky. I mentioned to my roommate earlier tonight that it’s probably a source of unconscious comfort for most residents because with the greatest mystery right there on the other side of the tracks, living and working and trying to love doesn’t seem like such a crazy idea.

But enough about death; the fact is that I do have a backyard, and neighbors’ sporadic security lights alternate in a sequence slow enough that if some poor dreaming straggler with too much whiskey on his mind were to trounce through it around midnight, he might tune back into the general sensorium just rarely enough to fool himself into thinking it’s a german disco arranged primarily for his catharsis, and rejoice in chemically-prolonged celebration at the irony of such a serendipitous light show put up for his own truest self.

But the whole best true self scenario feels too numbed down for that dissociation to actually happen. The self is buried in the work somewhere, floating along in an undersea river along with the rest of these other roommates, and we’re copping a proverbial tapestry in terms of psycho-social pirouettes. Did I say social? I meant sex.

Some godless union of raw artistic talent is obviously on the horizon, and for once I’m not the only artist here, and for once I am the only writer. But it’s early; first trimester for this particular inter-subjective baby, and so there’s no sense in placing bets on blue or pink when everything is gray and maroon.

One thing any friend of mine would find appealing is the presence of other like-hearted folks trying out Bushwick like it’s the abyssal end of the punk world that somehow still works…the women in this cafe and around the block who are probably a semi-consensual part of the complicit half of gentrification feign a guard when they pass, but check in for anything with a momentary glow of the iris. Distrustful, yet not mistrustful. Careful, selective, but not disconnected. Or maybe I don’t give my visage enough credit. I wouldn’t know.