that’s not my face, but its inside; this post’s voice. be patient.

So, now that I’m almost certain no one reads this blog but myself, and unyieldingly certain that no one but me is currently taking any substantial, thought-out, crush-depth sentiments from this picayune blog, I’m going to use it as a digital notebook. Nothing more, nothing less. You may see broad generalizations of incomprehensible abstractions, you may see dead amalgams of things around me, you may read short stories that may or may not have happened to me or someone You or I know, you may read dirty stories, you may read about BDSM meetings in Midtown post wrap party at the Lincoln Center, in an unnamed basement, new and incontinent to the circle of masqued men and women all undoubtedly starting at me.

You may see earnest letters of sympathy, or apology, or comedic mania circling around some lascivious paradox I can’t stop hearing in my mind.

While this so far does not exhaust what you will see and read and think and imagine because of this blog, I can supplement the lack with what I believe you won’t see here; you won’t see unselfconscious narcissism, or second-order narcissism, for that matter, you won’t see what most would call ego-trips or intellectual masturbation, or petty post hoc narratives explaining why this or that career or past girlfriend or lover didn’t *get* me, because the truth is I just don’t care if I don’t believe they want anything but my attention, dependency, or unconditional respect, because fuck you that’s why. You will see fowl language, yawps, curses and drunken semantics, but it won’t be unearned or otherwise inaccurate and imprecise.

you may see poetry. i duhnnuhh…

I will probably psychoanalyze everyone I’m stuck living//working with. I’m very stubborn about this. It’s my continence, and it works to the interests of everyone involved.

I have been told repeatedly that I am a pragmatist at heart, but this title has always felt too official and ideological for me.

So does my real name.

I have been called an asshole, a slimy lying sack of &*(P, a fuck-ass, perceptive, a good listener, that i have a good brain (on me), that I’m a genius, that I’m brilliant, a poet, a wordsmith, a philosopher, perfect, hopeless, haggard, stormy, schizophrenic, depressive, manic, scary, unreliable, responsible, repressed, insulated, lost, irresolute and edgy, and many other adjectives that only go together in an interpenetrating series of phalluses, speaking purely geometrically. I am surprised that WordPress’ spell check does not recognize the plural form of phallus. Or itself’s possessive case.

I am an actual, in-the-flesh writer, editor, magazine owner. I’m also a production assistant for a New York TV Channel. And I lived in Vietnam for two years. I believe in conjunctions.

but that’s enough for now. if you’re not me reading this, then welcome to a tour of the switchboard(s) of my life. I hope you’re insulated enough for protection, but not so much to preclude perspective, because without the former or with the latter none of this will make sense to you. Very little makes sense in those spaces. Go make dinner or tweet about millennials, if that’s where your upstairs is.



I saw a young homeless girl crying on Lexington street, today. She was no older than me, and it was morning. She didn’t even look haggard, in sweatpants and jacket, at first. I was having my last smoke before work, and I was beginning what would be a very long day of hard, detached, lonely, unsexy recompense.

After she caught me looking, I turned my head away and tried not to let the cycle of self-extolling humility begin. I was smoking, and holding still next to the street minimizes the time hundreds of strangers have to stare at my smoking face. But even though my surveillance of her was reduced to peripheral, she’d honed in on me. I felt the love lost over the years involuntarily flood back into my mind; every one I’ve let go of, indifferent to their fall. There’s just too much space in the world to retreat to…but so instead of repulsion, I went straight to empathy, and felt so trapped–there was nothing I could do for her, and she was that refused love embodied, an alternate version of my present self’s desire, sitting there, never reached, a love I’d never gotten to, who recognized me as someone that could have saved her, if I’d only come earlier. This was as glaringly empathetic as it was narcissistic.

I couldn’t even finish the cigarette–every glance to her was a knife to both of us, and I felt real, genuine tears portending behind my sagged eyelids. She was keeling forward, in cries of anguish that sent her down in step-wise descent, cycling back up to a better height to fall from, burning what’s on its way down.

I wiped a single tear from my left eye, and walked into my corporate internship.


I’ve been here for sixteen days now. Today I bought my second pack of Spirits from a shop below my second job for twice the Iowa price from a man twice my age with sags double my sags’ depth, and remarked in astonishment at the youth displayed in my ID, and we had light-blue chit-chat about the relative pros and cons about that remark’s propositional contours; looking younger than you’d like for things it’s best to do with age, looking too old in youthful praxis, being too old for the joys of said praxis.
In the city, everyone knows, yet they still can
be amazed, for they like to be reminded, if only–
I’m only blue because I feel myelf conceding to loneliness, to being unknown and unloved. My life here’s a big charade, with everyone playing their necessary parts arbitrarily, like it could be anyone being-there, becoming-sentimental-ape, becoming-rascist-sollipsist, becoming-invisible-housewife, becoming-facade…these are my roommates, repectively Cody, Tim, Larry and Nick, all trying on each other’s flow in self-extolling parodies of one another’s absence(s). I would wonder what they store me as, which recognitions take? But I know I give even less than Nick takes, and he’s just surveillance.
Which is how I made my capital, or was made by it, on last Friday and Saturday, when I entered a production of education at Lincoln Center–everyone left full. Even Sandra.


I’m writing a song in my head on subway transits, and so far it goes

“you’re never too old to start over,
you’re never too young to give up.”

“If one wanted to establish theses in philosophy, no debate about them could ever arise, because everyone would be in agreement with them.”
-Ludwig Wittgenstein 1953, contra Waismann’s “Theses”
“I once wrote, ‘The only correct method of doing philosophy consists in not saying anything and leaving it to another person to make a claim.'”
-Ludwig again


Four days. Four ambivalent days, alone out here, in New York. The energy is more than palpable (I anticipated a mere stereographic plurality, an abundant chaos, but disorganized); it’s not like Saigon at all–everyone’s vivacious, enlightened in//to specific character. I can see it in their eyes, the way my most practiced, minimal gaze is returned, captured and classifed, even. This place is a Leviathan–a beast.
And yet this is exactly how I feel here. In IC I could freely choose to appear sane, congenial, and only let others see or hear what passes for madess to me when I allowed it. But the battery’s higher here–so many of them are barely contained, their madness peeking just over the perceptual windowsill, right back at me and mine, plotting, scheming, narrating, turning and laughing. They can see me.
The difference is that they’re likely enabled–manifesting hallucination and delirium to test their true feelings’ merit, where as I…I?


The truth is I’m not alone here–there is no more question of being alone or together. Only a continuum, or spectrum of feeling with teeth. God help me if I ever trip here.
I’ve sent around ten applications out, received one response from a Chinese ESL//SAT//Primary school in Queens, but that guy hasn’t responded to my request for a meeting time yet…Is this fish, or incompetence I smell?

Holly is dead. My family is disintegrating.

I pray to myself, for myself.


who loved?

Whether taken piece-meal, via semantic//etymological deconstrutcion, or in media res ad aeternum, the answer is a process, which isn’t a dialogue; but, nevertheless, I’m beginning to believe the answer is–No One.
             can’t lose the flesh,
                   can’t shake the fascism,
                           and desire’s lifting off without me.
Reset to zero–lose loyalty. old friends and lovers don’t know you, and don’t care to–but they’d love to use you (oh, how they Love using you).
                  It’s time. total self-renaissance. L & C are strangers again; into the D.N.E. box with them, and the past at large, too–so be it, no one needs to know.


My selves and my Ends. There are no other entities in the world I am more sick of. Why, they’re all Others’ others, too, too misperceived to persist, and too recognizable, too recognized to grow. No one wants a piece of the known, deep down. We like surprises.
If only there was no need to pull anything together, to assume Unity and posit abstract organisms as something concrete, real and socialized. To presume to “begin.”
We abhor beginnings. I am B’s alter-ego No. 5, a prototype in the middle of older selves, between Chuck, A’s beloved B, and the “expat-rising,”sunken into the substance of, or (really) with, travels, travails, toils and unemployment, job hunts, forums of rhizomatic pretensions, infidel lovers and irresolute dreams, bankruptcy, wasp stings and swollen hands, symbolic gestures of friendhip from other positing selves who really want to Get Close or Die. I am a substrate, the template for conflict and progress, the production of desire, anyone’s and no one’s.
Particular things as specific people (or perhaps vice-versa) is a horrid idea. The very worst practice. I did this decade backwards, I was a Lacanian in Saigon, and will be a schizoanarchist in New York. How is irony so precise, yet inaccurate?! I say the latter because matching ends reach objective irony, while others yield only the subjective, post-modern, double-framing sort.