I smell your ass on my finger as I smoke your menthol. Thick and earthy, the
smells make me puke a little bile. I catch it in my mouth and swallow.
When I met you in the library restroom, you told me your name was Joe. Not
that it mattered. Joe was better than most other names since I could easily
disassociate it from you by thinking about the coffee I would drink after our
Nothing personal. Any guy could be whom I wanted in that moment. Modularity
is metaxu: neither good nor evil.
I just wanted to be jacked off.
You were so tiny and well groomed; I almost consented to letting you fuck me.
But as we walked back to your dorm room, I decided against it for whatever
Locked in your room, you stripped everything but your black socks with red
patterns. You must have worn them all morning but they had not twisted or
bunched. I lie on top of you, and we tossed each other off.
Not two fags in love, but two fags alive. We shared a pure moment that we will
repeat with others in different rooms.
Monotony is evil, but modularity reconfigures repetition.
Monotony is ever-new fucks, ever-new people. The individuality of each partner
looses coherence. Similarities are exaggerated and differences forgotten.
Modularity is not concerned with numbers only functions; a singular fuck anyone
can share. Similarities between partners are desirable. Although differences
are not subjugated to them, so long as the function is fulfilled.
You slid your finger up my ass, and I returned the gesture. We came quickly
As I dressed, you took out your menthols. I bummed one even though I hate the
I smell your ass on my finger but before I reach the subway stop I don't mind.
Sensual experience slips and drifts contorted by progress and decadence.
Ever since culture forced symbols on experience and existence a need has arisen
to view the senses as symbol generators because once a symbol manifests in
culture, it assuredly exists. All objects, events without symbol or
significance cannot exist within culture.
The creation of symbols is an act of distance, which starts a process of
cultural drift with possible results as cataclysmic as the plate tectonics of
the Pacific Rim.
On the train, I see him—a young man with smooth white skin and black hair—wipe
his mouth with a dirty white scarf. A beautiful surface.
I imagine what is left of your menthol against the soft meat of his ass; a
little steam from the sizzle in the smoke.
What is the urge to destroy beauty?
Nothing endures but the instant when you prevent the page from remaining blank
you own the page completely by limiting its potential.
Is absolute potential God? If so when God exists the universe does not, and
vice versa. God is the reservoir of potential continually expended in the
first and final potlatch.
I cannot look away.
We settle for destruction but desire a return to God. Not that we can ever
regain what he has spent.
He is reflected in the window behind him. The world is reflections: mirrors,
puddles. Man thinks he mirrors the divine; he mirrors the animal.
Start from a point of evolution. In the Temple of the Pro-Simian, few animals
talk, fewer worship a collective figment of their alpha-male as we do. There
are no creation gods, only the stranger across the car from me with his too
blue eyes and worn-out converse.
As he leaves, I do not speak. Some reality has failed. All things fall; fail.
Nothing remains, except a trace of shame.
Religion pours milk over her cunt; the law laps it from a melmac plate beneath
He worries an old woman will reanimate, scuttle around the floor, and bite into
his ankle. But the old woman is still slouched in the corner. Dead people
don't move; don't crawl.
But why then does their hair grow?
Their nails sharpen?
Their eyes shine?
The jug never ends. The milk traces through her well-trimmed cleft.
He licks the melmac and hopes it will never be clean.
Can we possibly escape their affair to a city in the stars? Our small refuge?
Would we labor to cross the distance, to pay the fare away from this world?
Emerging from the mines our hair speckled with mica and sweat, we would
discover the transport frigates orbit themselves in the visible sky.
I worry. Anxiety not towards the men I seek or the non-existent God I crave.
A condition attaches to the remaining potential. A continuos show down between
is and could be, rendering each action the authoritative action in the acted-
Our world ends with sensory perception, even when enhanced. You approach
infinity whether or not you touch the young man with black hair. Pretty in his
way, he is not a sun, a center of an orbit.
Imagining his secrets, creates false lives; reconstructs potential rooted in
the past, not the future. He is a house un-entered and now gone, his life
cannot be his own. A vision, I place in a web of what I know about men like
Humans are not our own; we exist on our own but are quickly collapsed into
symbol by others.
We are assigned coordinates on psychical maps. A place where we cannot have
interiority. We are like the beautiful city and there is no escape or nothing
In my self, I attempt to establish a fort, a place of strength: a base, a place
of support. From this point of peace, I attempt to exceed a fundamental
excesses. I lose coherence, only the atomic self remains.
Culture quickly cocoons me replacing personal excess and from this I must worm
My destination will prevent this.
Humans evolved letting each and every failure, linger. We breathe the impure
oxygen of faith. Next time you tell me what you want to do.
Inside: the door is off its hinges; the hinges are off the wall; the wall has
crumbled; the fort is no more; the city is dust.
I must be terrible. Not to you, but to myself. I am who I fear. My ideas;
ideals; best, best hopes exhausted into tomorrow.
If every space was filled, I could love the stranger's body; could know him for
Christ. Maybe he would truly love me, but I am just a body. My action issues
from it alone.
This is not a dialogue of mind against body. Victory of mind, I fail myself,
my body: a page tattooed, black-lined wings down my back, a barbwire tree up my
I keep the stranger as pornography in my mind.
We deprive porn of its beauty; debase it. Those who admire it, couch their
admiration in lascivious terms. Hot. Sexy. I do not want this porn
desexualized but perhaps an underlying aesthetic re-emphasized.
I notice another across from me. He has bee-stung lips and a delicate nose.
As he reads a white book with a spine of colored bands, he runs his hand
through his shaggy dishwater blond hair.
I see him, equate him with meat.
I associate meat with mass and when writing on faith am compelled to write a
meatless mass. This meatless mass being like God, the image of the stranger
with black hair. This other will do and I write my name and number on a slip
of paper, which I drop into the book. I hope the name will be reduced to a
desirable symbol because language is drift.
There is a moment; reduced to your ideal symbol; will you rejoice?
What if your greatest dreams come true? Your talents, your skills, all those
intangible traits I look past in pursuit of the squirt become what are highest
praised by culture?
What if you transcend even your imagined potential: you become Plato or Lao
Tzu; you last millennia?
Will you then rest forever content?
Your words, images, artifacts will be co-opted by generations.
Language, vocal and visual, will drift.
Your work will decay; become a husk for new, alien thought to live in. All
that will last will be remnants of potential losing a battle with entropy.
But what if the work promises its own potential?
If the other phones, cum will spill. Then silence reveals bafflement. What
else could there be?
The urge beyond language, the faulty wiring, too much politesse.
Nothing more than…art is a cupboard.
At the next stop, a fat pigeon chases another bird from a roost under an iron
railing. A city is not loved; is not natural. It tries to extricate itself
from the savagery of nature and fails. With grace a place without cityscapes
is easily the end of the soul.
That place, that vastness, that swollen promise is under a whole new sun. A
sun burning light that doesn't illuminate; a light that prevents theory and
Theory read and believed causes thinkers to cluster around droppings and
presume they are tracking prey. But they draw ever farther from the sought,
accelerating drift. So eager they miss the movements of bodies (like the
stranger's) pristine in decay.
They think they have hungry souls, spirits. An infestation I hope not to be
stricken with. I fail and surrender to a vague identity I long against myself
for. Desperation at this failure, at my limits, I can no longer pursue a sun-
drenched plain or the jungle in shower; only the blankness of the page, so
The trembling, fumbling, futzing with a dream-ridden self as I surrender to
culture; put my anxieties to work.
I have a vague hope of where I'm going; a land not saddled with self; a
drunkenness perpetual through retching; a floating world; a swimming world on
the stranger, the prowed god.
I am nervous; no direct proof you are not against me. Perhaps simple solitude
will lead to your reduction.
If too much significance is put on any product, the pressure charges it; it
Slicing the eye, losing space, no breath, no immediacy. You, too, lose your
ability to judge when my finger-noose is slipped over your little head.
My placement of action is not fodder, only the refuse of a tiny escape. I
tunnel; resist; fail.
You push against the text, sort out places of inauthenticity and reality. You
know there is no soul without fiction. You undermine the walls of my tunnel.
I am left with my funereal disease; Kharms called it Ignavia. It is not a
failure of the sun but the edge of politesse.
We fail and imagine the failure of God.
But God was wasted before we evolved. The imagined failure leads us back into
culture; to a place the alpha, the dark lord of life, still holds sway with a
Celebration of the Hammer.
The train passes my stop. The stranger gone. The other gone. Alone in a
Experience is never enough in that it is too lost and murkied; bland and
confusing; a melange too mixed.
My fear of a soul, spirit intrudes. Alone in the car I want meaning even if
just a life lightly meant.
Surface; body; creation necessitates symbol. We seek, release and retrieve the
pre and post conceived notions. We struggle as creation, the central question,
Lost, I start from a place of imminent failure.
Forget, I want to start again. The body marks a certain failure.
Do not breath. Do not exit the car. Each act means a motion past failure.
Anxiety, so I start to write not my life but a body of work that communicates
with itself; cancels figures; directs the new. Writing not as philosophy;
writing not as analogue, the words on the page differ not in discursive nature;
descriptive origin; labeling information; but differ.
The nature of the plural you, divides, withdraws. We work within the context
of others; the gentle fall.
The art of falling, a work never finished, never tiresome; remains human at a
steady empty gait.
What hope. Can we manage an escape; an out?
Little words sing, luring meaning as word and character divorce themselves.
Alone, a tightness in my vertebrae; a puckering of my hole. No escape as
gentle as this; so strong as the promise of language.
The act, the fact of production signifies only a re-configuration of cultural
product in consumption. The process of consumption is the most engaging act of
failure, mediating between self and stranger; self and other.
These characters are poor automatons not offering an open mechanism; blank
trait is in character X's behavioral pattern.
We know their function; we know they're modular; why subject them to the shadow
"You" is just as modular. You are just as modular.
Words are a medium that can never succeed, since the charge of a word if
altered changes the reading of the world; a process of decay.
Read beyond original intent; read in culture but against culture's flow.
Language will be lost but I have no comfort in silence except each way of
How do we resist text. We do not move. We deny. We slip; fall into garbage,
filth, fragments. The I; the eye; it is a charge leaving no world but the past
breaking on the etymological present and the future existing as a way or
You never confess self except to the vast emptiness.
Confession/testament both bleed into the law, into religion, a single false
We follow our failures into fallow ground. Ground to be tilled, claimed,
reclaimed, until we fail here too.
This failure is a matter of words; the constructions of symbol; the thoughts of
a fluttering myopic who writes without faith.
At Delphi, Apollo, inscribed among other things, Know Thyself.
So know myself? I like commercials but dread the products. I claim to be
interested in the means of consumption but I don't actually know what that
Confronted with material I don't understand, I emulate it.
Do not exceed the self; the motion without soul or intellect.
Reduce the self and pursue the shadow. Raise a corner of the text and wind
around the feet of giants. If not giants those who threaten to dwarf me.
Confused I ride on.
A recorded violin pierces me. I turn slightly to the listener behind me.
Slack jawed; acne down his jugular; he will do.
Uncombed mousy hair, picked at random; he will do. Not for a razor drawn
across the eye. Not for a jaw split on a curb, leaving teeth roots and nubs.
Not even for clumsily pounding his flat ass in a dark corner or sucking his
But he will do in that at the next stop he exits, minding the gap, to lead a
life that may or many not bore me.
Incidents untold. Motions unmeant.
His limited escape.
Escape in small motions. I follow him to the platform but think I see the
stranger leaning against the turnstile. Now in a blue ski cap and an unmarred
black leather jacket.
Only a synthesis of facial features; a pale face, dark brow. His hair barely
poking from his cap is burnt a yellow blond. A red armband and straight white
laces against his black Docs suggest racial violence but one stylized.
Collapsed in culture he has limited potential. I pass him side stepping a dark
cowled pigeon pecking at a chicken bone.
Hope is not a failure of motion, only a failure of threat. The function is not
always the function you see.
The word is not the function of the word; an investment of a gesture home, a
state of nostalgia.
The word has other presences. It makes stimulus-response without stimulus.
The word is void. Cock in khakis. The other must be approached.
Culture snakes around constricts urges: Bacchus and the Plague god, a seeming
end of failures.
Subtle aromas; chemicals and their needs are not less human.
If synthesis follows me I will beat him tender, cut the softest self-lubricated
chamois from his skin. A souvenir, noting it is not itself.
We proceed to a diner whose name reads Golden for dirty yellow.
No voices, we are alone. No cutting. No slicing.
Inside: smoke and yellow light.
I am seated in a booth across from a young father. Wavy brown hair and mutton
chops. When he kneels to play with his daughters, a band of skin between his
faded navy Dockers and red T-shirt is exposed.
A pre-stonewall desire; the beating of queen's heart.
I order a coffee.
The insect, beetle blue sunglasses of a tiny fag in flip flops approaches.
The cold surface on the pale face reflects me, a text writing itself to
failure, circling an end, chasing a narrow escape.
This you sits across from me and I will ask if you want to go somewhere and
jack each other off.