Restless after an afternoon at the Beer Saloon with the folks, and it’s 12.  Am.

So, the bit about the corner of the room.  To the right, you will see a fab 2-canvas painting by John Rodriguez.  I saw the thing at an empty student exhibit at BC, and after I had some sort of wine/coffee combination, I had to come back to it.  There was another canvas with a record mounted on it pretty nice, but I had to have these.  Here’s a better shot of them:

I promised John I would write a sci-fi story off these, but all I got was some bad poetry:

You called her mother father lover hate. You dug her name like trenches in the quicksand. Your amber chest, your ruby melted out of place, your poppy fist sunken in cobalt mud between her feet.

An icy cobalt swept the place, a smudge on her mechaniqued face. A current whipping stoic through this broke-down shade of grey. She melted through her stance. She whispered through the busted Roman clock face hanging by your belt. There was no matching helmet, viking or corroded steel, to guard your face from her embrace. Relentless cobalt rings about your shade of grey.

When they commanded you to stay away, they came and lined your gate with dull machetes and with AKs and their boots left one deep print in all your muds. You gripped your face, you struggled with your leftovers of grace.  You broke the fence.  The guard and his small son.  To gain one slimy step. Toward her electric place.

And there you sit, your right hand fastened to your ninth rib on the left, with mechanisms cobalt soon could melt. And your left elbow, propped and locked over your ruby ruby heart. And she sings deep inside your shade-of-greyed mind. She flies like cobalt through the night. Your snout contorts to unclick three quick locks, three mechanisms through the cold steel bars. Your tower may have tumbled down, but you are still inside. And you sail high, and take your amber plunge into her cobalt sky. Where gravity is poppy shaded fists, and she flies cobalt high over the trenched concrete where your grey mind has come to be. Running ruptured through the cracks and blackened bits of gum. She flaps sharp cobalt with the wind, and rubies trail her vaguely to the sun. As though you’d barely just begun.

I might add my line breaks when I learn to return+shift.  Until then, imagine them.  Or don’t.  I can only imagine the scale of badness this poetry is on, line-broken or otherwise.  Just figured that it’s 12 am.


Wind and consistency

Posted: 02/20/2011 in Uncategorized

July 16th was quite some time ago.  And here we are.  Attempt dos to resume in the AM.


another corner of the house,

logo scroll,

and camel cat




















from your humble host, for your non-specific de-entertainment.


starts a blog.  Finds own perspective fascinating.  Refers to street names and local watering holes out of context when in conversation with out-of-towners.  Prefers conversation with in-towners.  Prefers in-towners who are hardly ever in town, and are most likely not from around here, though you’d never know it.

Sharing a new non-diet:

I am too obnoxious to diet.  I don’t feel the need to wear itty bitty little clothes.  I only take up three-quarters of a train seat, which often invites small Asian women to place their three small offspring on the single seat next to me, with their knees to the back rest so they can look out the window and count the shopping carts below them on the street, loaded with stolen recycling in clouded blue trash bags, towering over small Asian women much like.

I eat what I want.  I eat a tub of lettuce for the double-serving of creamy dressing and bacon bits I slather over it.  I drink non-light beer and dilute my coffee with non-skim milk and take the elevator to the third floor when I’m not tired, but just because someone else already pressed the button and left.  To take the stairs.  After I take my jeans out of the dryer, I sometimes have to lay down before I can button them.

This is not a dieting blog.

Today, instead of waiting for the weekend to drive to the supermarket, I got off the train, walked into the store for beer and cat litter.  I was also carrying some Soho shopping from my lunchtime trip to the bank on the corner.  I wanted new kicks and the new summer ale and I haven’t used my debit card all week.  So the arduous five block troop to my apartment, and how looooong it turned out to be when I dropped my bags every two blocks.  Oh, and the Hasidim pausing to look into my shoulder bag as I stretched my arms and popped a zit on my shoulder.  And the SpiceTV-worthy groan I made when I picked the bags up, missed one handle, and had to stoop waaaaay back down to recover it before my beers went rolling down the muddy driveway.  These things, they tell me I should consider a diet.

But I won’t.

In lieu of said diet, I may or may not:

  • write daily per OB and the mindless amount of manuscript rejections I send out just as daily (which means, I will write every day that I send out rejection slips, and maybe this will also make me write on days that I am not as necessarily ruthless with other writers).
  • pick up small things at the supermarket (as soon as I remember that I need them) when I get off the train, and carry them home in my hands for five blocks.  Instead of showing up every two weeks with a list.  And make fewer stops to put things down and rest my arms and pop my zits in public.
  • only leave the office for cigarette breaks when I am reading something viable, so I can clip it into a folder and stand on Bleecker Street looking important.
  • attempt to meet deadlines and/or show up on time.  Big thing.  Never happens.  Oo-rah.
  • make plans with myself.  To do things.  Other than laundry.

So that’s that.  I like how the first and last bullets are mutually coercive but non-exclusive.  This post-undergrad big-kid existence should be interesting.  Let’s see how it goes, and who ends up rooting for Just another obnoxious Brooklynite (JaoB).