3 stones



writing is unforgiving.

like all devotion.

the more restless one’s written output, all the more devoted.


restlessness in the written life a type of nervous energy that distends & retracts in almost direct proportion to a bank account.

subservience is lurid, excluding arrangement, & so most choose “simple life”, turning from devotion to its complement—adulation.



simple lives aggrandise the Campbell-type hagiographies of simple lives emerging from simple life to become something grand. perhaps becoming themselves a theme or a textual exploration; the hero’s journey [sic] then pocked & soiled, in time, by over-abundance. [the hero*ine’s journey — far from satisfying some desirous platitude; to wit, '“representation” — is vulnerable to the same reductive hagiography.]

spectation reduces us thus.

cloisters the heart in a prefab camp.

makes us want for subservience.

for a clean narrative mirror.

& so the writer is a slave & the reader her cotton.

& the written word like a crud-closed cut btwn them.

perhaps there is something new? something of a philosophy?

perhaps a contradiction. perhaps to itself.

guilty for writing, @ any rate. or not writing. on failing to write. on failing to write well or w/ structure. slapdash, slipshod, shoddy.


writing is to breathe as stone.

i cast mine.


(1) the camera is facing a mirror. the reflection of the lens reflecting the reflection. the light chaotically envelopes the space. a cacophony of white & shimmer-drenched curtains & a long walk down a white hallway & this white o so white couch & whiteness embedded on red-leafed white bread pillows. the camera is black & filming. the red record light glows red twice. these are simple descriptions meant to evoke a scene. but really there is nothing. so special. going on. the scene is not even discernible. the eye of the camera & the eye of the viewer are. the same.


tell a story.

once upon a Spree, in the waning hours of a foamy beer, just as everything goes gushy yellow, a rainbow appeared over Berlin. 2 hipsters held a caucus for what it could mean. “Fuck, like, this city is queer as hell,” said one licking her papers & sniffing against the cold, “It’s like a sign we’ve got the Mehrheit.” “Motherfuckers can’t handle,” said the other. she was wearing a black shirt w/ “Enjoy Addis Ababa” in mock Coca-Cola script. the shirt was tucked into a black skirt. the skirt hung over black shoes. they (as the other was to be addressed), in contrast, wore an off-white dress w/ “Beauty dies in LSD orgy after sex w/ 100 men” hand embroidered @ the hem. no shoes. the pair wore undersized, red-tint, broken sunglasses. & they were covered in scribbly little tattoos from neck to toe. billboards for an invite-only no one would attend.:

painful reminders of dead friends. bad beer. cold nights on a cardboard mattress in an overpriced apt. hugging bodies u’ve never seen before just for warmth. shivering off the last of the speed. ears-still-ringing sorts of scribbles that never truly heal. that in never healing show the truth behind every memorial. exalted levels of youth & blood-flushed cheeks from endless pointless movement. pressed sardine against ex-partners. heaving cocaine breathed all gnash & calcium smell from broken teeth. bad haircut. i’ll-find-Jesus-1-day-ma-&-then-he’ll-pay spirituality. alchemically inspired astronomical wobblies all pen-burnt hellish into the prickly shame-crust flesh. like burn me a golden fleece & sail on to Tartarus. einfach Scheisse. like fuck-me bad.

meaning, of course, good.

[in the presence of wealth is defilement. defilement is chic. bullshit is that the shoes are designer. & the dress cost 250.]

& the rainbow fucked off.

& then something else happened.

but not to them.