[ Lines Composed on a Napkin for a Stranger at The Alcove in Los Feliz ]

Aristotle says that to be
alone a man must either be
an animal or a god.

There is a third alternative
missing from this
equation: a woman
eating dessert in an alcove

Empress of ice cream,
crying diamond tears
over crummy cakes.

Or else: a poet
who is often both
at the same time.

for Fredrich Nietzsche

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wet dream.

I had this wet dream about you
again.

I’m riding my bike along the coast
and I find you stuck in the
sand.

It’s late, so lace is no
longer underwear; it is a night-
bikini.

Your body is a message in a bottle.
It’s trying to tell me you need more
coconuts.

(It may be that your island
has grown low on supplies.)

Your eyes are wet with sea-
spray; by wet I mean, of course,
the way one wave can make way for
another.

The way I imagine your body
feels to the touch. But your body
is made of salt in my dream instead;

The kind that can fall on the cheek
before it needs to be replenished.

Your skin is beach butter that’s been
run through a meat grinder.

(Your skin is the opposite
of beach butter.)

I’ve come to cover it up. I’ve come
to tell you I got your message,

that I brought more coco-
nuts.

for the internet & monsanto

Okay Cupid Profile: Hashtag Ode to Whatever

Self-summary

A big part of my plan for future happiness has to do with finding a new coffeeshop to frequent.

The radical mystic barista of my dreams would be located someplace utopian like, say, Santa Monica or somewhere even wilder perhaps like Silverlake. I admit this doesn’t narrow things down too well.

I have no idea what the profile looks like that you were seeking, but I am sure I didn’t fit it. I am the type of guy who will not call a lot, make mistakes on the suave scale, say the wrong things to your friends.

I will play American music and whine at regular intervals during most contemporary TV-series in a way that will appear charming until it doesn’t.

I’m told that when I’m idle my default face ranges from nonplussed to ‘impossible saffron’. Sometimes I think about how my default expression gets buried in the psychological laundry of everyday life, so that I am left wearing involuntary pink or orange or sometimes sheer madness.

Then I wonder if this should make me anxious about who I am. (Sad.)

Then I remember that time David Foster Wallace admitted (in a live interview) that he didn’t like to ‘interface’ all that much with other people. Sometimes I find I don’t like to ‘interface’ all that much with other people either.

Sometimes I curse David Foster Wallace under my breath, but then I relax because I know it probably isn’t his fault, which is maybe even more troubling.

I am afraid of telephones, but I own one anyway, which probably says something about me as a person.

My friends laugh because I named my condition ‘Acute Telephonophobia’. I don’t laugh when I say this because I am serious, I really don’t like telephones, and it’s often hard and painful when I have to train my friends not to call me very much, at all.

Then I remember I sometimes misdiagnose myself.

Then I remember that I keep bags of ellipses under my bed from the last time my heart spilled out over a disappointing Goddard film slash endless, soul-crushing depression slash grief.

Sometimes when a guy walks by me with his shirt tucked in, I’ll say something like, ‘sup Tuckleberry finn’? I don’t have very many friends.

I have a pet snail that I call ‘Osvaldo’. She just showed up one day when I was lying in my hammock and I wasn’t sure what to do with her.

My favorite part of most dates are pre-dating. One time I tried to pick up a girl at a bar using only the line, ‘are you down for whatever?’ I don’t try to pick up girls at bars anymore.

People tell me I am the Emily Dickinson of bar lingo because I sometimes speak exclusively in dashes and ellipses, about carriages and death lurking behind or orbiting the moisture-rings left by a glass a beer.

I would risk my life to save a drowning sentence, and little else. Said Gustave Flaubert. Who I usually agree with.

I don’t go to bars often. I’ve never had a one-night stand. People tell me I am the Emily Dickinson of sex acts.

Ask me what my battle is everyday, and I will probably say ‘honesty’; I guess it can be difficult to be objective about myself sometimes.

Continue reading

&

now I believe what they say is true
absence makes the heart grow fondue

ask me why I am here & also not
here & I will tell you:

a cheesy layering
a residue
I will tell you

someone has let
the diver’s bell drop
deep inside of me, to imitate

the way they film the bottom of the sea
& see what happens:

‘do you have any idea
what that feels like?’

I will tell you,
it feels like a waterfall trying to fit into a pipe

a cyclist who forgets to finish a race
       a sound like water a train like thistle

yes, yes you’ll say, all this
& the fact that party foods
are nearly always better
than the parties themselves

*The title of this poem is an oblique reference to the act of cunnilingus from the perspective of a female. In fact, so is the rest of the poem I decided. Therefore, a better title might be:

‘I can trace an ampersand with my tongue’. Think about it.

Mnemonic Mindmelt Exercise: some things I learned today

Burning Man is sometimes known as the Slut Olympics.

‘Twentysomethings’ are little more than the actualization of the dreams of past ‘twentysomethings’.

George Orwell coined the phrase ‘Cold War’ in 1945, in an essay.

Many people believe that one’s facial direction really takes off beyond one’s control around age 17, although this can sometimes occur a great deal later.

A group of people in the Czech Republic has formed an organization that sets elaborate obstacles for and unique challenges involving masturbation.

The group calls themselves Masturbation and its Discontents: ‘MAID’ for short.
At a diplomatic meeting today John Kerry refused requests to take questions in French.

There are speculations that he may have forgotten how.

The opposite of an entrepreneur is an anti-peneur. Not the kind of person we can expect to hear from very often.

The first person to gain public recognition from MAID was a man from the English chapter who successfully masturbated while reciting John Milton’s poem ‘Il Penseroso’.

He achieved climax during the line ‘While the bee with honied thigh’.

During the 1950s especially, the resort known as Acapulco has long been frequented by Hollywood movie stars, who needed to fly under the radar a while. The resort has long been considered safe from Mexican crime and corruption. Until yesterday morning.

It is better to mull over knotty problems at one’s desk than to do nothing at the beach, according to studies.

The underground cult MAID gained universal traction after a racecar driver died attempting to masturbate during a race.
Silicon Valley may be the most influential template for today’s youth, especially when it comes to the ‘youthful fortitude of their moral compass’.

It is believed that the racecar driver achieved climax moments before his death.

After the racecar incident, MAID’s group skydiving challenge was duly canceled, presumably due to the recent casualties that the organization has suffered.

Sparkleponie is the term for somebody at Burning Man who has very little to offer in the way of basic survival skills, but makes up for it by being naked pretty much all the time.

A stone beneath one’s feet is not a valid object of observation. Or is it?
Here are some books I stole today from the ‘Friends of the Library Bookstore’:

Hay Fever by Noel Coward

The Real Thing by Tom Stoppard

The Real Inspector Hound by Tom Stoppard

The Boom Boom Room by David Rabe

Laughing Wild & Two Other Plays by Christopher Durang

There may be one or two others, which I can’t remember now.*

When I went back to buy a book that I saw in the window the woman behind the counter offered to hold my bag, the one with all the other stolen books inside of it.

The word humble comes from the Latin word humilis, meaning small, low, or close to the earth.

The price tag was missing on the book I wanted, so the woman behind the counter charged me $1. It was a rare First Edition of The Lover by Marguerite Duras.*

Tomorrow I hope to return to this bookshop, allowing myself more than five minutes of shopping time.

I wonder if I am supposed to be embarrassed to be alive.

               ~June whatever, evening

*All book titles have been changed for the purposes and glibness of this poem. 

*This particular edition of The Lover by Marguerite Duras sells for upwards of $100 on Abebooks.
*No books mentioned in this poem were abused or mistreated, without their express content.