In Diegesis

I recently woke up, it’s 10:18 AM in Chevak, Alaska. The sky outside my window is a pale azure, saturated with a tint of white. Last night I dreamt that I was staying at a hotel in Florida. I was watching movies with an old friend, and for whatever reason there was a remarkable amount of sexual tension between us. Eventually she just reached face-first for my downtown sailor and started going at it. Strangely, I felt real pleasure. Then I woke up and texted the girl, telling her about the dream. She found it amusing, and I went and masturbated thinking about it in retrospect. When I came I unleashed a torrent, like the Ents knocking down the floodgates at Isengard. My tissue disintegrated. I was a complete mess. Then I woke up for real. I realized I had had a dream within a dream. Feeling as I do every morning when I wake up – namely, unmotivated – I stayed under covers for a while until I eventually masturbated for real, which snapped me out of my sleepy entrancement. After I came this time, which was more like a honey dispenser than a floodgate-opener, the song from “Drive”, which I watched last night, surfaced in my ears. “A real human being / and a real hero…” My eyes opened wide. The masturbation and the dreams seemed like a lifetime ago. Today’s a new day, albeit a pale azure one.

Scientists in Kentucky discovered
that time crystals can exist.
Low energy particles that loop

endlessly

through time. Real matter,
but with no useful energy
output.
This reminds me of how I feel
in the morning when I don’t want
to get out of bed.

Scientists wonder if time crystals
could exist in imaginary time,
parallel timelines to what is actually

happening.

This reminds me of how
in the afternoon
I want to create beautiful things
and masturbate and
sleep and
read
at the same time, but
I can only ever do one thing
at a time.

I think what you just said is beautiful.
But you only said it because you think it’s true.
It’s weird how you don’t mean what you say.
It’s weird how you don’t listen to yourself
the way I listen to you.
You asked me a question and I didn’t know what to say.
Because I wasn’t sure how my sound would fill the space.
Moments unfolding leaving memories all the same.
Prana shakti my breath you know it doesn’t change.

I got a wind chime soul I’m hanging on your porch.
You’re swinging as you’re dreaming of our priorities.
Looking out for all the minorities.
Please, please me,
oh yeah,
like I please you.
I got a wind chime soul I’m hanging on your porch.
You’re making out with some other guy on your swing.
Some righteous guy.
A good guy.
I don’t ask why
God breezes by without paying any mind
to our priorities.
To the minorities.
I don’t wanna die ordering
things.
I’m not gonna die ordering
anything.
I got a wind chime soul I’m
hanging on your porch.

Next year’s gonna be absurd.
Touching down on planet Earth from the mothership.
City lights? The view from my window is not a silent movie.
Philly is a slow elevator ride in space.
[Up and down mean the same thing and
it never ends.]
Next year I’m gonna spend my time thinking of all the magnificent things I can do in a box.
Next year I’m gonna tell people all about the seventh sense
and God and how
nothing really makes any sense and how
sanity and insanity are
the same thing.
And when next year is over
I’ll have a college degree.

A song, like a meal,
is only worthwhile
because it ends.

a partial wind blow / a straight line stemmed in time
the city how it grows
i beat up my shoes.
cookie cutter souls breathing partial wind blows
my mind is full (of holes)
my mind is full (of holes)
my mind is full (of holes)

Chillin’ /w/ Dr. Strangelove
I’m living in a screen
Breathing in themes / nothing’s / obscene
Nothing’s obscene nothing’s
obscene.
Now a kid is telling me he wants to die
And I’m paralyzed on the other side disguised
as a guide
But I don’t always remember how it feels to be alive
It escapes me, it escapes //
me…
I guess I’m not cut out
to be //
a teacher

There’s a line separating the sacred
from the consumable.
Which side are you on
right now?

By which I mean
I believe in treating others
the way I would want
to be treated.

There’s no
Cathartic
Moment.
No one
Life-affirming
Omen.
Just a pang
of something,
then continued
roaming.

The Soviets Lysenko had them
(via Marx)
believing in Lamarck, that
if you pluck a plant’s leafs
its offspring will be born
leafless.
After the war Tolkien
got back to work tapping
into a Divine Source, and not finishing, no,
but ever building another universe,
without end,
but indeed, paralleled. Poetically.
Thousands of kids right in the heart of Appalachia
(my old home)
releasing eight years of pent-up
life force,
celebrating in solidarity the death of
a man who became
their enemy before they hit puberty. All while
Chesapeake Energy busts up the rock
beneath their feet.
And what, tell me God,
now that I have found You
(hiding in a dark wisp of cloud
eclipsing for a moment
the full moon over the Alaskan tundra),
what has any of this to do
with survival?

Here rests my conscience
for my fellow man; for America
herself the drunken orgy she is,
the homosexual republican with the suicidal fantasies.
Let each keep his own shame
(and love)
close to his chest, guiding his individual
movements. I believe I have gathered
just enough of both to keep me privy
to the endless ways in which I can fuck up
(or create) a perfectly
decent thing.

Here’s to love
again. Here’s to my
fantasies again: to Dean’s
thumbs tapping on the wheel,
the French countryside passing us by,
Molly and I in the backseat, verbally
forming the longest sentence ever spoken,
word after word, with the moonroof open.
“Andromeda”, “does”, “lovingly”, “spark”, “remarkable”, “dreams”, “within”…
Here’s to MW and all my other beautifully virtuous
guy-friends serving as the crew in the Brig Niagara
in the War of 1812. Every look we give to the open sea,
Canada, enemy ships, the moon, will silently say,
“Leave us the fuck alone, England, Mom and Dad.
We’re goddamn grown up now, and free.”
Don’t give up the ship…
Here’s to dancing in a small bedroom with my next lover,
whoever that may be, whoever is doomed or destined to be
intertwined with me sexually.
Here’s to running up the walls flipping
over and falling dick-first
into fatherhood.
Splash.
Here’s to love blowing up moment
after moment, never ever knowing
when my heartbeat ends
and the work
begins.

It’s hard to remember those days
back when I thought everyone I loved was dead.
It’s hard to remember the times
back when I loved to (just for fun) cry and cry and
cry and cry under
my bedsheets. In my windowless room.
In the basement.
Not that I really want to remember those moments
when I felt like the reality of my love was
completely different from the reality
of everyone else’s love – I’m just saying.
If I wanted to it’d be hard.
I plumb don’t emote like I used to, and that’s
probably for the best.
Now I should start
finally feeling as one
with the rest.

You were breathing in
God, out
God,
and I couldn’t look at you
in the eyes, you know
what I mean.
Like the third time I peed
on ecstasy, so
relieved.
The mirror in the dark betrayed me.
I saw the universe splitting, particles
filling the killer inside.
You were breathing
in God, out
clouds,
but you never knew
what made us friends.
I was always listening to your
heartbeat echoing on the bed
next to me. After you kissed me.
After I told you I didn’t know if I wanted
to beat you to Hell or
suck your cock.
And I can no longer tell the difference
between any of my friends.
What is the object of my love?
Look what manifests, what
manifests, what
manifests.
You always seem to know where souls go,
but this whole time my head has been
turned around, squinting eyes at a hole
in a tree where there seems to be
a tongue sticking out at me.
Frogs hopping all over Sam’s naked body
in a sunny meadow, no one else around.
Sam.
Giggling like a little boy, like a reincarnated
pineapple. And I can’t move.
The clouds’ movement is a stillness in
central Pennsylvania. Appalachian
forested hills bulge up and down
like cat’s breath. And each step I take
is a slow-motion
train ride.
I was breathing in God, out
sperm, and you were bungee jumping
off a cloud.
Reality was too vulgar
for our friendship, I mean,
reality is too vulgar for my love.