In Diegesis

good times don’t roll, we create them, because we want them, duh, and we love and hate, not because we’re sincere, but because we strive towards innocence and good times, ’cause see, i’m just like you, i create my reality in my favor, and sometimes it’s favorable for me to hate your guts and sometimes it’s favorable for me to think that you love me like crazy and appreciate me so bad we just have to watch all the movies together, ’cause that’s what i want, ’cause i don’t want to kill myself, but existence is often a bitch, especially in my head, especially now that i’m older and my family’s all gone, and they don’t get a hold of me, and i don’t have a phone anyway, nor do i get a hold of them, ’cause i’m busy not existing, and keeping all this love and hate in, ’cause it’s mine, and it won’t do anyone any good either, and by that i mean it won’t make the good times roll, ’cause only time rolls, and the good is only willed by all the dreamers who exist and don’t ever want to stop, but i gave up on infinity and heaven when i was nine years old, ’cause they terrified me and made me cry, because what was i supposed to do with all that time?

to which my mom asked, while cradling her sobbing son, would you rather just not exist?

We’re goin’ around the world

(around the world, around the-)

on the elliptical puke-slide

in our one-bedroom apartment.

Lights romantic echo chill christmas

happiness, raining the only light

in this universe on beloved

strangers, unifying all dialogues

that I hear, and I wouldn’t mind givin’

a snuggle to everyone I see,

but in another frame of mind

I have to pee, and I hear some sick soul

needs the replenishable water-

-bowl much more than me. Feel

my heartbeat, spin the floor around

my feet; It’s a lie, it’s a lie,

it’s not a lie (truly to the beat)

tonight. Someone tell Miss Altruist to

shut the bathroom door

behind her. We’re all sick, we’ll all be

reborn hungover in the fresh sunlight

in the morning. In the meanwhile,

Let’s dance!

Waking up naps taps

action into doing,

cuz my virtue’s been boo-hooing

when I’m screwing and nothing

but nothing at all is

on about doing, and death

always where I last kept him,

I assume anyway, ever-looming.

Waking up naps starts life’s

time resuming, pushes dreamsparks’

zooming parallel lines sticking

out of my head, so I can let more room in.

Look in the mirror and think: quit yr wombin’,

this life business is a-boomin, and we’re

gonna keep do do doo doo wop

doin’ til our lovers stick the tomb in

that dirty earth that I never knew

at all. So here’s an ode to the dirty earth,

it’s a bumbling something; I’m makin’

my abode out of wordy worth, it’s a

rumbling nothing. Now, Funkadelic, talk to

me, make me want to feel like

I can get to that. *Click Publish*

PublishPublishPublishPublished,

FUCKIN’ YAY!!!

Dean sits at my (mom’s ex-)computer and reads this paragraph he wrote (which I have edited in passages marked by [ ]):

“Tonight we built a fort out of cardboard, paper, three different grades of tape, magic marker, two bowls of weed, Okkervil River, Random Spirit Lover, [the sharp mechanical-heart-like beating and constant thrum of Mike's fingers pushing into electric typewriter keys, some potent play-drive] and the fear of imperfection.”

And then I say, with some humor,

“And then we tore it down because it was by no means perfect,” though it should be noted here that though it was written in sharpie on cheap incidental cardboard (we want the delivery, not the box it’s delivered in), above the entrance of the fort was earnestly scribed by Dean: “Dean, Ian, Mike & Erica’s Hyper-Sublime Fort June 20, 2010″.

And then Dean says, after a pensive pause,

“But it was complete.”

To which I reply, after considering the immortal shell (which in truth is only as immortal as my cardboard consciousness) in which transient things lovingly dwell,

“Yeah. Yeah it was.”

88.50 “There are some penguins above antarctica, but they’re all in the southern hemisphere, which is why polar bears can’t eat them…” “… dolphins and whales outside Jersey Shore.” The sea and land, we know are mirrors. I wonder, what really happens when waves crash(-land) on shore?

90.00 H     ea        v                  en-
90.10 ly Jazz (perhaps NPR)

90.90 “They’re actually good jumpers, Dave, that’s right; there’s contention over which one of these two ants has the worst sting”

91.50

92.50 Country: I feel a stranger in a strange land here, (where’s my sister? she likes this stuff. where are my appreciation genes?)
93.30 Guitar-Hero Ready, ‘tough’ alt-rock
94.10 WYSP, ‘Spike’, tix 4 Green Day & “get him to the greek”, it’s “the rock you grew up with”, we determine: LedZeppelin.
95.70 “Time makes lovers feel…” s  ta   tic     , and Pablo’s saxophone “…like they’ve got something real, but you and me, we got nothing but time.” ‘BEN’. Then Kid Rock pukes Warren Zevon.
97.50 “In the NBA, the way to make money…”          s t a t i c ,          “… you know, god knows why, doesn’t seem to understand the blueprint of success…” reminds me of dashed 10-year-old dreams, orange-rubbered perfect spheres shooting through hoops in beautiful synthesises of effort and expectation and cash millions raining, drenching me instead of water as I play, play, play
98.10 “You can ring my bell, beh-ell, beh-ell, beh-ell, bell today” Summer-y Disco, 70s all, eternal parental alien incredible aesthetic!
98.90 “Halo” Beyonce, not Crazy in Love Beyonce. Believe it or not, I miss “Single Ladies” and “Umbrella”. Those were some good radio minutes (radio days will die with Woody Allen; I’ve never known ‘em, but that’s a good movie, though considering his canon I often have a hard time recommending it in particu-)

99.00 (

99.10 n         &)()(

99.20  0         ~~~~~~

99.30   t      *       )

99.40    h                                      b () r n             ( i n

99.50     i                                 ***)~19#89                         *d

99.60      n           ()                                   ()                          y*

99.70       g                     ()  ~–~   ()                                    *i

99.80        -                           ( )                                           n*

99.90         !——————-!–!–(it goes ahhh’ah-on~*g><>>>~

100.30 THE HEAT), auto-tuned soul hand-claps
101.10 “…had the time of my life,” innocence rendered perverse, sexy means to the ends of the 80s never cum, and I’m never born,
101.20 “and I owe it all to y-  —!—?::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::;c:h: a  o   s:      :
102.10 big beat rocking dances your body -COME ON COME ON – Rock it!-
102.90 —-SaX sCreeeeeeCh: ELODEVO80S? REEGGGUUUlar REEEGGGGUUUUUUUUULLatin’ Reagan, baby(, I wish I knew how to quit you, capitalism)
104.50 babybabybabybaby allnightlong, He called you: (repeat), Everyone needs to be my baby (be my, be my pretty bab-)
105.30 Em-Jay, ackson, “Why did you do me that way?” smooth jams, R.I.P. He just needed to be everyone’s baby, and we called him crazy. Now he’s -
106.10 “This sounds like the 90s, man!” crooned Erica’s claps.
106.90 “by the power of God and the armor of righteousness…” By 2(thousand)one, I was an impressionable atheist, as set in stone as budding space odysseys can be.
107.30 Swingtime makes me feel like i’m in the twenties. Instead I’m just twenty in

twenty(poi:.nt)10(…   ). (

My mom is a crazy person.

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