nope, unintended.

There’s nothing inside of our planet. Actually, that isn’t really what I mean to say. It’s closer to my true intention to say that there isn’t anything. And anyway, the fact remains regardless, that whatever I mean or don’t mean to say, and do or don’t in fact say, with any amount of success (for there is a quantifiable spectrum of success in these things), the fact, ladies and gentlemen, remains proven conclusively time and again by the largest and brightest minds throughout countless centuries, that there is not, nor ought, nor indeed can there be, anything at all inside, or outside, or anywhere near or around our planet. 


Time is a water mill - half revolving wheel, half flowing river. It seems like the blades dip themselves in over and over, in the same order, but really a billion microscopic changes take place on them every millisecond. The water is never the same, always flowing downhill into the sea.
We are these blades - always expecting to dip ourselves into the same water, but finding it only similar enough to remind us that it isn’t the same as last time, and neither are we. With each revolution, we meet the water with more bittersweetness.

Meanwhile, a man with a dirty smear on his cheek is bicycling past the mill, his crank creaking, his pedals turning under his feet. He is wearing beige, loose linen pants, a loose white shirt, a straw hat with tattered edges, and no shoes on his dirty feet. His right pantleg is rolled up. He stops by the mill, straddles his bicycle and stands staring into the blades on the wheel of the mill. The water is churning, the birds are singing in the woods. He yells over the roar, “Hey! Hey! I am…” the last word is unintelligible. He stands for a few minutes more, then raises his right hand and arm above his head with his index finger pointing at the sky, and opens his mouth, as if to speak.

At this moment the miller, who has been hiding in a bush the whole time, says to himself under his breath, “I’ll teach you to read speeches into my water!” The man with the bicycle spits into the brook, out of the left side of his mouth, as the miller jumps out from behind the bush yelling “Ever thus to woody philosophers!” and punches the man on the right side of the mouth with his meaty, sparsely hairy fist. Two of the man’s teeth fly into the river, their trajectory exactly following his spit of a moment before, he falls on the ground with his green bicycle still between his legs. The miller rubs his palms past each other a few times, making the motion of cleaning his hands, and walks to his hut. And stillness reigns in the forest near the water mill. Only the rushing brook, the creaking wheel, and singing birds continue their eternal symphony.

white pickled fence

Bald girl. She’s not really bald, she has a boyish haircut. But in a way, she’s bald.
And she has horribly tiny teeth. Her mouth is like a garbage disposal. You could get a fork mangled in it and it smells of rotten food, judging by the looks of it.
There’s really no difference between tiny teeth with flat bottoms, and huge horrid monstrosities. It’s the same thing.
I hate her teeth. I wish they’d fall out. Then she’d be toothless for a while, and then would get huge revolting dentures - a single white, slightly wavy block of plastic. Or a picket fence - a row of identical glossy veneers.

No one knows to whom it was said, and therefore, the circumstances, which would have had light shed on them at least by providing a hint of the hearer’s point of view through the identification of his or her identity, especially when pieced together with the albeit not entirely definite timeframe, which information we do possess, are uncertain. This, of course, by tearing them out of any sort of context apart from the most pale shadow of one, the thinnest of premises, which leaves one only to one’s own wild speculative capacities without so much as a blade of grass to cling to for dear life on one’s way into the abyss, renders the meaning of his words unknowable. Yet it is incontrovertibly known, and beyond the shadow of a doubt, I would say, even without that element that unconsciously produces a certain involuntary, telltale desire to prove and defend any information about which its possessor has even the most miniscule tinge of doubt slowly festering, undernourished and repressed within the anterior recesses of his soul, that between either 9:02 GMT on February 2nd 1977, or 9:03 EST on January 29th, 1978, and 17:16 PST on March 30th of 1978, or either 6:23 GMT, or 15:47 PST, on September 27th, 1981, respectively, my father pronounced the words, “There’s a vas deferens between us.”  

When you finally kill me for yourself, my epitaph will read, “the dead don’t speak.” I have crashed my vessel against your reefs

my skin is raw,
my ribs are splinters, 
my hands are claws.
(It’s almost winter)
 (it’s not yet winter)
(I’m almost speechless)
(it’s almost happened)  


Eeeeeeehhhhhh aaahh (blackness seen through white fog)

I’m a snail, I move at my pace (I refer here to folklore to appeal at least to your acknowledgment (or preferably sympathy, though I don’t know which I really prefer on second thought (either way I suppose I’ll have to accept either, and continue the endless effort to learn to breathe the womb around me* (even tomb air if need be)))). I have no eyes. I carry the world my mind-body organism projects (the house I live in) with me.

What is Derby Wharf but a space within a space? Bearskin Neck is nearby (Tom S. Eliot supposedly “wrote the Wasteland” there, out on the seawall (I had a classmate in 5th grade named Tom, his little brother died of a brain tumor)). Marble Head Neck is close as well. So is Old Neck Road.

I’m a snail refugee from the he-said-he-was-an-actor-I-said-you-mean-a-waiter-ha-ha-ha world.

Is it (“)serious(“) to wish to capture an ever-expanding vista?

Look, until you have stood literally facing the void of midnight ocean, seeking the horizon with your nonexistent eyes through dense white fog, the church bell matin song of four hundred and sixty-seven yacht masts ringing in the thick abyss, the kilometer-distant electric lights of shoreline buzzing in the haze, you embedded (cradled) in a milky stratosphere(…)

I dreamt this exact scene once (this happens a lot lately). I was wandering on a pier in dense white fog (it was not nighttime in the dream, but it was about to start getting dark and I was supposed to head back), and lost my glasses. Tonight I found a pair of glasses out here. True story. I kept them.

I don’t sense a presence; I literally hear footsteps on the gravel behind me. I think of Jocelyn Callahan (who looked Philippine, definitely not like a Callahan). Swallowed by this very void, she who tossed her hair only two seats in front of me like no other 7th grader in the history of the world could or would, then years later showed me her new tattoo of Buddha (I was interested but preoccupied at the moment and failed to focus on responding appropriately), she ((you)/(me)) now already permanently embedded in this cream.

What is the self, if not a space within a space?

It’s a do-I-or-don’t-I-want-to-be-part-of-this-David-Lynchmob-world world.

*-an unmistakeable reference to (y(ou)): impossible to (a(k))void, no effort withstanding.

leper print briefs v

Philip van Volckenburgh and Ann Sedgwick van Volckenburgh, buried right next to Daniel E. van Valkenburgh and Alida Sedgwick van Valkenburgh. True story.


Ау, натюрэль!

Send and grovel

Really just fervor

In hot fur suits

A Mackerel Conception (a seafood restaurant)

Sick transit, Gloria! (in the sense of Die, Zauberflote!)

Юльбуль: люблю, на оборот.

(на мотив “Grow Old Along With Me”):

Макушка без хухры
Что тушка на ковры
Без напяндь хихлов
Я тебе люблюб
- и т.д. 

(буль буль)

You Rip What You Sew