i know this guy who's all about coffee drinking and it's really kinda gross. he has a gross beard - coffee stained - and dirty clothes - coffee stained. but he say this funny thing all the time and it makes no sense, he says 'the longer the steep, the harder the press'. just outta nowhere he'll say it and then leave with his dirty newspaper and his dirty newspaper hands. 'the longer the steepte the harder the press'

one ten thirteen

i'm having what i guess is ennui

sadness, breakfast

pasta at 9am

the hobbit

like gandalf finding it amusing 

to entertwine bilbo's fate

with the dwarf's, someone 

has put something in my life

that makes it more exciting

since the odds are quite so unreasonable

i am bad at the musical instrument

in my room

i started to feel better in the bathroom

my second shit of the day

reading that doctors could

easily cure more deaths by

practicing medicine we already know

works around the world

*

i wore a t-shirt and nike shorts

across the bridge

it was 47 degrees

my penis was cold

coming back

i had to hold it it

hurt i tried to run 

faster than this guy 

was shorter red hair

when i got back

i used apricot scrub 

in the shower

and put shampoo

on my loofa by accident

used the loofa on my hair

the city is so loud

or am i becoming more 

sensitive to the sounds

i want to speak the poetry

to myself when i'm

not home that's already

happening there are condoms

in my sock drawer they've

been there too long

and the belt i don't use

that often just to match

the brown shoes i never wear

i'm never reading the book

i want to read i'm reading

the one i need to finish

before i start the better book

about the romantic poet

shelley a real interesting

person who probably did 

not spend this much time

on the periphery the motor

sounds open somehow

the mechanic didn't 

close the motor it's spinning

i imagine not idle

i can hear it accelerate 

you lack the determination

my body has good genes

you are more pretty and

delicate other things

about you are that you 

get what you want

and it's not not important

what you've accomplished

drinking alcohol

drinking alcohol

on my bed

i shoot men off their 

horses in slow motion

with my controller

a digital flock erupts 

from the desert brush

and switches

direction innately

adam looked inside

the empty green stroller

i took a picture with 

my cellphone camera

said it 

fell out of the tree

The drunk and happy 

laugh below my window

Like the pigeon flock

together turns above the factory

to scare away the sunrise

Then rest on their usual ledges 

in their poop and the other

Goonies wheel in unison

Their flying performance

scratch details 

in the "get set" of it

Eternally the midnight shone

in the midnight and her

heels come knocking past

11 57

I'm waiting in the third or fourth car of a train on track 27, Grand Central Terminal. A Hudson River Line train to Croton-Harmon. My plan is for Slide Mountain tomorrow. It's supposed to be warm. My banjo sits on the rack above my head. This pad rests on a Guy Waterman biography on my lap. I'm off tomorrow night, a Monday night. The train ride will last 53 minutes, stop in Harlem and a few other local stops. I sit in a left-side, window seat, expecting to look at the river and roll north. The sneeze I just release sounds very loud. A louder metallic noise occurs between the cars. Girls seated closest to the door laugh at their own surprise. A man nearby stands and tries to close the door. He hits the inside of the frame when it only comes an inch out and stubbornly retreats. A man across the aisle from me sings to himself in Spanish. Now a woman in black with short hair tries and fails at the door. We have been slowly rolling for five minutes. The train accelerates. The wheels skipping the rail joints sound close and the dim blur of the tunnel's interior walls abruptly give way to soft glowing orbs frozen in the wet Harlem night. The man singing in Spanish is now able to make a phone call. He speaks to his phone loudly, interrupting himself to say "Hello," frustrated with the reception.
The train stops at 125th street. Over the PA a masculine voice says Marble Hill will be next. The wheel system wrenches and the breaks hiss as we cross the East or Harlem River. I don't know which one for sure. A few voices in conversations with phones or other passengers float up over the seats. I begin to notice the droning blow of the fan in the ceiling. I remember hearing it turn on but not sure when that was.  I confirm it's the off-peak period with the conductor as I hold out my ticket. He grins, nods, "of course."
"I got you if it's not but I don't want to break a twenty," I say.
"I hear you man," he says, chuckling and moving on to collect more tickets, hole-punching them with his clicker thing.
He tries the door. It seems jammed for him too. The train slows at the Marble Hill platform. Water makes the signs more shiny and darkens the concrete. I look up and see the collector has succeeded with the door. It's closed for only a second. A girl's face in the hood of a sweatshirt looks in at me from outside. Her eyes hold some kind of emotion. The train stops softly. The collector floats down the aisle, from the direction he came. Worried it won't close again, I wait for some action from the door. Then it appears from the wall on its own, with a gentle rattling, like beads rolling with little room for themselves. Outside it appears we're moving again. Dots of light on the blacked out bridge fall on the water and stretch down in unfading trails. They taper abruptly on waining ridges of rippling water.
I feel sleepy. The windows reverse a reflection of the inside of the car. My eyes are mirrors. They make contact with a man sitting next to the door that's now closed. He's seated facing oppositely of the train's direction. The Greystone platform crossfades in the window. The inside of the car solidifies when we leave the platform behind. My ass feels the last vibration of a 'missed call.' Chris left me a typed digital message and waited through the unanswered rings of my phone.
"Yes Yes," I type back. Then, "Donna Ferry Next." Correcting the mistake my third consecutive message reads "Dobbs Ferry". It's a place I may have never been to. The phone automatically capitalizing the 'D' and 'F'. Chris will not respond. He drives the dark wet double yellow roads, I assume. A man in a fleece shouldering a duffle chews gum. He walks through my door. The door works great by the way. Never broken, I confide in myself. Dry docked boats, Terrytown. The PA, "Ossining next."
"What you doing? With who? I just got on the train." A young guy sits across from me. The spanish guy now gone. The young guy might just take a taxi. His last word into his IPhone. "Alright."
"Tickets." The collector says in a way that surprises me. He punches a ticket.
Occasionally and randomly the car drops an inch or two. It shakes. I look through my own reflected eye at a light across the black river. Another red beacon glows nearby. Maybe somewhere floating on the Hudson, anchored

beyond cousins

On the way back from the freezer she read the instructions on the back of the box. The house was empty now. In the toy room downstairs the toys were not put away.

In the backseat on the way to the house the boy heard them joke that the exit ramp was an actual ramp to death. The car was full. The boy sat in the middle seat.

The kids watched The Predator in the basement, lounging in the scattered toys and gym mats and Nerf guns. It was getting late and the darkness worried him.

Where he saw March of the Penguins years later with his ex-girlfriend he saw Batman Returns with his parents and baby brother. His mother's cousin's family never showed up. They were the family in the car wrecked on the side of the road outside the parking lot.

car accident

        Her head tilts to read instructions printed on the back. Her hands clutch the box of frozen food like a steering wheel. The freezer door swings back into the freezer and the rubber seal pops on the white metallic surface. Her bare heals press on the tile floor. Her pelvis collides through her clothing with a rounded edge of formica counter and a portion of her body weight distributes on the peninsula. 
        Sixty watt light fills the room. White plaster ceiling slouches a little more than a foot above her head. Wood paneled walls unfold in multiple positive and negative right angles from the back doorway, over the pantry, around the fridge and onto the counter, oven and sink area. 
        Subtly bending blades of her brown hair hang from each temple, over her cheeks and eyes. She drops the moistening package onto the counter and the two dead orbs in her skull stare at the microwave. Clumpy spikes point out in stunted radius from the edge of her lids. The two thick lines drop their useless determination onto the lower lid and rest for what seems too long. 

i forget if i use titles

imagine just this neighborhood cashless

trees on the block regenerating

exact shapes of the dead

virginians eating slowly behind dirty windows

emergency services receiving his long stare

i started feeling depressed before we ordered pizza

the cursor went on to a dead stop

prahbakar sweater vest producing moths

in the slightest dust up

his interview later

police enjoying a good laugh

the ground can't cause a fumble

i was driving in to work today and i just couldn't leave in Analphabetapolothology. i slid the burned copy of z i made when it came out a few years ago out of the visor in my dad's car. the car was speeding down the taconic parkway and the sun was low, coming right in the windshield. i honestly don't feel like i can say anything strong about Z. it's a good rock album right. and circuital is a good rock album too right. i love rock albums. i can sing along with the first song. it's a good driving song i think. now i'm really thinking about mmj as a band. i can't really say anything strong or feel anything meaningful towards this band. i mean i spend all my money going to their shows and i don't even have a good job. one show i had a profuse nose bleed and still i stayed for the second set and it rocked. my life though, when i look at my life and i think about mmj right next to my life i just feel empty. it doesn't build on anything. i just feel bored. i'm really thirsty for meaning. i'm so thirsty and coffee really gets me going these days. when i hear wordless chorus or gideon, or the knot comes loose i'm not transcended anywhere. i'm in the handicapped section and i can't be there. i can't get any closer. the show is seated, not everyone is standing and dancing. there's a raccoon running around under the seats which are padded. we should have been having sex. not me and the raccoon but somebody and i. a human. a girl. but this band and phish. phish. the band that became the pheonix in the chinese lantern sky. they cleaned up and cut down their jams and got in touch with the base. they never did anything weird with their lives. i was never interested in them. i never wanted to go to the place where everyone who bought a ticket was going. i never thought i needed a miracle. i need one this sunday. i need to be at metlife. 

new favorite skater (todd falcon)

i saw 2 of this guy's videos just now

something to watch as i'm eating the free food at my job (black friday is a holiday here)

and i thought this guy is cool he doesn't give a shit

this is mitchell davis type shit right here:

smashes computers:

no look tricks, holding yard tools, snot rocket: