choose yr own ad-venture

it began slowly, as things usually do pre-tentacle-entanglement. a nano-crawl of change wrapping ever so slight, you barely felt the wire…a new wave gone double: the double-you. and then there were 3 (www). but you didn’t know you were knee-deep. not yet.

it inched in by way of its first box, maybe it was Wheaties, Magic on the front, round surprise inside. a ‘trial for hours’, you waited for the tone, a new way to dial-in, or rather, ‘up’.

soon things took a turn, arching into a curve, perhaps in retrospect, a downward spiral. you may know it as: @

it was hot, yahoo! g, yeah, you got mail.

it read something like: gather ‘round you fish of the sea, the net’s cast & though you are on (the) line, there’s so much space….here space, there space, your space, myspace. click, baited, BUT CONNECTED.

you were buried in pages & up to yr face, it was like a friend—this book—an infinite roll of pixels & dead ‘see’ scrolls. time was on the line touting events and memories, parading status. truths were myths and myths were multiplicitous. history was posted & deleted, edited & reposted. TAGGED, YR IT. zuckers.

while you were plotting yr escape with one, the other handle was fingering yet another space in which to play. a place of ‘now’ & instant piquing/peeking. there were many many windows with endless views, & yet, it seemed quieter here. things could be filtered. just a quick visual digest, nothing more, nothing less—yet you pronto-learned it was yet another sprig of containment. you thought perhaps you could enjoy the role of private voyeur in yet another public space, did you? nope. the visual infestation shape-shifted, grew sound, & algorithmic limbs and you now find yrself deep-throating multiverses ad nauseam while gagging on everything you’ve said or done during the week in the form of ads in between.

i’ve contemplated ‘leaving’—what you would say, ‘going offline’, buying a home phone so i can revel in cassette-taped messages on an answering machine. relive my teens prior to these new dark ages. ‘ditch yr cell? you may as well be dead.’ but what’s more dead? that or screaming ‘pancakes pancakes pancakes’ or ‘fleshlight fleshlight fleshlight’ into my cell’s mic for the sole purpose of choosing my own ad-venture out of absolute boredom & feeble attempts at poking holes at the system? i said ‘cell’, didn’t i? yeah. please leave yr message after the tone.


someone near to me would always say, ‘if is a very big word, the biggest’


ecstatic letters
conspired to protect her
young harvesting
a found language
egg uncaged
spake and convey
& a
begging ballet
a little girl at best
and entrust
non solemn
scattering of stars
court and contact
for you,
i mantle a shrine
salvaging this voice
& no ordinary song
you come through the line
i imagine yr sweat
sea of submission
sculpted lips
crave yr pulp
crave yr poem
heartbeat procession
melt to confession
penetrate my presence
our body temple
speaks in quivers
pelvic parables
a kind of abyss
promise of age
& future
the die, thrown
soft pale
hot vivid
lost & found
pulse prophecy

head dialogue, ghost-written on a bathroom stall

it is installing. i am in (stalling)
written on the stall
it came while squinting at the audible flickering of fluorescence
it came while counting the cracks in the tile
then following the branched dissections
seeing them as maps of where to go
it came after hearing her spank her child in the stall next to mine and how it triggered that memory of when you told me the first time you could recollect your fetish for feet–-when he spanked you for speaking during mass, right there, bent over a statue with nothing to look at but the virgin’s feet. white. smooth. delicate and detailed. the purest rock. HARD. at the exact moment of pain you recognized pleasure. and now every time i see you looking down i think to myself, ‘but my face is right here.’
it came while twirling my hair as the inner made outer trickle met with water. i hate when it rains and my hair springs these curls. i feel like a poodle. except i don’t lift my leg…
in head, it read something like this:
One: mathemantics- as a title (?)
Two: the undernote: semen, math, and antics
Three: OR seamen- i haven’t decided
see man tic
Four: i have been sketching some thoughts….
Five: an illogical arrangement ad infinitum de steorra
Six: enter sex. of COURSE
Seven: will it really not have an end?
Eight: lay down straight
Nine: let’s just pretend all is fine
Ten: and again
counting is beginning. counting is ending.
i flush
in the mirror, flushed
i wash my hands
and walk away


6:58 a.m. Awoke to a friend nudging me that ‘The Bedroom From 2001: A Space Odyssey Is Now At An L.A. Warehouse’. Oh-my-fucking-god, teleport me already. The morning starts with a smile.

7:47 a.m. Cream spills into black. Is it a good idea to drink coffee? It always makes my heart race against itself—pounding pulse pavement—anxiety takes the lead.

7:51 a.m. Fuck it, I am drinking it hot & steady. I think of him. Its always the same: Vår ‘In Your Arms (Final Fantasy)’. I think of yesterday’s words in response to where one would choose to live/great quality of life: ‘They say Denmark is like that.’

7:55 a.m. Finger-hunt searches go to Age Coin, Dubrovnik, Frederiksen, Hand of Dust, Lower, Sexdrome, Girlseeker, Onda Tidender, Martin Dupont, a Northern channel. I think of saying ‘I love you’ in Spanish—Te Amo. I think of how bad my French tongue is. Kinésithérapeute. The sound stumbles and gets stuck.

8:17 a.m. I know I have emotions that need to clothe themselves in words. I know I need to pen to him. A poem. It should be a poem. I look up at the shelf and Italo Calvino The Complete Cosmicomics stares back at me. An ode to an old fish who shared the magic of an I CHING. Why not? I pick a page but it doesn’t speak to me.

8:32 a.m. The flicker of a blank page on a computer screen. The hypochondriac in me thinks of the light of the monitor and its impact on melatonin levels. Never the mind. Instead I think of the sun. I think of darkness. I think on his love of collage. All I know is I wish to dive into him. To go there. To explore from the inside. I think of breath. I think of mouths releasing espiritu. respire. inspire. Yes, even in the dark, he inspires. I think of breathing in, out—on a loop.

9:04 a.m Truce is still playing: ‘Veil of Tears,’ ‘Soliloquy of a Silkworm,’ until finally, ‘It is Impossible for Her to Know Whom She Will Discover When I Hold Her’ wins out and ends up on repeat.

9:13 a.m. A poem is taking shape. Some words: taste of nobody’s tropic. I think of Miller. I think of Nin. I think of the heat he gives to no one. Yes. DIVE. The poem is called DIVE. It is about the sun. 

10:09 a.m. I share this poem with him.

11:01 a.m. I think that though I want him to read it, I know that if I were there, I would read it to him, his face. Closer than close. While listening to Dunkerely ‘Outro (Lovers of Tomorrow),’ I record a reading. The sounds mingled with the spoken word feel like a marriage.

11:10 a.m. I send the recorded poem.

11:11 a.m. I make a wish.

Approx. 12 p.m. A friend shares a song: Hieroglyphic Being ‘A Genre Sonique’–it fucking blows my mind. Sounds primal. It incites familiarity. I think I can I CHING now. Calvino is in the hands again. I begin to read aloud from page 141, The Spiral. Here’s the part where everything all comes full-circle and makes the utmost fucking sense….’Now habits have changed, and it already seems inconceivable to you that one could love a female like that, without having spent any time with her. And yet, through that unmistakable part of her still in solution in the sea water, which the waves placed at my disposal, I received a quantity of information about her, more than you can imagine: not the superficial, generic information you get now, seeing and smelling and touching and hearing a voice, but essential information, which I could then develop at length in my imagination.’ The story is about life as a mollusk and the nature of love and writing. It coincides with real life. It parallels the waxing poetic.

12:51 p.m. Overwhelmed with magic. The kind that is brimming over. The kind that makes you feel like yr rocking back & forth, facing tidals, facing peaks. A sort of creative nausea that makes you want to vomit. Vomit that you would strewn onto walls. But walls that hold preferential treatment. The outside world is cold. You’d rather yr churning haven here. 

1:09 p.m. Yr friend fills you in on Hieroglyphic Being, Jamal Moss, and his work with Sun Ra’s Arkestra. You look forward to seeing him, hopefully, at the Neo-Classical Ballet. Futurisme à Pied. You wonder how Francisco Moreno will re-envision Picasso’s cubist costumes. You wonder how yr son will enjoy his first ballet.

00:00 p.m./a.m  This, this you read and rolled yr eyes to.

Posts You’ve Liked

i’m interested in the idea of ‘one thing leads to another’ & what the mind snaps to memory in an instant—tiling, in succession, all of those instances together to create a mini-portrait of collective art. the path the mind takes when one provocative image incites yet another, and what(?), is a sort of voyeuristic peep—in, not only through the endless open cell-windows, but on one’s self in terms of what we are lured by. it’s also a sort of commentary on how we’ve all become a part of a grid-like consciousness, a virtual memory—both false & true—where time, image, and content are the algorithm—a steady stream of squared-life-data…and is it random? or are we subconsciously (and maybe artfully) guided by what we want next…color-by-number or collage? both create a/the larger picture—but is it theirs or ours? do we choose our own paths of digestion or is it ‘figured’ for us? nevertheless, we appear hungry for the feed and we ‘like’ it.







cover image includes some of my favorite(s) from


Tongues flickering, their heads move back and forth until the scaly skin beneath the throat is touching. The instant physical contact is established, they begin to entwine. The aggressive fighting dance of the two partners is characterized by a gradual, mutual loss of momentum and the beating against each other of their forebodies. The jerkily undulating bodies wind so tightly round each other that the two snakemen merge into a single body whose two heads move back and fro in parallel. The fight is decided when the stronger animal has pressed his opponent down against the floor.




i treat books as art—flip a page, leave it there—open, exposed & changed according to moods….a practice in ritual.



c’mon feel that heg·e·mon·ic shhhift

& we do the hokey pokey

that’s what its all about

2) left hand
3) right foot
4) left foot
5) head
6) butt
7) whole self




‘i like, slowly stroking the, shocking fuzz

of your electric fur…’

e.e. cummings


remember AOL


chat rooms…


only the lonely

can play

think rationed passion

pixelated polyfiber


a halftone hardcopy

stroking yr keys

uploading my software

raw data baby

i’ll give you real time

remote access

i’ll tumblr for you

we’ve got bandwidth

be my mainframe

i want to show you my hard drive


r u into SMS?


(conned artist)

emulation, baby



nice skin







how ’bout my memory stick



you there?

unzip my…

triple x files






toggle that switch

pump up the volume

this is sex thru syntax


you make me wannnna


its only you

on my VDU





sidebar trash



the end





‘They run quite a gamut from the Buddhists to the whores to the maniac that made that beautiful castle up there. In a way, its very much like a…its a sort of voyage, I look upon it, a voyage of ideas. We’re traveling not around the world, but my bathroom which is a little microcosm like the world.’

Henry Miller: Asleep & Awake directed by Tom Schiller



When the written word is your first language, you often fall prey to all things dedicated—including, if not leading, play. Words find their way into daily patterns of behavior—witticisms, puns, flirts, quips. When you court the word, you allow its enticements to riddle, beguile you. Thus, my half-witted habit of entrusting documents of importance within soft & hard covers…my preferred guessing game with the lexicon devil. I recall searching frantically a few years back for my social security card. After what seemed like hours, I laughed in defeat as I sat amongst a scatter of once-shelved books thinking, “you’ve done what you thought wouldn’t happen—you outsmarted yourself—you allowed the word to win.” I finally found it in Milan Kundera’s ‘Identity’. Or how about the time you made a young move & got married to your artist peer/contemporary turned Navy Seal because he convinced you both that it would pay good money and you could live it up well in sunny California (boy, was that a laugh!)–our marriage and divorce certificates tucked neatly within Avedon’s ‘Evidence’. Anyhow, refusing to allow the mishaps of not being able to locate necessaries–I noted, and quite concretely, recorded the list to memory.

Birth certificate: Life Against Death (Norman Brown)

Social Security card: Identity (Milan Kundera)

Traffic Tickets: My Shadow Ran Fast (Bill Sands)

W2s: The Evasion (Maggie Balistreri)

Son’s Birth certificate: The Making of a Counterculture (Theodore Roszak)

Son’s Social Security card: It Chooses You (Miranda July)

Residential Leases: The Squatter and the Don (Maria Ruiz de Burton)

Love letters: Fictions of Feminine Desire (Peggy Kamuf)

Polaroids of yr ex-boyfriend’s cock: All Men are Lonely Now (Francis Clifford) & later & more fittingly relocated to Cock & Bull (Will Self)

Marriage/Divorce certificate: Evidence (Richard Avedon)

List of people you’ve slept with: Goodbye to All That (Robert Graves)

Passport: Flight Out of Time (Hugo Ball)

I Ching


It happens often in the midnite hour. I liken it to a buzz–the body, electric–as if everything that occurred during the light of day sparks a charge. I hear it’s hum, the mind’s heavy undertone, secret currents. Mulling over meanings, questioning all the magical signs, & just like Stevie, wonder about varied superstition. It keeps me awake at nite. Night & gal….

I used to eat books. Steal them, digest them, confuse words, names, ideas, and lives with my own. A steady diet of perfect truths and faeried fictions. Years later, I can hardly stand the structure of a book–left to right, 1 to 2, a straight sequence of ordered events. I prefer to shake the machine that with a taped post, screams ‘out of order’.

Outside a bar, I confess to H, a friend, that I no longer read unless it’s at random. It’s the only way I can. In this way, time is of no consequence. Perception is sensation, subjective, and memory is unchained to chronos. He said there was a rumor that Faulkner intended The Sound and the Fury to be read this way….

There’s a book that does a better job than the bible for me. It sits bedside–pages touched, felt, and invited inmore than any lover. It is dog-earred, paper-clipped, divided by cookied-fortunes, bobby pins, and strands of plucked hair. At nite, when the hum resounds too loudly with ceaseless thoughts, I finger this book and project a certain listlessness–exchanging mind currency for I-CHING.

Tonite, for you, I simply ask, and what of this?

& this it reads, page 264: ‘The appetite was jaded and corrupt. The vision, the splendor, the rhythm of the body were instantly broken. Clock time, machines, auto horns, whistles, congestion, caught man in their cogs, deafened, stupefied him. The city’s rhythm dictated to man; the imperious order to remain alive actually meant to become an abstraction….’

Yeah, I know, she (Nin) never lets me down. I save the page with a hair tie. I wonder…very superstitious…writings on the wall.