aug 11 - 13


can instagram shut the fuck up for a second why is everyone posting audio

can i shut the fuck up for a second 

i didn't know you could mob in a smart car but this guy is doing it and he's doing it big

i forgot to add a song to my last blog post and now it feels too late to go back and edit it

grateful neither of us tried to make that anything more than a chance encounter on the platform just now

this entire block of eighth ave smells like axe

rolls royce with connecticut vanity plate 'SCIENCE'

please touch my computer screen more with your giant goblin nails

i haven’t hidden a stain like this since high school

hey let's invent a sport and make the scoring really weird and arbitrary so only total fucking nerds want to watch it and we'll call it tennis

Déja Enfondue

purposely scuffing up my white Stans

i'm the guy in this restaurant playing the youtube video really loudly on his phone 

fell asleep watching Jane The Virgin two nights ago

pretty rational fear that the most effective way of being okay is hearing someone else tell you that you are okay

stood in front of the oven door with my shirt open to let the heat in. thought of christmas in ohio, 1995.

why do i feel like i'm on a planet in the star wars universe? like i’m on planet naboo. 

it feels like i've been here, but it doesn't feel like i used to hide here. both are true. 

 the exterior of the moma ps1 building makes me sentimental for a place i've never been.

lots of white guys in loafers looking important with their arms crossed today

(ray liotta) -- (acne scars) = matt bomer

cute barista was nice to me again

sorry, that’s not how this works.

want: more arm tattoos, more muscle on arms

just needed to get out, he says. feeling better now. he’s walking up the steps of the 21st street stop and the wind is coming down, the wind is coming down righteous and smooth and icy and whatever was behind him no longer is. he drags a shadow everywhere he goes and everything disappears, a good thing, the light is so bright on this side that the black is infinite on the other. no one’s back there, this isn’t happening. a woman walks her child up the steps and she’s wearing something sweet, watermelon or honey or rosewater and it rolls in waves through the air, collecting on the walls and sliding down them to the floor and rising back up again.

fan is whirring. i’m not here. shadows across the street. my vision is a portrait. i am here. writing this but not writing it. music is going in and out. coming back in through my headphones now. stronger. water on the bottom edges of my eyes. world is reeling. spinning backward but forward. i’m not here. hands aren’t mine. song is over. definitely here.

found a new meta joke on 'the office' after missing it for twelve years.

where do cockroaches go in the winter? don’t say ‘inside’.

i used to write music reviews on amazon for fun. i'd spend meticulous hours drafting them hoping the artist would see them and contact me.

i’ll die first either way.

our trivia team name was ‘Joe’s Biden His Time’.

contextually mentioned my involvement in the war to a stranger.

i used to wear this brand?

‘uncle jihad’ has potential to be a band name.

only my left earbud ever falls out. am i lopsided?


i don't think i have room for your personality right now

please curb your european tourist.

lady, you have got to calm down with the fucking typing. the table is shaking.

wanna get high and eat gummy candy w me?

an exercise in restraint. that’s what i’ll call it. that’s what it is? always hiding and pushing and re-organizing but it’s time to leave them at the top. stop hiding the things, start controlling the urge. stop saying ‘it’s sad’. stop treating it with false import.

so much to say. forgot it all. the little wastebasket. some sort of rattan pattern on it, totally fake. it’s made of that plastic that shatters as soon as you drop it from far enough or put too much pressure on it. it shattering reminds me of a hot driveway for some reason. hot pavement and kids toys. the plug behind it — what does it run to? another white noise machine probably. the little dot on the floorboard next to it that looks like an old doorbell button. i think about pushing it in every time i sit on this couch. the little kleenex box. the glass table. the legs of the table aren’t legs. a continuous structure of ’N’ shapes. circular. the glass platter just rests on it. the glass is smoky on the edge. thick. it must weigh sixty pounds. reminds me of candy. 

saul almost cried when i told him about the end of the phone call. i only know this because he told me this. he said it made him well up. said it was sad. sad for everyone. saul almost cried. my family makes my therapist want to cry.

high volume, low frequency noise keeps sounding in the library. half of the room is looking at each other: should we…? the other half is unconcerned. distracted. trying to ignore it. i go to the help desk. do you hear that? he says yeah, i hear it. turns back to his computer. stares at it. is that normal? i don’t know, might be the elevator he says. i want to say thanks a lot, dickhead but i don’t. i want to tap the bottom of his chin with two fingers using just enough force that it’s offensive. but i don’t. i go back to my computer and write this instead.

it’s not even that much stuff. just two boxes. doesn’t feel like there’s room for it. i did this in ridgewood and bushwick, too. old me, maybe. doesn’t want it to be final. don’t sit. or, if you do, sit right on the edge.

oversharing again. too many outlets. conglomerated. every platform is text is pictures is video is streaming. not good for me. that’s part of me i’m giving away every time. telling myself to practice and not predict. don’t shred burn delete — that’s sidestepping. just sit for a second, not on the edge. sit back. fold your hands. this is okay. you are here.

he asked if i was a liberal again. if that was ‘an accurate statement’. i wanted to ask him if he voted for a failed businessman who brags about raping women. if that was ‘an accurate statement’. i got quiet instead. buried myself. said ‘i don’t think so’. they’re both so interested. they lower it into our conversations and leave it hanging there from the end of the crane. a mosquito in my ear. when we got off the phone i wrote seventeen lines about him. his cowardice. i didn’t write about her. i never do. oedipal? probably the other thing, the one that i can’t ever bring into focus. that she’s afraid of him and hides behind his opinions. pretends they are hers, too. i don’t miss that house. i don’t miss that state. i get closer and closer to pushing my chair away from the table with every phone call. every phone call gets further apart. i don’t care one way or the other.

read the graveyard blog last night. the whole thing. so optimistic. i didn’t believe any of it, i don’t think. a hostage negotiation with myself. captor and victim all at once. i was so far away from everything. hovering outside the window of every room. watching from the ceiling while i practiced ‘yes, and’. sitting one desk to the right while i fumbled through questions about descartes. apologetic, some of it. i believed all of that, i think. glad to have outgrown it. not in the kid —> adult way, unless we’re talking about the part of me you don’t see. 

the gym felt good. felt good to be judged. to be the smallest. to hurt. i walked in and signed up. you have weights here? okay. he asked me about my goals. to gain weight, i said. too much product in his hair. shirt a size too small. he tried to make small talk about ohio after he punched my phone number in. the browns. cincinnati. you have weights here? okay. my shoulders still scream at me. they knock and scrape and hesitate. i hear them grind through the deltoid, through the trapezius and the infraspinatus, the only muscles i can ever get to grow. except for my legs, which no woman is interested in. my elbow gets hot and i feel the ligament snap and bend from the up and down. i let it burn. doing pushups in front of the mirror so i can watch my abdomen hang beneath me, so i can be unsatisfied with my body. in front of the mirror so i can look myself in the eye while i shake under the weight of




i take my shirt off for my last few sets of planks. scars on my back, on display for the room. on display for me. so i can be unsatisfied with my skin. i’m probably on a snapchat story somewhere. good for them.

dreamt that i lost my green doc marten’s in a flood. i went back for them.

how have i never listened to ‘all my friends’ in the rain before today?

the guy drinking a 16oz red bull whom i passed near the grocery twenty minutes ago just walked by with a new 16oz red bull.

just pulled out my green doc marten’s to ensure i did not actually lose them in a flood.

i asked for a square slice at my counter place and he said ‘you mean sicilian?’. is there anything else square behind this glass, my dude?

i sat at the window to eat my slices like i always do. a bus stopped across the street and a bald man eating his own slice locked eyes with me and solemnly nodded. i don’t think my pizza meant to me what his pizza meant to him.

wearing my green doc marten’s into the city to avoid losing them in the flood that is surely going to strike my apartment while i’m gone.

i don’t know why i texted her that i was getting on stage last night. it looked sloppy this morning.

agreed to find another location for the film. still haven’t settled the first.

also agreed to complete the logistics master for the first location i still haven’t settled.

oh, and I’ve never completed a logistics master before.

actually, she was lovely about it. 

too much cumin in this hummus. 

a lot all at once forever

sure i could sure i could, but i won't. six months ago i would have, i think. maybe even three months ago. hopefully not three months ago. what's the statute on understanding previous versions of yourself? when do you stop being now and start being then? we talked about that on the water last night -- whether time is infinite snapshots or a single moment that stretches forever.

sure i could. i could. but i won't. and not because it's not good for me, not because i want to but i know better, not because i want to at all. not holding back, not prohibiting, that's the greatest thing i've grown into. people say they want honesty, but they don't. they want honesty when the honesty turns out to be what they wanted. they don't want it in virtue of itself. and i'm not going to indulge that, not anymore. there's no one to hide from but me, and i'm not going to indulge that, not anymore.

i haven't done this in a while. the edge of the bed and the edge of the tub feel the same for now. i'm louder this time, though. much louder. i don't know why i'm quiet other times. i'm not holding back, it just doesn't come out. sometimes i wish it would, but i can't think like that too long otherwise things get muddy. nothing got muddy last time. it's not muddy this time either, it's clear, so clear. i like that. it lets me know i'm moving the way i'm supposed to, the proper trajectory, from the middle out and not from the edge in.

aug 4

blond was playing.

it was 4:13am and john said she wanted to know 'what i was up to after this'. i ducked around the corner and went home to watch seinfeld.

invest in a pair of quality headphones because that's what these nights require.


aug 5

what do you know that you don't think i know you know?

beyoncé, nail art | cold side of the pillow

interpol, leif erikson, verse 2, line 4


aug 6

someone finally moved the bottle of grey goose from the roof at court square. or was that somewhere else?

i’ve always wanted a shirt with pearl-button snaps. 

rave music doesn't seem appropriate for a sunday flea market in LIC.

rave music doesn't seem appropriate anywhere.

day two of a tater-tot based meal for breakfast.

'eleanor put your boots back on' is playing at corner bistro.

'rest my chemistry' is playing at corner bistro.

can we stop with the rosé everything

a sail line on this boat is tapping in the wind at exactly 240 beats per minute.

take your time hurry up

i don’t like how connected i am but i still marvel at it sometimes.

if you took the aesthetic of a home depot lumber yard and made it into a neighborhood, you’d have maspeth.

one eye is usually covered when we talk, and

does anyone sell pore strips that cover your entire back?

i have burned six fingers and significant portions of both hands in two days cooking hello fresh. i have not burned any of the food. 

blood and bruises and very wide eyes.

may have trimmed my armpits when i buzzed my head the other day.

how many times can you have the same conversation?

i was lying on my back on my bed and i was thinking of all the things i could say and all the things i've wanted to say and it started happening for the first time in so long, i was with myself again. it comes on like something beneath me, up from the middle of the water while i float on the surface, eyes hovering lazily on the ceiling.

i was sitting on my front step and the rain was coming back in, third time today. it comes up from beneath the ground, not down from the clouds. i feel the breeze run across and between my feet and legs before i see the drops pebble the concrete.

my skin is rebelling against me. maybe for not eating meat? i thought it was going to be the other way around.

nothing is a waste of time if i tell myself it’s what i need.

what bothers me the most about turning twenty-nine? its proximity to thirty or its complete lack of significance?

saw a pregnant woman taking pictures of something in mccarren park. got distracted trying to determine her subject and slipped in a pile of wet dog shit, flailed like a scooby-doo cartoon for a moment.
it was a hawk.
she saw a hawk. 

on the other hand, i'll have a great story if i end up dropping out to do the film full-time. 

if i just smoke one more bowl

people ask me things and then i start to spin.
i start to pace.
i keep watching my life as a movie. 
i keep wanting it to be that movie, that movie,
i want to watch me live it instead of living it. 
because if it’s written it’s out of my hands, and it ends when the credits roll and i think that’s what i’ve been trying to make true ever since i started watching movies and becoming the characters on the screen so i don’t have to be myself off screen. that sounds like a trope because it is, and if i can accept that instead of making it romantic like i always do then i know i’ve beaten it, but i haven’t beaten it, and boy do i wish the sun would set on me already, because it’s not comical, it’s not a movie, it’s me and

if i keep looking at her i won't come out of it, and that's a thing people say and don't mean -- well, i mean it and

i think that space we talked about is right where it belongs

it’s not a big deal, i promise.
i can ask the questions myself:
who am i
or at least, what do i want.
i want someone.
and then i won’t want someone,
i’ll want my room and the soft glow
of people talking to other people
and i just watch
and say it with them.
i’ll want the bitter orange burn
and the spaced out laugh
talk to myself, talk to my recorder
talk to the computer
write it out
now it’s something
now you’re something

i found a recording from last april
and it’s nineteen minutes and thirty-four seconds long
and includes a verbal confession of 

i found a recording from last july
and it’s three minutes and thirteen seconds long
practicing my stand-up set
jokes about things girls said to me last summer
to make me see they wanted to fuck me
do you eat pussy?
you could have grabbed my ass last night
i want to strap your face to my vagina

i laugh trying to tell the jokes
they’re not funny
i laugh trying to talk about things
they’re not funny

i’m sitting behind the couch
looking at everyone’s heads
it’s alright
i’m here but not right here
i’m such a spectator
it’s not a big deal, i promise.
i can ask the questions myself:
why don’t i want to be me?

i got high and went for a counter slice yesterday.
a truck drove by and i saw 'Dodge' printed on the running board and i thought of that girl
i said 'what the fuck' out loud on accident.
the place was empty, but the pizza man looked at me funny.

i got high and went for sodas today.
the deli owner's son is running the register.
he is quiet and avoids looking me in the eye.
when he does look, he looks away immediately. i wonder what he sees.
he doesn't know the prices of anything yet, so he lifts up every item to check the tag.

i was supposed to go on a location scout in red hook today, and gowanus.
i haven't binge watched a show this quickly since breaking bad.
june, you have to murder everyone.

lights on
music on
shadows under the door
try to speed it up
slow it down
all at once
i don't know which one i really want
so i stay watching from the shelf

sometimes i let myself do it, if i feel like it’s healthy.
irreversible climate change or
nuclear war or
kidnapped or
pushed on to the tracks or
the bathtub?
i’ve never picked a place for the last one,
it’s just always something i do,
the place doesn’t seem to matter in my head.


there is a man to my left with a twenty foot power cord,
one of those thick black ones
like they use at construction sites.
he’s wearing those headphones
that are so large that
you don’t call them headphones,
you call them over-ear monitors.


this isn’t a poem, it’s just prettier than a paragraph.


there is a man to my right
and he’s eating his yogurt like a bird.
plunging his head down to the table
where the plastic container rests, 
moving the spoon between the swamp and his mouth
in little two inch microjourneys.
i wonder what i look like when i eat a cheeseburger at five guys.

it’s eighty-one degrees on a thursday night in july and i’m high on the roof of my building. i mean that i’m on the roof of my building and i’m high, not the other thing--it's only four stories. the breeze is calm and constant and it wipes the sides of my legs with careful hands. i guess the walls on the roof keep the breeze below my waist, the only place i can feel it, but i don’t think about that too much. i think about dying. i think about it too much, maybe. i don’t mean that i think about cutting or jumping or hanging or shooting or swallowing. i mean the other thing, the stopping of the heart, the closing of the eyes from behind the eyelids, the black, the nothing, the who knows. i mean the other thing, the no more demagogues, the no more exploitation, the maybe i come back as a friendly patch of moss.


i’m not thinking about sitting, sitting on this bench in washington square park. i’m not thinking about standing up and leaving. i’m not thinking about. i’m not thinking. three hours pass. later, at a different park, a squirrel comes within a few inches of me and settles there. this feels important.


the fireworks came from the other side last year, or at least that’s how i remember it. but now the tree branches are pretty much right in our way. i don’t mind that i picked this spot, and neither do you. that feels like acceptance and not veiled rebuke, that feels like this is fine, not the other thing, the this is fine. i like the ones that crackle on their way down. you like the ones that sizzle on their way up. i’m a little kid. you’re a little kid. 

eeffoc kniht bounces back at me off the bus windows, neon letters that warp and wave and shimmer and dim, remind me of that night exactly five years ago, remind me that i forgot it’s been exactly five years. rain spatter gales off the green overhang marked 115, attacks the girl walking by, doesn’t say sorry, attacks the next girl walking by. the man closest to the window works on a sketch and pauses occasionally to make faces while he contemplates the next line, looks blankly at the space in front of him, vision that never leaves his eyes. i am immediately certain that i make the same faces, stare the same blankness when i look up from my writing, not just now but always. two japanese boys are smoking in front of the door. one of them wedges his cigarette expertly between his molars while he talks, it angles up, angles down on the invisible fulcrum in rigid deliberate strokes. his cheeks suck in so much when he drags that i’m certain they are touching in the space over his tongue. sandals in the rain. yikes.

it's gold,
it's gold,
it's so gold, can you see it?
it's burning there,
it's so bright,