This city's exhausted

The sound

On either platform we stand. Our conversation has maintained despite the frequent crying strollers and Manhattan minors milling. Your voice has been relatively clear up until now. A train is passing. The sound is not quite deafening, at least not in the way it was when I first transplanted in the North, but it does mask the sound of your charming country voice. As the tracks endure the electrified necessity of this city, I can barely see snapshots of your face through a thousand thick windows. I reach my hand to you like DiCaprio pressing the fish tank that separates him from his Danes. And a finger is lost. Just the very tip. Viscous blood trickles to my wrist before dripping into the rat slip 'n slide below me. I didn't need that part of my finger though. I'm still breathing, aren't I? The train is still passing as I lose my knuckles, my underdeveloped forearm, my elbow; soon, an exposed bone nub remains. Endorphins, nature's Vicodin, have kicked in and I feel not pain, but that awful throb. Alright, it's gotten deafening. My ears are bleeding more than my arm and my scowl looks poorly whittled, as if done by a den of scouts with attention deficits. That train keeps chugging. As I lay in my own mess, consisting of all of my fluids, your annoyance shines through the sound. Your lack of sympathy is what i'll willingly retain because you can't hear me protest. The train slows. You board. You are gone. Don't worry about me. I've got gauze at home. It's just a nick. I suppose I'll see you later. The light will be on. Dimmed but most certainly on.

I think the weather's making me glum.

Over drinks

Our collars stand tall and close. Both starched. Both attached to something too pricey. Electricity comes from my mouth and hits your tongue. Your mouth is one of 3 open water sources on your face. Perfect conductor for my energy. For my sex. It's not a Rolex catching light. Not that you know that. This cuff is so stiff it stifles the gleam of my Chinatown purchase. I can tell your pants are new. That line down the middle. How many people really try to maintain that crease? Few, I'd think. Your hair has such a sheen, but why can't I smell it? Could be the lamb wafting up. You're a handsome man. You're a very handsome man.

So bright

This is my coming of age story, folks. This is the soundtrack of my life. That applause you hear was dubbed in but deserved nonetheless. My showers are my new entries. My minutes are my chapters. These veggie burgers I regularly eat are the commas. My life is punctuated by pressed bean patties. Many of them. The shallow breaths I now breathe will one day be catching dust on the shelf, but if not for them, the vocabulary I die with will be less rich. The hands on approach to monitoring my voluntary and involuntary behavior is becoming obsolete. It's becoming a shell, not my big war horse that gets me the girl. Let us loosen the reins and let Rudolph take us where he will. Allow the light to sift through the fog. Untouched. Clarity will come. The fog is rude, yes, but that's the fog's concern.

Sellevision

Another book down!

Sellevision... I have to say, it really pissed me off. But it was also a light, fun read that was perfectly suited for subway travel. A lot of the writing was just so formal and indicative. Super predictable. Super easy to resolve each conflict.

But whatevs. I'm learning about the composition of a novel.

I'm actually giving books a chance.

Thanks to Holly for sending it to me.

Same diner. Different booth.

I hear this low-pitch whistle. Seems as though I'm being tricked.

It just stopped.

widget trouble

I don't know if you've noticed my totally rad widget (over on the left side of the site) but if you have and you've had trouble with it, TRY IT AGAIN. I fixed it.

dusterz

Lucy Magpie

Lucy Magpie had these very special eyes. They had depth. They had flecks of honey.

She didn't nest as others do, with all the to-do and grandeur. Nope, her emotional stock hung low post-hatch. No real wealth to speak of.

Lucy found glitz where there is filth. She found what she wasn't entitled to.

She sought beauty.

Objectification of Ladies

Let's be real, here: "Ladies' Night" = whore trap. Am I right? I don't mean to say that anyone who attends one of these regular events is, themselves, a whore; I'm saying that "Ladies' Night" is an accepted public icon that stands for some Good Ol' Chauvinism. Ladies' Night is the exposed tit of the late-night loners. The hungry swarm forth. I dunno. Perhaps I'm throwing analysis where it isn't needed.

I'm just becoming more and more aware of the objectification of women within our society/culture/zeitgeist.

What seems to be a major roadblock in dealing with and/or conquering the glorification of women being treated like total ass is the hurricane of misogynist rap songs. Its the violent throat fucking in pornographic films. And its the weekly bar promotions that draw in the flies. But think about what keeps that kind of shit alive. Us. We all participate in the validation of our expected gender-specific actions/roles. I won't lie, I've been in a room of women and wanted to blow my brains out, later finding solace in anything male. I am a man and I like the company of men GREATLY. And I often think of women as being another species. This is what my body screams to me. But, being a participant in this society, where we're not attacking one another, I process those thoughts, register them as rude whims, and continue with the global project, Equality.

I'm kind of rambling without clear direction. Sorry. I am guilty of chauvinism. Just as almost every women routinely capitalizes on her physical weakness.

We're balls deep in gender issues. I feel overwhelmed. It all feels wrong and right.

Genus

Despite whatever vanity we may be harboring and our supposed reign of this physical kingdom, Mankind occasionally let's the beast seep out.

Composure is the thing to look at. Everyone you see or can think of is only a notion away from hunching down and ripping a face off. But they're keeping that shit together. And that's basic civility, folks. I stare at people, uncomfortably so, and I look for the behavior that appears to be involuntary but is actually just routine, satisfying movement. Masturbatory movement.

Civilization is fleeting. When you're alone, you're a freak. Admit it.

What if I made neckties?

Location:28th St,Astoria,United States

Don't sit.

The rails burn orange as the rumbler approaches. A few shades of lipstick are applied haphazardly. Few mirrors down here. Couriers cheating the traffic. Bikes and hand-drawn advertisement on their vests. Quite a few cappucino beauties with hair the color of insulation. That piss-soaked mattress tone. I'm sure there's a thief in the crowd. That why I grip my bag so secretly fiercely. Don't want to seem paranoid. New York can smell your fear. After I snuggle into the dirty nook by the pole, my favorite spot, I start recalling my regular Subway mantra. If you don't fit, don't sit. God, perfume is obnoxious. It's a struggle to breathe, today. The mystery asthma. This wafting fried food and chemical fragrance isn't helping. Uh oh. Here comes Bleecker street. Ciao.


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23

When I moved to NY, I started noticing how concerned I was with peoples' age.

"How old is he?"

"You're kidding"

I've realized that I judge people by the ratio of their stature and accomplishments compared to the years they've laid, crawled, walked, and sprinted upon this Earth. It's because of the pressure I've always put on myself. Up until recent months, I've gauged my worth by attempting to measure how savvy I am towards life. Because no sane man can be a grabber of every opportunity, that's clearly a masochistic line of thinking. You really can't beat yourself up for enjoying your day off. There's no need to count down the minutes because you're 23 and only have a Bachelor's. So what if I haven't read Moby Dick. I spent the whole day, yesterday, organizing shoes and ties. Beautifully so. That's something, right? Right? So what if I'm 23 and don't have a huge savings? So what if I never went to Space Camp? So what if I would rather get my clothes tailored than drop two weeks pay on health insurance. It won't always be this because life will work itself out. I would capitalize the "will" but I'm reading 'Sellevision' and it's littered with the overly cautious literary guidance, so, I'll refrain. I'm twenty-motherfucking-three and being coated with this syrupy shame is just plain dirty. And I needn't splash anybody else with the filthy shit.

Snuff

One book down!

Snuff by Chuck Palahniuk.

Fast read. Lots of graphic language and a pretty obvious twist. But still fun.


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Let's get it on

I've been really tryin'... Babe. Tryin' to hold back this feeling for so long. And if you feel like I feel... let's get it on.

Ain't it the truth? If something feels so right, why not indulge in it? If there is positive stimulus to be had, have it. Should there be aspirations, get it on with them.

Fuck the shit out of your dreams.

Put it in and then take it out. Don't let yourself go too far. Edge. Edge, fucker. Dabble in that shit but keep it steady. Conserve the joy. You want it to last. Turn your back to that wish, so that it grabs at the back of your shirt and whines like a heated bitch. Tell it "no". Tell it that you don't want it, even though you do (you REALLY do). It'll beg. Trust me. When you feel like the time is right, you'll let it go and you'll knock that dream up.

And it will expel diamonds. The kind that distract you during algebra. The kind you publicize to anyone who'll listen.

Lay your seed deep and a new life will form. Hit the right spot and make your dreams say they love you back.

content content

You know... when you've got less and less to prove... well, it's a nice feeling.

I haven't felt like my usual angst-ridden self, lately. Which means that I haven't felt all that compelled to write. I suppose the products we turn out have to come from something, and my something has been lacking. I write to calm myself. To understand myself. To let the world know that I am not just a nice collared shirt and a scathing one-liner. I'm a thinker, god damn it. But life has definitely been better, lately. I haven't needed to calm myself or search for answers because life's starting to fall into place.

John and I are almost at a year and we're not panting. We're powering through and looking ahead. Always escalating. He's pointed me in the right direction, as far as finances go, and now, I am supporting myself and occasionally enjoying a cab ride. Having a fairly inexpensive dinner use to set me back a whole week of work but it's now it's part of the monetary tide that I'm trying to work with.

So, I'm not stressed about men or money and I'm about to start school... so... I suppose I should start filtering the positive into my fingers.

At a loss, right now...

Gonna go to the gym and then tan... and I'm totally content with that.

But really...

Sex with a stranger.

These were jutting out of Baruch

My resolution this year?

Read every book on this wall.

Title?

I felt a wave of acceptance sweep through the land, last night. The mice stopped fighting. The children were still. And Jimmy Jaws laid calm. Two unfamiliar mirrors sneaked in front of me, throughout the course of the preceding days- a new perspective was to be found in each. One caught the light and focused it on the effects of my indulgence. I'd usually beat myself up for looking so cow-ish but right then, I didn't. What I chose to see? The good time merriment that earned me that little gut. I drank. I ate. And I hung the fuck out. Proof was atop my hips. Mind you, I was at the gym when I was feeling proud of my stomach, which equals me justifying a short workout with philosophy.

The other mirror told me that certain obsessions were not worthy of such focus. It showed things as being bright, fine, and functional; like there was nothing to think about. Until those obsessions crept back in (as the mites do), I was content with my plagues. That wave has ebbed some, but it's eroded me. Wonderfully so.

This moment in time...

... is a lot like others.

My socks are too short and the weather's unkind to bare ankles. My hands were already numb when I chose iced over hot, and I needed to quench this.

Cotton dry.

Paid my rent. En route to Wachovia. Then to financial aid. Did I mention I got into Baruch College? Starting my path towards my Ph.D. Starting with a second but shortened bachelor's. Is it doable? Is it doable? It's kind of a "I'm gonna lose 30 pounds in two weeks" goal but we'll see. I've got nothing better to do.

A new year.

Oh, Queens.


Pasties.


Found this after having my shift drink.


Dusterz


E.T. shaped snow.

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Location:E 86th St,New York,United States

Ny'se

The party I helped coordinate for Double Crown.

The candles I did.