Nails On the Barn,
Tell me what you see up there. In the middle of gmail technical difficulties Gios pops the summons to Saudi Arabia. With that beautiful wandering comma flickering in your eyes I too am so sure of the bright gold future nested in the belt of Orion. I close my eyes real tight like a butthole to make the internet freeze and all I get is Giorgios on the other side of life asking to live with him and teach english to university kids on that part of the globe where my finger never did land. Somewhere it says i need to be redirected b/c of refusing to accept or deny a bunch of i don't know how ever many cookies. In the backseat of this carnival the air is colder and lighter, the sun trapped like a pause button, all of which takes place in the span of one spring break the size of my pinky nail in tokyo doggy years. This should be the title to my next unpublished chapbook: Tokyo Doggy Years.
In NYC at the Armory and Volta show nothing but recycled concepts all whirling in the non-self-effacing money weather called ART. I laughed and spied on several of my selves all inhabiting the concepts long-since birthed but never born and manifested into materiality as temporary sticky post-it notes peeling away and drifting to the floor from the minds of the curators. Marina & I fall out of new york yellow and queue in for what feels like a fashion show more than anything else. A whiff of digital ghost tropic in the afternoon air so happy after having heard the living body jukebox singing his heart out outside the Guggenheim worth a million stars.
Today my soul feels rugged with neon autumn colors flapping their irreverent hues against the will to power. Today my will goes as far as Lake Erie on google maps street view where you'll find me in the company of love for myself.
Notes on The Midnight Bowlers
No sails set forth the winged
Internet stars owed us more years to live
The bowler sits in his syntax my eyes dissolve
In limitless surrender a row of people
Bowling their hearts and disgust for life out
For what, I don't know, the three-hole signature
Kept us pure and common
That heavy plastic ball
Shot up towards angel pins
Oh life, oh death--what things to stuff
Between headless origin; someone strikes
Where I could have died in the arms
Of some ghostly gerund for the fun of it
It seems the sun rises, for the fun of it
We bowl and don't think about heaven.
-Tiny Clipper
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