Tag Archives: Micah

sex with me… sex with me… sex with me…

the drive
six-dollar garbage
L. A.
Micah’s little lab
dropping by Federal
sunset cruise to Santa Monica
sir, this is valet only
the motel, Steve, Thai curry, the cockroach

Vator Splash
walk for oil
chillin w Tram
goodbye Santa Monica
bang

sunrise to LAX
the literati
trader joes shopping
shower?
gal palace
aerienne’s curry
rise of the jack o lanterns
staples center
the pantry
sex with me, sex with me
film shoot
martinis at Clifton

sweating, parking
Meryl the blonde tart
Clara the effortlessly beautiful
Travis the sexy handyman
back at the chicken shack
raw silk
maximum laughter, minimal consequence
scene queen
80s club (wreck 86?) speakeasy
overpass popup
gig rig piss
spurned the hip hop breeze
hot dog, malt liquor, blow

shit
ramen
dishes
video chat w love
shower
high as fuck w Fitzcarraldo

~rain~

piece of shit
part one of Anna Karenina
the Ivy
over the garden wall
finished Fitzcarraldo

fragment of shit
cacao coffee
shower
barneys beanery
smokin
little dieter needs to fly

bagels n coffee
work, work
laundry out
car wash
seat belt ticket
laundry home
yoga nap
chicken kebab election
1642
bye aerienne

moving the car asleep
cafe 50s
el matador
shower and jojoba
long lyft
a novel Thai feast
funkmosphere
double double rye, straight
bye Meryl
bye Virgil
hello j
from sleep

early morning car move again
waiting for the call
toilet call
pack fast and peace
selected ambient drive
mcds
peter gabriel
fresh fruit
bridge
SF
surprise! Continue reading

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SAS 4

Stranger seem they who stomach the return when once intimate with their zenith of pleasure they had jettisoned away. Strangers to this strangeness seem stranger still, for they have yet to cast off.

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the spider on the sill—
a-swinging on her wheel—
a weave among the rain—attempting to be still.

the black, obedient dog—
our souls in analog—
a sniffing, listening creature wandering through the fog.

the fruit upon the table—
glowing brightly—nothing sable—
all yellow, orange, red—bleeding citrus staples.

the books with humble words—
in inky flocks like birds—
unfurling wise old wings that rhyme in lines of thirds.

the icy drinks in glass—
just buoyant bubbles, grass—
dissolving artsy minds in poetry with mass.

apes lounging in the kitchen—
some buying—selling—visions—
across the marketplace of psycho-stellar fission.

why not end it now—i say—fuck it—
let’s leave the seventh stranded in a lonely couplet! Continue reading

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a new addition to the u-shaped universe

thoughtfulness to the point of thoughtlessness. Continue reading

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Live!

what happens when you are the input and the output

what happens when you only have two states: drunk and hungover

what happens when you refuse to sip on anything but top-shelf lit

the obvious cognitive dissonance in selling your words but not your music while knowing full well that rhythm is rhythm

what happens when you decide to quit

what happens when the people you love think that’s a great idea

what happens when you think the people you love are a great idea

what happens when a work of fiction is not real fiction

what happens when the fruits of your entire consciousness are simply the back page scribbles of someone else’s story

a single glass of four-day-old $4 wine

what happens when you only dance and cuddle, no no fuck

what happens when wave

what happens when you want to be the pacifist shark in the tank

a dark, long-haired man kissing Israel, hugging Palestine

what happens when you crack an egg over bibimbop pizza

“this is happening,” concluded the stubbly subway sound engineer

what happens in the city does not stay in the city. Continue reading

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half pipe

this is the story of why there’s a fucking foot-and-a-half long half pipe of bamboo sitting on the mirror in my bathroom. Continue reading

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orange?

exactly a month ago, on the 21st day of the third month of this year, i jotted down some quick notes for what would later be a complete blog post or poem:

vernal equinox

red wine

inch wide deep fried tacos full of chicken and love

too deep, still good

a lazy j

green tea for me, chamomile for her

death

i had spent the night before, on the date of the vernal equinox, with a little lover of mine. as we often do, we drank wine and enjoyed each other’s company in one of the most ancient activities: cooking and eating. she did most of the cooking, i did most of the eating. it was a beautiful, beautiful night, like so many others we spend together.

a month later, and the universe seems so different and so much the same. so different because the reality of a new Daft Punk album (itself exactly one month away) became so much more real with the official release of “Get Lucky.” so much the same because i’m still fueling my dance parties w Daft Punk. so different because “the perfect situation” has come to a head. so much the same because i don’t think it’s gone to my head.

my roommates and i (with special guests Micah and Allison) threw a party on friday. a crazy fucking party.

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as far as i’m aware, this is the only photo of Micah and me that exists from the night. sums it up well.

leading up to the party, i thought about the party a lot. one, i doubted city people’s abilities to mobilize and get their asses out to a house situated in a residential neighborhood so far south i sometimes think i’m back home in daly city. two, i doubted digital people’s abilities to remember a party, unannounced on facebook, would actually be taking place.

fuck a doubt.

by happy hour, Micah and Allison were smoking and playing cards in the open garage. Cameron and i were upstairs causing a electric guitar drum racket. Chris and Brendan came over next, adding to the noise. fuck the noise, i said, so i started playing King Crimson. then James Brown. then Madonna. then some disco gold… but it may have been premature. 10 going on 15 people were sitting in a circle in the living room playing king’s cup, and i, the only one abstaining, was also the only one dancing. so i switched to the Clash. that’s when my entire family walked in… mom, dad, and the brothers. they mixed right into the party, actually successfully disbanding the stupid drinking game and turning it into a real hangout. my dad gifted my a bunch of bottles of liquor from the house, most of them near empty. (beggars can’t be choosers.) my mom throws a frozen lasagna into the oven. (i never see it again.) more and more people keep filing in. i find myself on the couch talking to Nick, and the subject of “Get Lucky” arises. we are thenceforth fucked, we decide to play it immediately. (in my mind, “immediately” starts at the end of the currently playing record.) Grayson walks up the stairs and i’m all smiles, telling him he’s arrived at just the right moment… if that Clash record will just finish. it finishes, and the first play of “Get Lucky” goes around. by the end of the night, taking into account the back-to-back plays around 0400, we probably listened to it six times. nobody ever complained… no, everybody just danced w glee. who complains when a classic song gets played again? i weave through Daft Punk’s older, deeper tracks, Michael Jackson, disco, disco, disco… and start feeling famished, mentally. Arianna subtly suggests taking over the djing and i happily oblige. always trust a girl who goes topless at parties. at one point, high and happy in the hallway, surrounded by strangers, i start melting into the walls ecstatic about the Motown (Diana Ross!) dance party happening in my living room, happening completely without my ever having touched the play button for that particular track. there ain’t nothing like curation. i can’t take it all in. too many beautiful faces. too many brilliant minds. so much long hair, so much style, so many glimmering, so many wild. squeeze me to sleep, so pleased. Continue reading

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fall texts

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Origin

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here, say

in which the Hero does too many things. Continue reading

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questioning connections

definitions of “poetry” and “facebook,” received from 7 of the 7 people asked for either/or and lightly edited to confuse the fuck out of you: “Everything” “grouping of allegedly self descriptive profiles for stalking and communicating with others who vaguely … Continue reading

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