Tag Archives: phone

lines written on the return trip from SFMOMA

pull out the sketch pad
and stare at it blankly as
teenage skateboarders race by.
the Fillmore beeps and bops,
cowbells clang, speaking curses,
questions to your ear, bedazzled and browned
by the sun. too many coats for this warm weather,
you think,
wondering where the incessant rain storms
ran to next. the city divides itself in two,
hoarding fine art and filth on one side, while
heating the hearth with wood chips in the other.
seasoning springs upon you often
on this bumpy ride. Continue reading

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going downtown

an enormous cloud hangs over the city
as i walk up 2nd Ave smoking
the remnant of a good night, breathing
the rain-washed air of a good day.

i snap a picture of the cloud
with my phone, with my phone
pay the bus fare, sit in the last
square of four seats occupied by three
silent, independent women, each wearing
a distinct set of dark shades. mine barely
cover my eyes as i look south to see
the cloud retreating and the bright sun
emerging, blanketing everything.

suddenly, the three stages of consciousness
blind me:

first, squinting, measuring the luminosity,
cursing myself for forgetting a hat,
wondering about skin cancer, meditating on the family.
second, reasoning, realizing that by
slightly lifting my limb i can slow the effect
of aging. finally, believing,
breathing in, being,
eyelids down aware that death is
and will always be, so may as well
repose on the sunny side. Continue reading

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notes from my phone

how do I create
how does one scrawl the thoughts incessantly knocking on the othe side of the glass
pika Continue reading

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notes from my phone

can a person be a laxative?

can a person with exceedingly attractive breasts be a laxative?

legit, those are some notes on my phone from the weekend.

i was standing on a sunny San Francisco rooftop–high ass fuck–listening to my friend, who happens to have exceedingly large and attractive breasts, rant about so and such and etc and ya. some dude i didn’t know was nodding to her stream of sounds and meaning, and i was nodding too. but i wasn’t really comprehending or even computing in the least degree. on the contrary, i was nodding while wondering whether a person’s voice and the things they say could incite a man to need to take a shit.

luckily, i managed to hold it in.

here’s something much less disgusting:

thighs two pack
mushrooms packet
three onions
bottle of wine
box of chicken broth

that’s Amanda’s list of ingredients for this weird wine-y soup that’s actually incredible delicious. well, depending on who you ask.

she once gave me some to try. a week later, i remembered it existed, reheated it, and found it quite delectable. so i decided to make it myself. in fact, i roped Natalie into making it too. we drove to the Alemany Farmers Market (late as usual), picked up the essential ingredients, and returned to my kitchen to attempt the soup.

now, Natalie is a cook. and i’m a poet. or musician. or wizard. or some shit. in any case, earlier in the soup-crafting process, we started to butt heads about some crucial decisions. Amanda was unavailable, so we couldn’t consult her about the exact process and finer points of putting this soup together, so we were left to our own devices. Natalie wanted to use her cool cooking skillz to add a bunch of spices and use less wine and all this shit. i was like, no, no spices. just wine. wine. it. up.

so we made separate soups. at the same time. a soup-off.

how did it go? fucking amazing, obviously. i had soup for days.

so many notes on my phone, so little time. here’s one from the Tool concert this year:

old life new life
body mind

tool is inside black hole

astonishment at walkijg inside of a cave

yeah, what? let’s see if i can retrace my steps.

see, Tool makes pretty strange music. they have strange visuals to match the strange music. when your sensory devices meet with these strange musicks and strange visuals, your brain begins to brew strange thoughts. for example, i stopped taking for granted the concert experience and instead begin to marvel at the strangeness, if you will, of it all. Bill Graham Civic Auditorium, the name we bestowed upon this large (for humans) man-made cave, filled to the brim with swaying apes captivated by the rumbling thunder of lights and astonishing lightning of sound emanating from the four apes on the raised platform. imagine an alien being, like Mozart, stepping into this cave. or imagine a caveman. would he be jealous of our cave? imagine a being from another planet or another universe? what would they think? would they be unimpressed? would they think fondly of memories from their own life? that’s the “astonishment at walkijg inside of a cave.”

so i was stoned at a Tool concert and thinking about aliens, this is true. i can’t just blame Tool, space has been consuming my mind more than usual. so for some reason i started thinking that maybe Tool is what you get when you go inside of a black hole. actually, no, i don’t remember what this was about at all. i’m sure it was epically profound though, stoned ronny of the past.

one of the show highlights were these words Maynard spoke between songs:


oh man, here’s a golden one:

the way a beautiful girl can just ruin your night

i’m not giving any context on that one except that it’s from 201301102151. maybe i’ll just remember something for once.

this is kind of clever, from 201301181153:

sometimes i don’t actually feel like i truly truly lived in the moment i loved because if i did i would still be there.

once i heard a beautiful song with Japanese lyrics that sounded like…

it’s some tsunami

Continue reading

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lines written in the bathroom at the Legion of Honor

there’s no service at the museum. that’s a good thing because no service means no people talking to people that aren’t there. sitting on the toilet at the museum one wonders about the difference between things good and bad.

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my hands smell like garlic. that’s what happens when you spend an entire evening writing a poem and the entire next evening editing.

i exaggerate. i’m a super freak. i’m problematic. i problem.

really, tonight i was much more productive than a poet might be expected to be. after biking home, i did a load of laundry, paid a bunch of bills, cleaned up a bit, rubbed the kitty, spun a bunch of disco, and got saucy with some onion, garlic, bell pepper, and mushroom. the new way to pay bills: write check, take hit, repeat. oh, and i also phoned w Adam for nearly an hour… talking Daft Punk, life, love, and Daft Punk. love that man.

just now clicking an email from american apparel to have it be marked as read made me wonder why the hell they were sending me emails anyway… and i remembered that i bought something from them recently: a dog hoodie for Meryl and Joel’s little Link. the only thing i’ve ever bought from them.

anyway, as monumental as was last month’s mountain range, this one will overflow with hardcore glamming champagne rock & roll. all love #nofilter all throughout. she makes me feel peace and poetry.

perfect alpine glow, red blood fountain flow. Continue reading

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my friends have marvelous taste in music, which they sometimes demonstrate via pay-what-you-want demos

i once had an uncle who firmly believed that any bodily ailment could be cured with a little hot water. cut yourself? no alcohol, no hydrogen peroxide, no antibacterial nothing… just rub it under some hot water for however long you can stand, and you’ll be just fine. inflated lids? aching tummy? broken bones? hot hot hot!!! fucking water. his fascination with the miraculous effects of steaming fluids flew far beyond the even relatively acceptable realms of reason. suffering from heartbreak? get in the shower, and don’t come out until you’ve stopped crying.

oh wait… it wasn’t my uncle that believed that stuff. it was me!

god all i ever do on this fucking thing is write about myself.

Christ. i just did a fucking search (lord why the fuck do i swear so fucking much?) of my entire blog, and found zero instances of the phrase “Radio Lily.” how the hell did i get to like post 4,073 and never mention Radio motherfucking Lily. Radio Lily, which broadcasts live daily from a small spot in New York City, does this exact thing 24 hours a day, seven days a week:

that is, it spins curvy reggaeish music.

a girl named Sara introduced me to Radio Lily. i am eternally grateful to her for the gift… so much so that i often think about her and wonder whether she’ll actually visit me in SF like she’s promised on several occasions. i just want to pull a blunt w her again and blast Lily on Lily. that’d be nice.

i write the strangest things on my phone’s notepad, like this: “nobody’s whiter than Jack White, no matter the clothes he wears nor the grow he hairs.” i was high on white and weed watching the very man wank around onstage when i wrote the lines, so i have very little insight into what the fuck i was actually trying to say. maybe you can guess?

outside lands was so good. extra sweet because of the free vip pass for the entire weekend. sheesh. here are some other amazing acts i caught:

huh? what? there were all these, like, legendary dudes gripping their legendary weapons, and then, like, you break the pattern with some legendary dudes gripping their weapons too far in the distance for me to notice and some horse banner thing. some crazy horse banner thing. and then i’m just, like, standing here holding this harmonica, listening to pretty aery girl pick her banjo like a badass, and i’m like, what? huh?

what makes me so sure that any of this is worth publishing on the Internet?

here’s another note from my phone: “how is a string of hair a dj?” see, the funniest thing to me about all these notes is how nonsensical they are even to me, the supposed author. the vast majority of the time i’m compelled to pull my phone out of my pocket, tap ‘Notes’, and scrawl down some craziness like “how is a string of hair a dj,” i am pretty fucked up on at least one thing. and every one of those times, without fail, i convince myself that i can get away with writing something like eight words to convey the thousand page manuscript of an idea exploding inside my head. i convince myself that, with just those eight words, i will be able to reconstruct the manuscript at a later date. this is rarely, if ever, the case. how is a string of hair a dj? only god knows now.

just below that nonsense, however, is something that makes sense to me. it’s the name of a song i started singing one night:

it came directly from the heart. crawled out of my bloody valves, climbed up my esophagus, and collapsed a spineless critter on the span of my tongue, the song. i had spent the entire day, evening, and night w a girl and her friends, but i couldn’t be w them anymore. they were drunk and couldn’t stop singing songs. it wasn’t about pounding corn to the rhythm of the sun or strumming strings to the pleasing of our guts, no no no. it was all about hitting a note at the proper time and coming up with clever lyrics to match the proper rhyme. i was bored and/or lazy. so i retreated into the stranger’s house, being house sat by a bunch of irresponsible vagrants like us, and scraped the critter off my tongue w my iphone. the operation, to this day, has resulted in zero complications.

beneficial ape”

i have no idea what that’s about either. i thought it may have been an artist and album, but i can’t find anything of the sort.

201206241522. i’m listening to the original version of “Blue Monday” as performed by the illustrious New Order. i am rocking and dancing and shaking my head, as i am apt to do when listening to a single considered to be the best-selling 12″ of all time, when i hear the line “those who came before me.” i then have a thought. an idea. specifically, the development of an idea. you know how the catholic church used to have everybody at mass, including the pastor leading the fucking thing, facing the same direction? and then they changed it to the priest facing the congregation. well, the next step is everyone facing each other. OH WAIT THAT’S ALREADY EVERY DANCE PARTY EVER. okay, i get it; i think a little too catholic. so stab me.

Itty Bitty Nitty Gritty Heart. Continue reading

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disco nap disco

in which the Hero shares some notes from his phone. Continue reading

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poetrext with aerienne

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The Solipsist

my eyes are really getting me down. i know it’s stupid, but i almost didn’t even want to hang out with anybody at my mom’s birthday party last night because i was sick of everyone seeing my fucked up lids. so i was sitting on the toilet in the downstairs bathroom, trying to figure out how to get over my vanity, march my little butt upstairs, and chill with family, when i decided to read a poem. my bathroom doesn’t have any books of poetry in it, so i pulled out my phone and loaded up this poetry app created by the Poetry Foundation. even if a little cheesy, the app is actually pretty awesome. you spin two dials–the top controls moods/emotions (doubt, insecurity, frustration, etc.) and the bottom controls topics (love, youth, work and play, etc.)–and the app then lists every poem that falls under that particular combination (worry & family, passion & love, blame & love, etc.) there’s also an option to just shake the phone, which randomly spins the dials.

even though my styes might not having anything to do with it, i attribute them and any other health problems i get to a little thing called AGING. (truth be told, my asthma made me more of a sickling back in the day than i’ve ever been since.) no matter. i was fucking FRUSTRATED and sick of dying, so i slid the dials to “frustration & aging” and started scrolling through the 42 poems offered to me, until i saw one called “The Solipsist,” written by Troy Jollimore.:

Don’t be misled:
that sea-song you hear
when the shell’s at your ear?
It’s all in your head.

That primordial tide—
the slurp and salt-slosh
of the brain’s briny wash—
is on the inside.

Truth be told, the whole place,
everything that the eye
can take in, to the sky
and beyond into space,

lives inside of your skull.
When you set your sad head
down on Procrustes’ bed,
you lay down the whole

universe. You recline
on the pillow: the cosmos
grows dim. The soft ghost
in the squishy machine,

which the world is, retires.
Someday it will expire.
Then all will go silent
and dark. For the moment,

however, the black-
ness is just temporary.
The planet you carry
will shortly swing back

from the far nether regions.
And life will continue—
but only within you.
Which raises a question

that comes up again and again,
as to why
God would make ear and eye
to face outward, not in?

there’s no cure for social anxiety quite like solipsism. and Blue Moon. and Maker’s Mark. and Flor de Caña. and Newcastle. and Jacuzzi. and Moon Safari.

so the party was fun. but when i first walked up, no music was playing! ridiculous. i wasn’t going to do anything about it (paranoid that i push my music on everyone too much) until my dad asked me, “is there any way we can get music up here?” within a couple minutes i had hooked up Danny’s ipod speaker setup and started playing Moon Safari, while i staked out my spot for the night right there on the floor next to the speakers with a delicious Blue Moon. moon moon moon moon. i ended up djing the night away, playing all the classics: Air, Beatles, Blondie, Creedence Clearwater Revival, DJ Shadow, Fela Kuti, Lupe Fiasco, M.I.A., Michael Jackson, Pink Floyd, Wild Cherry, 2Pac, with a deluge of disco as the night’s diadem.

yum. ate a ton of delicious spaghetti, a couple pieces of chicken (that i didn’t feel like squeezing this time), chocolate ice cream, and strawberry/banana cake. i’m really not that big a fan of cake unless it has fruit in it. thus: pie > cake. usually.

i ended up getting pretty drunk, which makes a good deal of sense considering how many different kinds of liquor i mixed (beer, rum, tequila, whiskey, and wine). once everyone had left (and as i sipped on my second-to-last drink of the night), i tried my hand at a game of sc2 and got my ass beat. i played Terran (as usual) and attempted a new strategy: build a base army of marines, marauders, and medivacs, while focusing on the real goal: hella fucking banshees and vikings. well, of course, this guy brought over an epic army of Zerg forces before i could even get my second banshee. and my “base army” of mmm got obliterated in a few seconds. fuck. when the game first started, i typed “fuck man i’m hella drunk so bare with me,” and all this guy replied was “ok.” what the fuck? not even one “ha”? what a dick. he was probably so pleased with his fucking easy win. douche.

not wanting to make my already-horrible-record any more horrible, i logged off battle.net and ducked downstairs to my room. smoked a little bowl, swallowed three pills, rubbed my eyes with ointment, and got in bed with Emily Dickinson. it’s nice to know that, even on the most lonesome nights, she’ll always get in bed with you. read 50 poems, but i too stoned and tired for anything but lying down, i put on my headphones and let Arthur Russell sweep me away to unconscious bliss.

Continue reading

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