Tag Archives: strangers

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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Paris · Farningham · London · Amsterdam

~ 0 ~
horrible traffic
in n out
4-hour delay
“this is the worst airline ever”
chili’s out of salad and Mexican food
geographically challenged hostess
know your rights!
sleep? dreamy purple pinkish tint thereof
a moment in Oslo
Paris
nightmare on rue chaptal
Moulin Rouge

~ 1 ~
walk to espresso
Tour Eiffel
walk along the Seine
lunch in the Latin Quarter?
Notre Dame
espresso for the Louvre
kill in the garden
fancy ass French food
Arc de Triomphe
legs falling off
white wine and Lucky Strike

~ 2 ~
Père Lachaise
Indian at Chapelle
Musée d’Orsay
USA WINS 0-1
fancy ass fucking ave (dck sp + chkn brst)
farewell to the Seine
1-2-3!!! something something Algérie!!!

~ 3 ~
omelette complet at the Gare du Nord
Eurostar to Ebbsfleet
tea (twice) on the Tabsfield green
tomato basil, cheesy mushroom quiche, fresh strawberry creme brûlée, and a couple pints with the wedding party and co.
the cottage

~ 4 ~
fresh fruit, meat, a poached egg, and coffee
dressing for the wedding
Frost on the green
wedding at St Peter and St Paul’s Church
half Indian feast and dance (the Brits, the delicious Indian food, the champagne beer red and white wine, the light rain, and heavy dancing)
afterparty at the cottage

~ 5 ~
breakfast redux (hungover version)
football w Maya on the green
to London
appetizing Indian leftovers
The Tower
wandering in the rain
St. Paul’s
old fucking white egg-headed, perfectly circular black spectacle-wearing, pound-grubbing pieces of shit ushers guarding against pilgrims at the footsteps to the house of god
covent garden
pho
lazying and familying

~ 6 ~
waking up sans Natalie in a nasty mood
bacon on a roll
cold shower
Tate Modern
Eat.
The Globe
Parliament
Westminster
Evensong
Upminster then Whitechapel
ALG v GER

~ 7 ~
waking up w Natalie, happily
full English breakfast in Whitechapel
Natural History Museum
Kensington Gardens
fancy ass Indian food
£5 to the girl from Canada Macedonia CA
USA v BLG :(

~ 8 ~
scratched iris
mushroom omelette
nap to
Stonehenge
and nap from
Nando’s w David and Evelyn

~ 9 ~
to Amsterdam
grocery shopping
white wine
Concertgebouw
a spliff at Rookie’s
shoarma on the corner

~ 10 ~
homemade breakfast
double espresso
spliff on the diagonal green
Rijksmuseum
shopping, snacks in bed
Little Thai Prince
red light district
overpriced and pre-rolled
stoned wander home
ice cream

~ 11 ~
bacon breakfast
Blue Bird
Myrabelle, bartended by a more muscular and more feminine version of John Dwyer.
gluten-free crackers, goat cheese, smoked salmon, olives dripping in oil and basil, water, and wine
second Thai dinner
Vondelpark
Amstels all night at the cafe
NED v CRC

~ 12 ~
nightmare
check out
fresh fruit pancake across from Anne Frank
spliff on the green
Van Gogh Museum
rest in Vondelpark
walk
coffee
bus
plane
tube

~ 13 ~
tube
train
plane
Oslo
plane
Oakland
home? Continue reading

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i confess to be the deputy of love

“ah! so you’re sticking with the old sword and shield, eh?” the guy said, pointing to my turntables.

“no, you fuckface. if computers are AK-47s, in your idiotic analogy, then turntables are merely the primitive form… perhaps muskets. the sword and shield would be my bass and amp back home. thankfully, music isn’t war, so having the most powerful, most technologically advanced equipment does not necessarily make you the winner. so go get another fucking drink and leave me the fuck alone.”

of course i didn’t say any of that. i am, however, cleaning out notes on my phone. like this one, written only eight hours into the eleventh day of the ninth month:

bronze lioness on my bart
long, dark, wavy bleached hair
self-loving eyes
dark olive skin, soft lips
delicate diamond collar
perky black cotton hug
tight grey heaven waist
sheer black tights
does she even touch the ground?

you’ve probably wondered whether that stranger on the train is snapping a photo of you, but have you ever wondered whether that stranger on the train is writing lines about you? he is.

you probably consider yourself an amazing lover. one night while i was djing her bar downtown, Courtney the bartender asked me, “do you think you’re an amazing lover?” and i said, “yeah, doesn’t everybody?” to which she replied, “exactly!” as she proceeded to verify by asking every other man and woman in the bar. who could ever judge their sexual performances negatively? after all, it’s always the best time, isn’t it? and that’s at least half YOUR doing, isn’t it? well done, ladies and gentleman.

on the twelfth day of the seventh month, however, after completing one such grand sexual performance, i gazed upon my woman’s face and had an epiphany: not only am i a great lover, but i’m also a savvy hair stylist. but i looked away from her beautiful face because, as i had realized just nine days prior, if you stare at something too long, it’s hard to see. Continue reading

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who was he?

walking uphill from the gay district, classic disco sounds caressing my inner ear, my mind meanders.

pyramids. the shape and spirituality of pyramids attracts me. the way you can see the quiet parts on a record just by looking at its grooves. “why are you wearing girls’ sunglasses?” “that’s a very good question.” Alison, my best Internet friend and one of my favorite people, strolls across my synapses, making me wonder why the blood flows through my body the way it does. why does it flow to make me angry when, why does it flow to make me horny when

i look up into the eyes of a beautiful young woman, gone in a flash.

without turning around, i realize that she had been walking w her boyfriend. arms interlocked, they walked down the hill on their way to a date or dinner or whatever it is lovers do these days, but it was certain: there were two of them.

why did my eyes instantly, instinctively race to hers for that split second when we crossed paths? deaf to all but disco, i had not heard heels. eyes to the ground, i had no warning. i simply saw an approaching blur and, reacting, lifted my eyes to the face that pleases me as much as the heavenly sky and the departing ocean: the female’s face.

i hadn’t been disappointed, and yet i wondered, “who was he?” Continue reading

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Burning Man

in which the )'( burns. Continue reading

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visions at Fillmore

the old grey wizard, wispy braid swinging, stroking the long, tall, parallel golden bars marking the entrance to the music venue. unwavering in his focus, he dabs in polish and wipes with care.

the small blonde boy in school uniform hugging his small white dog while ducking behind garbage bins and bus stops, hiding from nobody knows whom.

the curly-haired rainbow hippie in light beige moccasins weaving an early dream for some faraway man perhaps even she has never seen. Continue reading

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flâneur

in which the Tunnel decides to sell Dorothy. Continue reading

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freaky Facebook fun

Continue reading

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hey, i just met you

two weeks. strange clubs. strange streets. Valencia. Phoenix. sausages. Irish sausages rolling along and $1 vinyl. basslines all day long, twisty spine through my life from now on. dada, duh, even when it sucks. it doesn’t always suck. what if we trick the masses? what if we make them believe? two weeks. strange clubs. strange streets. old friends that were never even friends. Greek food, Johnnie Walker, self-induced nostalgic indulgence. shitty bands? fuck a shitty band. give them their money and hand me my bass. basslines all day long, straight spine through my life from now on. a luau. aluau. a limbo. akimbo. African-influenced Oakland rhythms with a side of bacon burger and near-consciousness. strange streets. strange clubs. two weeks. Continue reading

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notes from the second and third book of The Sun Also Rises

BOOK II [Bill Gorton] was very cheerful and said the States were wonderful. New York was wonderful. […] He wrote that Vienna was wonderful. Then a card from Budapest: “Jake, Budapest is wonderful.” […] “Well,” I said, “I hear you … Continue reading

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