wiped 1 social media account to redirect its aim, however screenshots of the former content now has me drowning in digital minutia. 20 pics here. hardly the tip of the iceberg. iceberg lettuce. let us pray to a rolled up metal door that's real. tues- day the sixteenth. drowning in the swimming pool. you're the one to watch us fall. crawling out the ice cream truck. listening to windowlicker. riding in the rain again. party on or stay inside. i can't remember the rest of the poem but i know it ends w/ have your cake & eat it too eat it too eat it too
The other night I found myself gazing out at the skyline of Los Angeles from some park, a line of adderall cut up and resting on the hardcover of a Hob Broun book, recently borrowed from the Benjamin Franklin Branch of the Los Angeles Public Library. I should use the library more, I remember thinking. A resolution? What else could I possibly want? Stay alive; more of the same. Really, what else? That's it. I can do that.
Maybe I can get a dog too. But I musn’t wander too far from what I really wanted to talk about, which, in fact, was freedom, a kind of liberation: writing badly, speaking badly, holding forth about plate tectonics in the middle of a reptiles’ dinner party- it’s so liberating and so richly deserved- offering up myself to the compassion of strangers and then dishing out insults at random, spitting as I talk, passing out indiscriminately, becoming a nightmare for the friends I don’t deserve, milking a cow and pouring the milk over its head, as Nicanor Parra says in a magnificent and mysterious line.”
