selfhood
feeling numb. is that better than feeling sad. i have been purging again. i don't know why. usually it's more of a pragmatic thing than an emotional thing, or maybe i'm too dumb to know the difference. i do it when i'm drunk and i feel painfully full. i am binging per se.
joanna newsom's new album has been an outlet. inspires me to write again, write poetry. the act of writing is like turning the release valve. she said something in an interview like, the album is about what human experience we own apart from the sovereignty of time.
sometimes it feels like not much.
went to patrice and chris's wedding. it was lovely. next day went to a gay xmas house party in queens. whit's ex was there. they are friendly which kind of bothers me. oh well. i'm writing this stuff down why? because sometimes when i read old entries, the brief accounts of past activities are really fascinating and surprising to me. memory is weak.
i've been trying to find jeff (jeff g?), this guy i used to know online when i was like a teenager or college student. he was around my age. he lived in palm beach and then went to new york (nyu?) briefly. he was a great poet, so immensely creative. i cannot find him online. his website was implicate.net/big, and i've tried the Internet Archive and his old webmaster, but no luck.
in honor of him, here's a brilliant poem he wrote (like over 10 years ago, as a kid!).
source: http://web.archive.org/web/20020626130635/http://www.implicate.net/big/hersandhislipshavebeenhere.txt
bs. 2.2-4.02.
my lips are wet and creased from where
iron folds have stayed too long when biting
turned into this song the terrain of chops
became dissheveled and multi-leveled, red russia
communist red with envy your face does tell me
who/what what/who has been here before you
hers here his here your wet dreams in hell
their tracks and germs, bent twigs can you smell
like a hound on a path full of force on a case
on a course saving face just for sport
or for spite
a blood-bath under stars in a town
filled with cars or cream-filling like
clouds
above this little brown town full of buildings
of how/why why/how
each stronger than the last riding memories of the past
mixing 1/2 parts early and 1/2 parts late
creating the story i weave to date
balls dropped
his voice his lower
he desires for heterosexual
love more than ever before
staying gay is a chore
but he just doesn't fit in
cars stopped
women/dog walk
man/chest jog
one girl said it's not fat,
just more meat on my bones
she says she likes her boys meaty
but hard and shapely, like stone
she says that it's fine to be
weighing one-thirty for life
as long as muscle's defined and look sexy
look good and not dirty
cos "something's appauling
about not washing your hair
everyday" she says "i could
never do that, never, no way"
when i was young(er) i thought the key
to opening doors for me was playing hardtoget
but now i realize how ridiculous it all was
i pretend to forget though i really hvaen't
i've actually repressed lover number two
and disney world and phonecalls and
how big are you?'s but no regrets
for the weary for the teary
i grew up 2/3 of the way
in a car in a hotel room
(i will never speak anymore of that day)
joanna newsom's new album has been an outlet. inspires me to write again, write poetry. the act of writing is like turning the release valve. she said something in an interview like, the album is about what human experience we own apart from the sovereignty of time.
sometimes it feels like not much.
went to patrice and chris's wedding. it was lovely. next day went to a gay xmas house party in queens. whit's ex was there. they are friendly which kind of bothers me. oh well. i'm writing this stuff down why? because sometimes when i read old entries, the brief accounts of past activities are really fascinating and surprising to me. memory is weak.
i've been trying to find jeff (jeff g?), this guy i used to know online when i was like a teenager or college student. he was around my age. he lived in palm beach and then went to new york (nyu?) briefly. he was a great poet, so immensely creative. i cannot find him online. his website was implicate.net/big, and i've tried the Internet Archive and his old webmaster, but no luck.
in honor of him, here's a brilliant poem he wrote (like over 10 years ago, as a kid!).
source: http://web.archive.org/web/20020626130635/http://www.implicate.net/big/hersandhislipshavebeenhere.txt
bs. 2.2-4.02.
my lips are wet and creased from where
iron folds have stayed too long when biting
turned into this song the terrain of chops
became dissheveled and multi-leveled, red russia
communist red with envy your face does tell me
who/what what/who has been here before you
hers here his here your wet dreams in hell
their tracks and germs, bent twigs can you smell
like a hound on a path full of force on a case
on a course saving face just for sport
or for spite
a blood-bath under stars in a town
filled with cars or cream-filling like
clouds
above this little brown town full of buildings
of how/why why/how
each stronger than the last riding memories of the past
mixing 1/2 parts early and 1/2 parts late
creating the story i weave to date
balls dropped
his voice his lower
he desires for heterosexual
love more than ever before
staying gay is a chore
but he just doesn't fit in
cars stopped
women/dog walk
man/chest jog
one girl said it's not fat,
just more meat on my bones
she says she likes her boys meaty
but hard and shapely, like stone
she says that it's fine to be
weighing one-thirty for life
as long as muscle's defined and look sexy
look good and not dirty
cos "something's appauling
about not washing your hair
everyday" she says "i could
never do that, never, no way"
when i was young(er) i thought the key
to opening doors for me was playing hardtoget
but now i realize how ridiculous it all was
i pretend to forget though i really hvaen't
i've actually repressed lover number two
and disney world and phonecalls and
how big are you?'s but no regrets
for the weary for the teary
i grew up 2/3 of the way
in a car in a hotel room
(i will never speak anymore of that day)