i've never know anyone who died and regretted it.
her pussy was candy paint red. it's called opening up.
my weight isn't a problem anymore. i fit into my shit,
and i can still wedge a space in any couch if need be.
hear me down a gulf stream of coors. turn up the ac.
this isn't a big idea. it's a small one that won't die.
i'm trying to find the quiet space in hardcore,
and i'm getting laid all the time, beer or no beer.
if there is any constant in life, then that's it.
everything will happen regardless of yourself.
and a hundred generations of sad motherfuckers
to analyze it over and over and over and over,
til there ain't shit where it was, and our kids are just that.
4.6.08
2.6.08
writhe above
society thinks they're cool
but they can't shop for themselves
smash your skull
i call that a fucking jump cut
my name is joe
and you're friends with me now
i don't have a hair cut
it's all fucking mange to me
but they can't shop for themselves
smash your skull
i call that a fucking jump cut
my name is joe
and you're friends with me now
i don't have a hair cut
it's all fucking mange to me
1.6.08
deep shit vol 8
i got that super if you int'-indo, gets my fair share
more powder, dough -- nuts than the bimbo bear
we wrench with the humidity like some smog in the air
got the planet hot like a rock, got the scene by its pair
a new pair on the feet on the deck, candy paint shoes
a new snare on the beat on the deck, workin the 1, 2's
you washed up, we washed down like cheap booze
they call us marines because we straight cut crews
they call us marine because we leave a smoke ocean
excuse me, bartista, while i whip up some purple potion
let the tape ride on til a nigga speaks in slow motion
swap sides, man, we ash so much we need lotion.
more powder, dough -- nuts than the bimbo bear
we wrench with the humidity like some smog in the air
got the planet hot like a rock, got the scene by its pair
a new pair on the feet on the deck, candy paint shoes
a new snare on the beat on the deck, workin the 1, 2's
you washed up, we washed down like cheap booze
they call us marines because we straight cut crews
they call us marine because we leave a smoke ocean
excuse me, bartista, while i whip up some purple potion
let the tape ride on til a nigga speaks in slow motion
swap sides, man, we ash so much we need lotion.
3.1.08
dream 001
i was in my house and i was really tired and i went to the cvs to steal robotussin but suddenly all these dudes swarmed in on me from all sides (it was like an employee tornado) and i was like shit no robo i guess and they showed me this screen they had set up that showed where every customer was at every second in the store. i was a blue dot.
i left there and ended up in some strip mall where a kid that i've only seen once in my life before was getting his hair cut. we exchanged glances and then he pulled me in and kissed me and i knew that my life was headed in some bright new direction.
later i met this guy because my car was fucked up on the road and he took me further down the road where we picked up his wife who was insanely hot and i guess i had a hard-on this whole time but i wanted to fuck his wife so bad the guy had no hair on his head i can't remember what his wife looked like except tits galore they started talking to each other about work and then about how beautiful i was and then they said they were gonna take me back to their farmhouse in the country and i guess i was cool with that and then the wife asked what the husband was thinking and he said he would hit me in the skull with a hammer and eat me and for some reason this didn't register that bad so i said with total redundance are you going to kill me and they said yeah and all i could say was will i at least get to have sex with you guys first and the wife looked back and smiled and said 'of course'.
they took me into a stable in their farm and everything was thoroughly paneled and they both let me sit in there while they stripped outside and then the wife walked in through a door in front of me and the husband through some rear entrance i guess and i motioned for her to start sucking my cock and she did and i couldn't think of what to tell the husband to do because he was ugly so i just said my ass and he tried to eat it but he was too pushy and i was just like stop go away and he didn't so i was like fuck it and just started giving his wife the oil drill and normally i'd feel bad for fucking a girl's throat like this but i was like you get to kill me this is the least i should be able to do to you and i guess the feeling was mutual because she took it.
it was about this point that i started to realize that i was possibly in a dream. i wasn't sure, though, and began to wish it was one because i could imagine that hammer and i just blurted out 'can i please at least choose the way i die' and she mumbled yeah through my load.
post-dream conclusion: stop smoking pot forever.
i left there and ended up in some strip mall where a kid that i've only seen once in my life before was getting his hair cut. we exchanged glances and then he pulled me in and kissed me and i knew that my life was headed in some bright new direction.
later i met this guy because my car was fucked up on the road and he took me further down the road where we picked up his wife who was insanely hot and i guess i had a hard-on this whole time but i wanted to fuck his wife so bad the guy had no hair on his head i can't remember what his wife looked like except tits galore they started talking to each other about work and then about how beautiful i was and then they said they were gonna take me back to their farmhouse in the country and i guess i was cool with that and then the wife asked what the husband was thinking and he said he would hit me in the skull with a hammer and eat me and for some reason this didn't register that bad so i said with total redundance are you going to kill me and they said yeah and all i could say was will i at least get to have sex with you guys first and the wife looked back and smiled and said 'of course'.
they took me into a stable in their farm and everything was thoroughly paneled and they both let me sit in there while they stripped outside and then the wife walked in through a door in front of me and the husband through some rear entrance i guess and i motioned for her to start sucking my cock and she did and i couldn't think of what to tell the husband to do because he was ugly so i just said my ass and he tried to eat it but he was too pushy and i was just like stop go away and he didn't so i was like fuck it and just started giving his wife the oil drill and normally i'd feel bad for fucking a girl's throat like this but i was like you get to kill me this is the least i should be able to do to you and i guess the feeling was mutual because she took it.
it was about this point that i started to realize that i was possibly in a dream. i wasn't sure, though, and began to wish it was one because i could imagine that hammer and i just blurted out 'can i please at least choose the way i die' and she mumbled yeah through my load.
post-dream conclusion: stop smoking pot forever.
2.1.08
typographer
When he was sixteen, he designed Select Sans for Rolling Stone.
Consider his career launched.
He held the podium for twenty-five minutes at TypeCon. He put out designer t-shirts that had multiple levels of meaning. He tried his hand at electro and fell short.
In the 711 near his new house, he fell in love for the first time. A shirtless black kid was watching taquitos roll endlessly behind stained plastic. The kid's friend told him to come on. The kid shifted and examined the scene closer. It was something so new to him, not because he'd never seen it before, but because he'd seen it so many times. The taquitos were faced. Everything was to a certain extent. Acid gave his world character.
He wanted to touch the kid's back, seamless and thin. But the kid wasn't like that, and I don't mean that in the way you think I mean it. I just mean he was from a different universe.
Sans serif meant nothing to his friends outside the industry. It was redundant to his friends inside the industry. You don't make a lifestyle out of your job. You don't become sharpened, you snort what you can afford. Your weight is approaching your pants size, not black.
This all stopped mattering when he grew up.
Consider his career launched.
He held the podium for twenty-five minutes at TypeCon. He put out designer t-shirts that had multiple levels of meaning. He tried his hand at electro and fell short.
In the 711 near his new house, he fell in love for the first time. A shirtless black kid was watching taquitos roll endlessly behind stained plastic. The kid's friend told him to come on. The kid shifted and examined the scene closer. It was something so new to him, not because he'd never seen it before, but because he'd seen it so many times. The taquitos were faced. Everything was to a certain extent. Acid gave his world character.
He wanted to touch the kid's back, seamless and thin. But the kid wasn't like that, and I don't mean that in the way you think I mean it. I just mean he was from a different universe.
Sans serif meant nothing to his friends outside the industry. It was redundant to his friends inside the industry. You don't make a lifestyle out of your job. You don't become sharpened, you snort what you can afford. Your weight is approaching your pants size, not black.
This all stopped mattering when he grew up.
1.1.08
skater
He wants cat girls. Impractical.
It’s not even Halloween. But, well, everything’s just an excuse for minimal clothing. Or excess, like, of everything.
But cat girls. Hell yeah.
There’s no such thing as a girl who can keep up with him, so why not just use up a million, cozy, girls and pretend they’re one? I mean they’re all superheated and congeal into one superhot girl, at least in his head. She isn’t that thin. She’s totally magic, glitter paws, tiara.
Yeah. A cat girl.
He found a shirt on the internet.
Premium. Gold foil, brown, premium.
He doesn’t know how much 60 euros is.
Skate war.
Their tall tees are like sails. They sync to totally raw beats.
Outside feels good, though. A small star heats them up. They holster the breeze between their legs.
When he jumps, it’s grace. His bangs rivet, his arms spread so far. His feet leave the board. He could have hover boots. A flash flood of dreaminess.
This, to girls, is why he can tuck so much bread away. They’re totally robbed, obsessed. His two front teeth brush his bottom lip.
Where are his parents?
They climb into his bed. He’s shirtless, lips tucked into a bong.
Their shirts: volleyball team sweater, a piece of fruit saying something ironic, Hello Kitty pawing at nothing, and a cracked plate. He breathes on their cheeks, and they fog up like windows.
His room is a golden rectangle. His sheets smell like a boy who doesn’t take enough showers. They tug on his hair. He lays back and is undressed.
There’s no sound except a small rustling, and a fan which doesn’t cool anything but makes a very convincing fan-like noise.
He jumps on his bed while smoking a grape Phillie.
He is naked, sans socks, been up all night drinking. God peers into his window via moonlight. God gives him a dream that’s a signal. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t care. He punches a hole in the wall. He dances by himself and cuts his wrist barely. He kicks a TV in and chews the calluses off of his fingers. He throws water on the ceiling of his shower and pretends he’s in a cave. He throws his head into the tile. His blood enters the grout. He throws his cellphone and doesn’t care where it lands. He wants to buy a gun. He wants hire a writer to say the things he’s too sloshed to organize. He points his finger at himself in the mirror. He intimidates himself. He disgusts himself.
He screams and rolls over.
He has a stenographic consciousness.
He sits down with a strange cat, calls it a name and throws money at it.
This is a vacation.
He’s out by the park, Newport in a familiar niche, friends.
They watch Mexican boys practice a dance routine. It’s decidedly lame. The song would be half-alright if it was in English. It’s about respect. He can’t tell.
They skate back and forth across the pavilion. They puff trees until the blue sky is a pale rotoscope of the blue sky. Christmas trees, they say, laughing. It’s so fucking summer.
He tries to do something complicated with his feet in the air. It’s all wrong.
He has an idea for a party. They mull it over. They can’t decide on any specifics, sans cat girls.
People look at him,want to know why he smokes and looks at everything that resembles a wall like it deserves to be stripped and punctured. He can't say, but it's so obvious.
One-hundred million kids are waking up each day to realize that true love didn't spawn them. He flips a trashcan on its back.
Don't try to relate.
It’s not even Halloween. But, well, everything’s just an excuse for minimal clothing. Or excess, like, of everything.
But cat girls. Hell yeah.
There’s no such thing as a girl who can keep up with him, so why not just use up a million, cozy, girls and pretend they’re one? I mean they’re all superheated and congeal into one superhot girl, at least in his head. She isn’t that thin. She’s totally magic, glitter paws, tiara.
Yeah. A cat girl.
He found a shirt on the internet.
Premium. Gold foil, brown, premium.
He doesn’t know how much 60 euros is.
Skate war.
Their tall tees are like sails. They sync to totally raw beats.
Outside feels good, though. A small star heats them up. They holster the breeze between their legs.
When he jumps, it’s grace. His bangs rivet, his arms spread so far. His feet leave the board. He could have hover boots. A flash flood of dreaminess.
This, to girls, is why he can tuck so much bread away. They’re totally robbed, obsessed. His two front teeth brush his bottom lip.
Where are his parents?
They climb into his bed. He’s shirtless, lips tucked into a bong.
Their shirts: volleyball team sweater, a piece of fruit saying something ironic, Hello Kitty pawing at nothing, and a cracked plate. He breathes on their cheeks, and they fog up like windows.
His room is a golden rectangle. His sheets smell like a boy who doesn’t take enough showers. They tug on his hair. He lays back and is undressed.
There’s no sound except a small rustling, and a fan which doesn’t cool anything but makes a very convincing fan-like noise.
He jumps on his bed while smoking a grape Phillie.
He is naked, sans socks, been up all night drinking. God peers into his window via moonlight. God gives him a dream that’s a signal. He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t care. He punches a hole in the wall. He dances by himself and cuts his wrist barely. He kicks a TV in and chews the calluses off of his fingers. He throws water on the ceiling of his shower and pretends he’s in a cave. He throws his head into the tile. His blood enters the grout. He throws his cellphone and doesn’t care where it lands. He wants to buy a gun. He wants hire a writer to say the things he’s too sloshed to organize. He points his finger at himself in the mirror. He intimidates himself. He disgusts himself.
He screams and rolls over.
He has a stenographic consciousness.
He sits down with a strange cat, calls it a name and throws money at it.
This is a vacation.
He’s out by the park, Newport in a familiar niche, friends.
They watch Mexican boys practice a dance routine. It’s decidedly lame. The song would be half-alright if it was in English. It’s about respect. He can’t tell.
They skate back and forth across the pavilion. They puff trees until the blue sky is a pale rotoscope of the blue sky. Christmas trees, they say, laughing. It’s so fucking summer.
He tries to do something complicated with his feet in the air. It’s all wrong.
He has an idea for a party. They mull it over. They can’t decide on any specifics, sans cat girls.
People look at him,want to know why he smokes and looks at everything that resembles a wall like it deserves to be stripped and punctured. He can't say, but it's so obvious.
One-hundred million kids are waking up each day to realize that true love didn't spawn them. He flips a trashcan on its back.
Don't try to relate.
author
Nothing he said was cool. I mean, that's nothing new, but it's important now, looking back.
He lived in a family that lived to arrange things. If they could have forced a cat to move where and when they wanted it to, they would have bought a cat.
He spent most of the day wishing he could make other people's dreams come true by making his dreams come true. His first poem was about sex. The next one thousand ones would be about mirrors. That's not true, but that's how it felt.
He can't remember what his first book was about. At least not right now. He can't remember how he got here, except that his best friend had to push him up the wheelchair access ramp at school like a boulder. That's not true, either, but that's how it felt.
Sixteen the night before made him walk funny. Now he's in a stall, snooting the remainder.
Somewhere in all of this his consciousness caves like bedding. His friends all become a light or nothing. They move away slowly. He wakes up with the same principal who used to talk shit about his hair holding his hand. She's soft. His mom is crying, crying. He wakes up again with a charcoal moustache.
There's a tiny moment where he realizes that this is his life. He has been moving in and out of hospitals for three weeks, sitting in traffic, punching himself in the leg, breaking his glasses on purpose. Something comes up in him. It's not cinematic or whatever, there's no lights, swelling orchestra, retrospective overdub.
There's just me, a room and a big feeling.
He comes out the other side with the same girlfriend, sleepy. No more ceremonies. He just meets up nightly via a greasy fragment of her weave, pinned lopsided to his small head.
Just me, us and the remainder, lit up like the rim of a galaxy.
He lived in a family that lived to arrange things. If they could have forced a cat to move where and when they wanted it to, they would have bought a cat.
He spent most of the day wishing he could make other people's dreams come true by making his dreams come true. His first poem was about sex. The next one thousand ones would be about mirrors. That's not true, but that's how it felt.
He can't remember what his first book was about. At least not right now. He can't remember how he got here, except that his best friend had to push him up the wheelchair access ramp at school like a boulder. That's not true, either, but that's how it felt.
Sixteen the night before made him walk funny. Now he's in a stall, snooting the remainder.
Somewhere in all of this his consciousness caves like bedding. His friends all become a light or nothing. They move away slowly. He wakes up with the same principal who used to talk shit about his hair holding his hand. She's soft. His mom is crying, crying. He wakes up again with a charcoal moustache.
There's a tiny moment where he realizes that this is his life. He has been moving in and out of hospitals for three weeks, sitting in traffic, punching himself in the leg, breaking his glasses on purpose. Something comes up in him. It's not cinematic or whatever, there's no lights, swelling orchestra, retrospective overdub.
There's just me, a room and a big feeling.
He comes out the other side with the same girlfriend, sleepy. No more ceremonies. He just meets up nightly via a greasy fragment of her weave, pinned lopsided to his small head.
Just me, us and the remainder, lit up like the rim of a galaxy.
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