I think maybe the largest contribution I have for the world — the bravest contribution I have — is to accept full mediocrity. Not mediocrity that coyly acts mediocre only for you to tell it that it’s actually genius in disguise or genius obfuscated by humility. Maybe the true thing I can give is full acceptance of having nothing remarkable to offer — and there you go, it feels like martyrdom, but it’s likely not — it’s likely a fact.

I hold a zoom microphone cable

horse stable light fading i gone awol light fading

head facing to the west

wind ripple in my jacket

im a scale reference

hand fiddle at the recorder

watch horizon with a pale breakfast

rigid read hostile but its austere

need a fren i got the dog hear

pulling shapes out he static

mark this moment with a dog ear

strapped im a unit i can

bear grylls the timespace

man and im laughing get so funny man im right here

madeline l’engle i finagle the fabric

And maybe I have a couple of good thoughts but they’ll never coalesce and maybe I have a couple of strong ideas but they’re not strong enough. Or if they are strong enough to experience some semblance of success I’m not stupid enough to trust them — or impassioned enough to believe. I’m too stupid to be smart and too smart to be stupid and that line is some cheesy rip and I can’t even get away with that.

The writing is bad even in its suggestion that it’s bad — this is the doom hole. It’s not that I need a big break, it’s that I need traditional therapy and to want less acceptance from the world — I biked around whistling like a person who was not mentally well — probably because I am not mentally well. And I don’t think I’m comfortable enough or progressively versed enough in the technics of mental health to know that therapy isn’t a way to appear more interesting, it’s just what you’re supposed to do.

black turtleneck

a verbal sweat

i break room make space for the furrow

groundhog double down done breeze into his burrow

its nicer that way

trip back i snap it back

trip back i snap it back

mr murray so repetitive


i put some blue in the shadows to contrast that orange

lace my mouth up with some bombast to grab at that aura of knowlege

his flora so college

his fauna so czar like

little flick a the bic annen i bask innat cigar light

white spaces leave room for the puffer

its a bottled mess a color bumper car’n toeeechother

im the keeper of my brother

and the rest of the village

these houses smoke on landscapes petey piper petty pillage

not the chimney or smokestack we fumigate the memory

put on my best suit to take part in the chicanery

batman im robin just a snake in the garden

just making circles in the color til the paint starts to harden

james harden a figure by which orient thyself

bofdeeznutsdonfeel like they’re supposed to not the image of health

sing the refrain with me would you

I was thinking recently about 50/50 which was a movie I loved when I was younger and of course a white guy wrote a movie where the first time he goes to therapy the therapist literally falls in love with him. Because how could someone get within even a remote orbit of my genius and not fall in love with me — it’s impossible — the interior life is so rich — and it becomes so immediately clear how much he was holding back. It’s not that what I have to say is uninteresting or underdeveloped or underwhelming — it’s that people can’t keep up.

I don’t think anyone can save me. I worry that line looks suicidal. I’m not at all suicidal but right now i want to smash my head against something. Every time I put the phone back down my brain starts looping again, looking down each hallway with an understanding of what’s at the end but an inability to follow it down. I don’t want to end my life but I don’t know how to keep living it per se. i factually find it very hard to wake up and have thoughts every day.

And the problem with a sentiment like that — a negative sentiment like that — this is the same problem the internet has : is it tricks you into thinking that giving it more time and energy is a more noble or worthwhile pursuit than taking the easy way out. It’s better to squeeze the thing that’s driving you crazy and watch it jump and watch it squirm and then watch it teach you the ways of the world in its hyperactivity and it’s discomfort. T

he more crazy the internet makes me, the closer I get to interfacing with the reality of the world. The whole world at once is the world and before they may have had the ability to ignore that, but not anymore. Now it’s everything at once all of the time and if you can’t deal with it you’re weak or not weak enough. I wish I could play disaffected, I wish I could hold onto a thought for more than a quarter of the day.

I wake up terrified and eat the peanut butter toast and it scares me as I eat it. I’m scared to finish and I’m scared as I head up the stairs and I’m scared as I’m typing in the YOU of YouTube on the web browser. I think I’m broken and it’s past the point of fixing, but the break isn’t even worth noting. I’m circling again to make this worthwhile but it won’t be. I’m not sure what else to do, I’m going to put the phone down. It scares me that I write “I’m going to put the phone down” and then I do — it feels like someone’s watching. And if they are, they saw me write that — I’m scaring myself a bit now. I’ll probably have a night terror.

__ the business song__

its a bunch of businessmen, dressed up as a band
thats all that i see when im checking instagram
they’re shaving dying suiting and trying hard for pics
only 30 years ago they’d have owned a motel 6

i see a bunch of businessmen playing bedroom pop
its marketing disguised as lyrics dressed up as hip hop
their faces can’t escape the balding that their fathers gave them
they wear some rings and use black language as a tactic of evasion

you were supposed to manage a restaurant and now you play a synth
you’ve brought that same old vigor to a lower ROI
privately manipulate, publicly a simp
your guitarist just got cancelled, you say he’s a good guy

white people just manage things, they mostly cannot make them
so just chop and sample actual things real people are saying
shoot it on 16 mil as a proxy to nostalgia
and make it worth that 2 grand your dad just pay pal’d yaaaaaaa


Ronald Reagan on the screen of the republic national convention

Just a cave painting sculpt in technicolor

Nancy waves

They like him out there

‘84 it’s Orwellian

On the corner hawking every written word

I chunked out my thoughts and here you can have it

I pile myself in every room in my house saying oh look at me there

I exist if I say so I exist if you know me

Just a shadow on the wall trace the shape you won’t forget it

erect worlds out of nomenclature

I’m writing this shit on the toilet I’m writing this shit on the toilet

I categorize lift label for later

Construct a whole mind state that looks like the PC pipe screen saver

Run the faders get audio

Of me beheading myself

I exfoliate the brain it’s a push for my Health

Rub my temple feel the future coming

I sense it

Seen an omen or two

The church burnt on 2nd and seventh

fire tucked the collar the reverend

but I didn’t read it as such I didn’t read it as such

there’s a bright and airy world lift your head above water

I draw clean lines between the figures

Between the diagrams

the paper keep texture though

I legitimatize only to pull power eventually

Necessary stuck wedding extensively

Tween the way it sound and way it look

my mouth set in a stable crook

I’m just a reaction to the things in front of my self

I stand with my pants tucked quiet on the forefront

Landscape stretches out before me

I have a puff jacket and it blocks the wind

I’m at the edge of the cliff and loving it

You can see so much from up here

Don’t like when I talk

Only like when I listen

Walk back from the party with a dissonance ripping

Tell myself the gap is what the dividends missing

Tell myself the gap

Tell myself the gap

I fill it in too often _He’s a pack dog he likes to work!__


blue papers strewn across the floor — blue to announce themselves, white can’t hold your attention

its an uphill battle to be anything at all, expect it

a bag of apples in the back seat of the volkswagen passat discipline to victory

sin and binge work and win

the muscle tears and grows back stronger - if it doesn’t tear it doesn’t grow

big wins and big losses

there is not a surface in this picture that does not denote wealth

there is not a surface in this picture that has not been elaborately and skillfully worked

wield the image like the zimbabwe dollar lug my wheelbarrow to the gas station

the only way to be is a mess


my boyfriend ira glass my affair with him nice
its meditative and friendly like this american life

when they see me in the club they like he whacky dang
got a voice that you can trust like im lackshmi Singh

Got a gap in my knowledge read a book and it’s filled in
I keep the show running way too long like Regis Philbin

My nickname in high school was dutch oven
I pull up to the track practice like, “coach, ask me to jump something!”

my voice real hoarse like a centaur body
baby boy be your friend dap up Kimo Sabe
I radiate messy nickname Chemo Slobby
Told you only thing I smoke is primo papi
and I see more shawties at the park
than anywhere else
but Im tryna park like anywhere else

i see a revel like download and go
i download and go
drove through a river
now my toyota row

nah its a rav 4

it got a back what the back 4

what the back do

slim in the forest call me jungle jim
its jungle james to you

my mouth sealed shut like a zip loc baggy
i rap w joy like im hip hop happy

im texting on your girl i send her a Memoji
living on a prayer like we jon bon jovi

Real quiet when I’m turned on call me toyota prius
at a small college like loyola jesus

well and I didn’t really look at my face for real until a few years ago. I liked the way I looked when I was younger in that I was interested in being a grown up version of it. But then for a long time I think most of my perception of myself avoided the way my face looked cause it was covered in acne and so it moved towards my silhouette. And I did thrifted sweaters and whatever else. And then summer of 2016 I guess maybe it was, I started to look at my face for the first time for real. And the rest of my body and my skin and think of it as something that somebody else might look at and how did that fit in to what I imagined good men look like.

My face is okay, it never really complies — whenever I catch myself in a mirror or see footage of myself, my expressions are wildly different from what I imagined and sort of look like a confused dog, but it’s interesting and I can’t change it anyway.

And my shoulders I like them enough because they freckle in the summer. But really for the whole top half of my body, I’m obsessed with the way the soldiers look in the ken burns vietnam documentary — all sinew and stringy and like the sun beat handsomeness into them

My hips have all these blister marks from when I used to wear my belt too tight, but I think those are interesting. I like how if you tap the right part of the hip, it’s hollow, like a whale bone maybe. And my whole torso is shifted to the right from my scholiosis so I think that avoids my looking exactly pretty

My leg hair turns blonde in the summer and I don’t like my legs unless it does that

Sometimes it’s nice to imagine myself like a rag doll rolling down a hill and every once in a while I toss something good out of me along the way.

And there are certain days where I can feel my body and how it creaks and bends as I move and those are the good days I think.

Prepare to die mandy pantinkin

My career path swerve

is committing something to memory the only way to love it

i know the work and it’s within me

borremans talks in low res translated

he touches the canvas points figures imitated

hand swimming touch the depths every topic it graze

mariokart mushroom jump the surface jogging in place

the glassblower  -his parents said

leave room for the book on the shelves

he knows about the shelves

tip and split the cranium pour let it filleth the head

i put the cowboy hat back on outside the VW

i was touching things more and the colors were bleeding

mix the plate up like thanksgiving

only know what the one is against the other

winter a tunnel vision challenge

stare into the abyss and remember you can best it

allowing distillations the gift

space in the middle

at the altar of the space in the middle

dont fill it though careful with that

things i make only funny as i character make them

want to steal some clothes make a character take them

its a study on this or a study on that

i fill up my tummy get metaphorically fat

i get narratively fit

take an arc of a shit

it’s a literary device every misstep i hit

his voice all gravel from the tar he sucked in

lungs filter ash riddled cigar in a rust tin

iggy pop all sinew

leftover from when he would tip it back

taxi driver street literally litered with trash

70s movie just impregnated w darkness

build good wrinkles in your face when you wince at the hard shit

how did the house wife survive

does it work to ignore

bony hand wriggle little simple diddy digit chore

type gibber as exercise fuck these little digits for

dont say your ankles broken you might make it it is

soda fault when you shake it it fizz

petrified of my lineage like a plagiarist is

no but for real there was a different way of being

you had to just like roll with the weight

stuck at the EZPASS now paying tolls for the hate

a long line so queue it up

and dewey sucks put an order on the chaos

decimals decimate the approxy of the seance

lick the pole with an epoxy i dont wanna take a day off

beat: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GXHunloEXbM

got my mouth all heavy

full of dip alia shawkat in the pettibon room

some sorta malice tremble in the voice of every male voice i consume

they’re darting and transitory not an ends just a means

an unfortunate creak made by the world as it leans

hanging on desperate - build the stairs from the previous step

rise and run and run and rise sharp breathe in the chest

sternum puncture me i hear the hiss of the cold

it leaks out of me we all just eventually old

it leaks out of me - the way that i am

use the better people weight so you can steady the hand

and bland doesn’t ruin at least

then the power can move

stuck on a rattle round a rim mock a ball in a hoop

got two scoops

now with the bran in the box

when they gonna stop with the scoops

keep the branding so hot

oops im all berries

it’s hard parry

a flurry of blows

the brain smells the toast guess a stroke

and it worries the nose

and im all hurried with prose

the short hand an escape route

funny its spelled just like the word

funny its spelled just like the word

funny its spelled just like the word


I’m thinking now about how yesterday I was watching 12 Angry Men, and they mentioned in the court room that pre-meditated murder was the highest charge that one could testify against in the court. And it’s interesting, though murder through fit of passion was still murder, that an action that was pre-meditated could be implied with so much more malice. And I guess pre-meditated sex has a certain amount of malice, because to conjure an idea into the world is to give it physical space, whether you want to view that spiritually, or by electron — it seems that once you introduce an idea, it becomes much more probable. Maybe I wasn’t introducing these ideas. Maybe they were already there. Maybe it’s the beauty of a certain amount of love at first sight, or maybe it’s Robert Deniro balancing the TV against his foot in Taxi Driver. Pre-meditation is beautiful, it’s disgusting, it’s terrifying. It’s inherently non-consensual. Is manufactured or curated consent still a form of consent? Is suiting a moral possibility?

__i smoke a cigarette outside the wawa__

i paint the studio a dark green
my brush stroke suggestive
say out loud ya know wha mean
this whole rhyme a pyramid scheme

ya know when you seen
ya know when you conquered
came saw saw cain
im able I’m staple like rice and vegetable

im nice slender n able
sturdy truths only ill slap and slander a fable

baby babel mumsword

dusty bible on the dash

only communication exists in deeply coded words

coffee up jot the javascript

see my reflection adjust my posture quick

show me my reflection adjust my posture quick

film myself find the imposter in the flick

i want grandma hands just so preposterously fit

jump jostle i storm the roster
im at home using my noodle stir the paster

starch my jeans like a cowboy

wanna ride on the mule

watch me on the landscape

who the ass who the fool

whistle while i pee at the movie theater restroom

do be do be doo

i smoke a cigarette outside the wa wa
ask that jeeves what that means when they define it as dada
tell me papi tata
say sum seerious
i feel delirious
text back haha
I’m on a trip to the tate modern
plate the meal so it taste modern
it taste clean it taste friendly
my modem light speed
god distracted when he pen me
head a motor like im lemmy

lick the letter real heavy fore i send eet
keep it seal tight shut
my brain feel spiced up
if his pants all nice
how come he look fucked up
keep a terrycloth cabana on a real tight tuck

dennis quaid in the parent trap

i rhyme so good got em thinking
frank o hará back

why i care
bout something
im just so generic at

fruit mealy
look measly
when i pare it back

cant see clearly
up the intake on my carrot snack

keep my house pretty
same as  fara fawcett face
sit comfy
like i just yobbed a passa plate

im bob fossye
waltz the block in my jalopy
get the dogs off me

watch the hand while it move
its a delicate art form
just give it some room

bob fosse waltz the block in my jalopy
all this jazz has me so foggy

im bob fossy
get ur dogs off me

all that jazz has me real foggy