We are living in the nigger of indifference
photoblur orgasmtron snapshot of mind
the radio dream becomes the videopem
lonely nights spent in forgotten gutters
with winos, drug addicts, drifters, hustlers
indifferent hipsters, mad laid off union
workers, the latest installment of hip,
madness, meds, conniving slam bam poets,
pussy's, cunts, chewed fingernails,
boring football, even worse announcers,
cold wind blowing up the hill, I was ahead of
my time not behind it...

discipline...

"It's gonna take a lot of discipline," Zote said as he exhaled smoke from his lungs.
He had a mercurial look in his eye. "It's like riding the eye of the hurricane. As long as you stay focused and keep inside, you will be okay. But if you lose your will and slide into the storm, it's all over."

Tyler recalled those words as he sat down on the street. Zote liked to speak in grand sweeping allegorical terms. Since the two had fallen out over terms how to figh the revolution, he had put his words, image and everything else out of his mind. It was too painful.

But now water had passed under the bridge.

Indeed it had.

As he made the rounds of the street where he used to pick up the packages of zif which was the ruby kite's underground currency, it had become a tourist area. Ronald Raygun's revolution had been most successfu. Zack Smiter had only bought it to new heights. The street was filled with the progeny of wall street bastards gorging themselves on the fat of the land. Gone were the days of conceptual art and punk rock. High rent and trendy boutiques ruled the day.

This development didn't bother him that much. In one way or the other it had always been so. It just took discipline to see it....

rebirth in the time of information...

rebrith in the time of information...here in the late summer founding inspiration to start rebuidling the web server. It comes from somewhere...I don't know where but it comes despite the crowded bars with young girls with mini-skirts who do not care about Fritz Fanon's "Wretched of the Earth"...despirte the cookie cutter suits flpping account executive deals or slick wall street hedge funds..this is the time devoid of ideas...this is the time of indifference, blizted by over saturation..networked death...fronting cool image bombardment of senses...rebirth in the time of the information despite no one will real the blog...I am not important enough, young enough, sexy enough but as mentined before, it feels so good to let the words flow...to let the words go...to let the ideas ring out in the american hollow night past the laptop juniiem, mainlined cellphone junk, hip hopped gangsta beat bullshit....

image on t-shirt

reading about the conceptualists of the 1960's...they were concerned with the supremacy of idea..to them, art was in the idea, what they called the primary information whereas the physical representation was secondary information, only there to introduce the idea...these concepts resonate with me...kosuth wanted to remove the art from physical presentation, very much how css wants to seperate content from presentation...

my mind works along these ways and is part of the inspiration for the many images I produce...people have told me and I do believe they would make great t-shirts...but I am out of the flow...the people I hang with would never put a credit card number in to buy a t-shirt of mind...they will never even read this blog...I believe that it is this indiffrence which has allowed Bush to wage unrestricted his war in iraq...everyone is way to concerned with their image to be truly involved...

I could solve that problem easily with my image on a t-shirt...

radio dream ain't dead

radio dream ain't dead even if the 26 year old cunt fuck him...even if the 30 year olds won't give him a job...I can walk outside right now and smoke a blunt and drink a forty and let the holy spirit invoke my soul I could trip out so much further than any other motherfucker on the planet...

push the clocks back and hour...

well we pushed the clocks back and hour we got all this snow....just spent two and a half hours shovelling listening to the Byrds "Sweetheard of the Rodeo" and the Allman Bros. "Live at the Fillmore East."..it was cool being out in the fresh air, a little stoned listening to such good music...there was a beautiful bounce of light off the white snow and if you looked up there was this sweet baby blue sky...small pleasures in life can go a long way...now it's time to go pick up the jvc so I can tape the sprinkle genies tonite...a group sings about getting laid and pushing the clock back and hour...

all things must pass...

2/24/07 1:50am

pale flourescent light on the metro north train...pink floyd...wish you were here...and the drunk kids running to make the last train out of the city into the forgotten dream of the suburbs...couples coupled off into the couple reality...and me, alone, forgotten, overlooked yet once again but somehow this time around the movie it doesn't seem to matter that much...it's not like that it hasn't happened a million times before and won't happen a million times again...I ask the young kid if he wants to sit down.

“I'm good, “ he replies.

And why wouldn't he be...stoned...drunk...high....with his chick...in the wanderlust of young lust...

they are getting a little loud and I thank the creator for itunes to drown out their useless patter...have a cigar now...fits in with my memory of Mick turning into a gangster in the movie “Performance.”


And the words splash real...it's been a whole long time since I could let the flow go...with the anger, dread and general self loathing that flows through my veins these days...

cheap audiences ab ound but not my mind...the Henry Miller rythyms I used to write to...the romantic quest for self no longer explode in my mind through my fingers on to the word processor....I've been stuck on the first page of my novel for fifteen years...a bad version of the Jack character in The Shining...and the times marches on making me feel smaller and smaller everyday as it fades away...no response back...ignored...so much for Proust, Celine or kerouac for that matter...it's about the holy cock and the young kid love of it but the words still splash real in the forgotten American night and my brother walked through the neighborhood and dojo's was gone a place where he had many a meal now a forgotten memory...we past it and then turned right on to second avenue and I said, “this is where the fillmore east was, right?” and my brother said, “yes, right there where a bank is now.” I hope bought this subject up because I have been reading a bio on Bill Graham and there were bunch of chapters dealing with the Fillmore East and talking about that specific neighborhood...

and now the train makes it stop at 125 street in Harlem....Allman Brothers “Statesboro Blues”...and the memories of coke runs from over ten years ago...I would take the train down to here and then get a cab over to 110 and Amsterdam to pick up the blow...tell the cabbie to wait for me and then back...it worked like a charm...I would be back for the next train north...sometimes doing lines with the cabbie before getting on the train...it was always good for a tremendous rush...it would be great to do a blast now...loaded up as I am with the fabulous macbook and the itunes...you know a little step into the bathroom and wham bam thank you man...but it is not like that anymore...everything is so straight..boring predicable...not really going anywyere...and that's where my anger and dread erupt from there...but the water is under the bridge with no turning back now...the neighborhod has has changed now...

and still the words splash real in the forgotten American night now just for my own self indulgence and no one else...it would take too much work for them to read the shit...why bother?...when you can blast away in a simple click and have video, cell phone mainlined into nervous system....

and the war goes on....and Bush does is moves...let the chattering class chatter because the rest of America, the real America would rather hear the latest news on Anna Nicole Smith...the symbol of the deep surrealism of American life....

and in the deepness of the sychronicity the Brothers from the “Fillmore East” segue into “In Memory of Elizabeth Reed” and it makes me think of Burrie playing it at one of his gigs and I wonder what he thinks about sometimes when he thinks of his parents and his two dead sisters and it makes me think how my own whole persona from those times has been so damaged and warped and maimed the whole dream turned inside on itself in a hideous joke so distorted and deranged to make it seem like was it ever real as the dread and miasma has completely engulfed my consiousness and every waking momennt of thought with no amount of alchohol or drugs or anything can keep it away not even the mindless television deeper into the alienation the detachment the insantiy the paranoid view of humans as blue meanies stinking in their slim and their petty shallow ambitiions but of course me just talking about it shows just how fucked up I am because if I was together why would I even bother to be thinking about such bullshit and so it goes and so it goes but it feels so good to let the words go like i use to so long ago when the romantc dream seemed like such a plausible reality...

The beginning of a new Bridge...

The beginning of a new Bridge....using the other side of this life as the soundtrack...opening credits including listing several web sites I have designed...it's kind of like hitting them over the head with it...as I say to the raja, "we're gonna get so good they're gonna have to like it."...the words splash real as winter rain licks the landscape...in the other room, the sounds of fox teleivsion and the constant patter about anna nicole smith...the deep surrealism of american life...a nation of spectators gorging themselves on the spectacle...I must admit it, I like it too although I wish they would be pay some attention to my project, a laughable thought at this time...but it doesn't really mattter...it feels good to be writing the words after a good workout and a fabulous meatball wedge from dino's in thornwood down by the four corners...and it was fun to be on the stairmaster and looking at the girls tits...something I haven't enjoyed in a long time...my sex drive having been murdered by the cold indifference of working girls and the rag tag cellphone mtv generation...

words in the reader

words in the reader...they show up on time...now if only I had an audience...the whole principle of the blog is to disseminate information but who am I going to disseminate to?...not the grey suits in the million dollar homes back in the 'qua...not tattoo you tube video playing cell phone ipod punked out kids...not the housewives...not anyone...has always been my problem... but so what...it feels so good to write...

c-span, markup, rain...

watching the r.i. gov on cspan speak his rap...a lot of platitudes....thinking about meaningful markup that places the emphasis on semantic meaning of content..outside the rain falls down through thick wooly clouds...alone, here in these thoughts my time for community has passed...

landscape

what does landscape mean in an ever changing world?

what does information mean if it is not part of a circle?

people's brains are innoculated with the mtv virus...all they can see is their shit image in front of their eyes...

he exudes such a cool, I froze...

why does she think her twat is so special?

I almost threw up two years ago at the poetry slams in White PLains...Zork is such a stuck up asshole...

on the commuter train, they are looking for the next big thing...

it feels good to be writing even if no one is reading...

KIll Bill is on...Quentin as always with cool editing technique..

semantic meaning

exploring css...it places an emphasis on semantic meaning...extending the meaning of your content...outside the january light bisects the greeley woods...the jets struggling against the new england patriots...no one is going to read this but it feels good to let the words roll like I used to back in the day...the grim grey suits extinguished my passion for expression...it seems like a businessman will always know more than you and he hides behind his smile with this knowledge...

now middle aged, the cookie cutter girls with thier cookie cutter cell phone and their cookie cuttie ring tones and their cookie cutter design bodies walks by chewing gum not bothering to pay me any mind...I suppose that is how it should be...Baudelaire wrote about it so long ago about the aging poet...

fear, nuerosis and alcholism has sent me over the edge....yoga and swimmiing keep me from completely going over...