i have made a waste of time a house of glory, & in it cool things shall happen as they do in Oregon: by leaching into the groundwater.

my work so far is fruit juice—not enough years barreling through traffic to deliver a whiskey kick as requested.

gut me like a fish and strain out all your lies I’ve swallowed, skim my scales off one by one and decant my spine from its chilled red bottle. chop my head off at the comma, start a fire, make it sing butter and lay me down as a bassline. there I will swim again, in the cackle of a shallow sea,

to seek my ripening at the ventral side of time.

i'm one drink away from sea shanties at the bar

i only like slow metal

the nuclear engineer crouched /

appraising the integrity /

of his five-card fate.

a world where all media is narrative, all communication plot, governments whispering through shell tv shows, no real discourse but mere readings, and re-readings, and re-re-re-re-re...

leave something to be desired.

if we live in a dystopia, where's my cool dystopian shit?

i'm the "o" around which a "d" and "g" orbit.

three comedians / dressed as the joker / told to dance / as sincerely as they can.

i just want to be able to tell my children that when your mother and I were your age, we DID have to walk to school through the ice and snow...because after the Third and Final World War, the country’s transportation infrastructure completely collapsed, and renegade "wilderness schools" started popping up all over the nation.

it's not that there's no escape. it's that there's no "no escape." no certainty, no happiness for Sisyphus. our whole lives, we walk through fog.

different art processes can nest inside of each other, the finished product one one become the basic unit of the next, (writing -> editing, songcraft -> sequencing, etc) indicating that consumption is the final art, so consume beautifully.

only 10% of my brain gets paid for its labor. the rest idly draws and erases dungeons.

my whole life is just a placebo effect.

most video games are just Groundhog Day simulators.

i love people in the way that people love dogs, and i hate dogs in the way that people hate people.

the notion that the past is passed is based on incomplete information, just as the future rises above my desire for it to be solid, like the vodka slowly evaporating from the jell-o shots in the fridge.

Currently:

History & Obstinancy by Alexander Kluge & Oskar Negt

Infinite Resignation by Eugene Thacker

Previously:

Incarnate: The Collected Dead Man Poems by Marvin Bell

Staying With the Trouble: Making Kin in the Cthulucene by Donna Haraway

Blackouts by Justin Torres

Neruda: Selected Poems by Pablo Neruda, ed. by Nathaniel Tarn

The Book of Questions by Pablo Neruda, trans. William O'Daly

Angel Sharpening Its Beak by Michael McGriff

I Do Know Some Things by Richard Siken

Nature Poem by Tommy Pico

Solaris by Stanisław Lem

Travesty Generator by Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

Annihilation by Jeff VanderMeer

Eternal Sentences by Michael McGriff

If on a Winter's Night a Traveler by Italo Calvino

The Spell of the Sensuous by David Abram

Gold by Rumi, trans. Haleh Liza Gafori

Science and Poetry by Mary Midgley

The Creative Act: A Way of Being by Rick Rubin

Little Big Bully by Heid Erdrich

The Book of the Dead Man by Marvin Bell

A User's Guide to Thought and Meaning by Ray Jackendoff

Dialect: A Game About Language and How It Dies by Kathryn Hymes and Hakan Seyalıoğlu

Collected Fictions by Jorge Luis Borges, trans. Andrew Hurley

The Order of Time by Carlo Rovelli

Sir Gawain and the Green Knight trans. Simon Armitage

Alien Phenomenology, or What It's Like to Be a Thing by Ian Bogost

Ishmael by Daniel Quinn

The Essential Rumi by Rumi, trans. Coleman Barks