In one month’s work over the summer of 1993 at IRIS, the web grew from one to three megabytes, gained over a thousand links, and acquired the structure and form that you see it in now.
vibing on some relentless negativity. Thinking sucks. Hate thinking. Little kids turn into monsters in the library. Walking home after, I hear more children screaming through the walls of their homes. I’m allowed to listen to Pharoah Sanders. Every once in a while I think about an unverified quotation from Lauren Hill, she’d rather something bad happen than a white person listen to her music. This memory is filtered through 1000 half-smoked pipe-bowls of marijuana. Another memory of Wynton Marsalis saying something like: White people shouldn’t listen to my music. Unverified.
How many apologies do you need? This website is a monthly litany of apologies. When the New York Times puts up its paywall, I’ll put one up, too, something something about apologies. A semi-stranger at the end of a party gave me some parting advice: I wish I remembered what he said. Something like “don’t be so self-deprecating, don’t compromise.” that’s not it at all. He said it well through a smile. I still haven’t read wallace markfield, or joseph mcElroy, or james ellroy, or maile malloy, or norman mailer, or robert mailer anderson, or pepe ramon, or juicey hamilton. Juicey Hamilton’s first novel, The Creator Has a Worthy Plan, is a hysterical romp through the foibles of a fictional college’s Chemistry Department as it struggles through the hiring of a sexually predatory creationist provost. Just kidding. the parting advice I can’t remember could’ve been something like “even if you’re having a difficult day, don’t repeat the phrase ‘I hate myself’ over and over again. It makes things worse. You want things better.” It’s easier to repeat “I hate myself” over and over, though, than it is to Give My Spine a Boner™ and face tha diem. Blockquote. Marsupial Marzipan. Let’s go camping. Licks of love,
P.S. by special request: taco night smells like curry, and awesome. Love is a forest with green truths sprouting through the leaves on the floor. Caterpillars writhe erotic above the canopy. A smile’s necklace is its own winking attire. breathless; Serious and glad to hold a parcel of worded meats. Worded treasures. i love u
“It is impossible to refute a statement made in a poem; poetry is by nature true and affords blanket protection to anything one wishes to say in it.”