Apr. 23, 2012 at 12:41pm
Apr. 13, 2012 at 10:03am
[Flash 10 is required to watch video]
Feb. 14, 2012 at 1:31pm

Lou, it’s true. Love makes you feel ten foot tall. 

Feb. 3, 2012 at 1:05pm with 178 notes
These two strangely have the look of lovers. fotojournalismus: Riot police detain a student during a protest against the government to demand changes in the public state education system in Valparaiso city, about 121 km (75 miles) northwest of Santiago, February 2, 2012. [Credit : Eliseo Fernandez/Reuters]

These two strangely have the look of lovers.

fotojournalismus:

Riot police detain a student during a protest against the government to demand changes in the public state education system in Valparaiso city, about 121 km (75 miles) northwest of Santiago, February 2, 2012.

[Credit : Eliseo Fernandez/Reuters]

Jan. 20, 2012 at 1:55pm

Rest in peace, Etta James.

Jan. 13, 2012 at 3:26pm with 1 note
My alarm clock is set to RADIO.  The first four words I heard yesterday were “urinating on dead bodies.”   I thought about this all day: the phrase, the act, it is that bad, the world talks about it, the world’s on the radio, the world and urine and videos and bodies in videos and words on the radio. I heard, selling like hotcakes.  And, it’s really coming down out there. And it did all evening while I worked. I watched it. Chicago looks like a winter Bruegel from the top floors of the hospital.  A woman pressed her forehead to the back of my hand, her one hand in both of mine and blood really came down from a knot on the crown of her head, from her boyfriend, from their bodies at their worst and the world is, what is it. There was a massacre at My Lai but our army called it Pinkville and it took a year and a half to call My Lai a massacre rather than a good job. See the photographs of what happened and believe they play the dumbshow for a travesty of human decency and evidence an aberration, or, don’t kid yourself, another fact entirely: that our idea of decency is largely travesty itself, a happy puppet’s dance, a child’s fiction. The White House acts now to call this “deplorable, reprehensible, and unacceptable.”  The department of defense says “this is egregious, disgusting behaviour. It’s hideous.” It is. But pointing at a thing and calling it by name is a big step for a baby, not an adequate response to a war crime, and by the time the unacceptable is called as much it’s been accepted. Last night I set my alarm clock, again, and in the time it took to turn the dial to RADIO I heard, a precise snippet, the four words “urinating on the corpses.”  In advertising I think they call that symmetry a donut but that’s not right. Donut means sweet and a hole in the middle. Point at it. You can call those dead bodies dead bodies or corpses or failures, say what you want on the radio, they were down and bloodied on the desert ground.  In advertising, in irony or hindsight, we can use the whole of language to point out and at and name just what we want to say we see. Bruegel painted town scenes and the tower of Babel.  Act now and build your bloodless own with words and art as a toddler at its blocks. High enough the world will look only dun and and dark and white.  
My alarm clock is set to RADIO.  The first four words I heard yesterday were “urinating on dead bodies.”   I thought about this all day: the phrase, the act, it is that bad, the world talks about it, the world’s on the radio, the world and urine and videos and bodies in videos and words on the radio. I heard, selling like hotcakes.  And, it’s really coming down out there. And it did all evening while I worked. I watched it. Chicago looks like a winter Bruegel from the top floors of the hospital.  A woman pressed her forehead to the back of my hand, her one hand in both of mine and blood really came down from a knot on the crown of her head, from her boyfriend, from their bodies at their worst and the world is, what is it. There was a massacre at My Lai but our army called it Pinkville and it took a year and a half to call My Lai a massacre rather than a good job. See the photographs of what happened and believe they play the dumbshow for a travesty of human decency and evidence an aberration, or, don’t kid yourself, another fact entirely: that our idea of decency is largely travesty itself, a happy puppet’s dance, a child’s fiction. The White House acts now to call this “deplorable, reprehensible, and unacceptable.”  The department of defense says “this is egregious, disgusting behaviour. It’s hideous.” It is. But pointing at a thing and calling it by name is a big step for a baby, not an adequate response to a war crime, and by the time the unacceptable is called as much it’s been accepted.

Last night I set my alarm clock, again, and in the time it took to turn the dial to RADIO I heard, a precise snippet, the four words “urinating on the corpses.”  In advertising I think they call that symmetry a donut but that’s not right. Donut means sweet and a hole in the middle. Point at it. You can call those dead bodies dead bodies or corpses or failures, say what you want on the radio, they were down and bloodied on the desert ground.  In advertising, in irony or hindsight, we can use the whole of language to point out and at and name just what we want to say we see. Bruegel painted town scenes and the tower of Babel.  Act now and build your bloodless own with words and art as a toddler at its blocks. High enough the world will look only dun and and dark and white.  

Jan. 12, 2012 at 1:43am

If I ever get that chance to travel through time, I’m bound without a second’s thought for the Harlem Square Club, January 12, 1963 to dance to Sam Cooke singing live. I’d kept my New Year’s resolutions down to two, and a secret, but they were as follows: one, to put my hand on my hip, and two, to let my backbone slip. That sounds flippant, but I meant it, the best of life happens in a state of deep play, of high song, in a dance, in the brain of the body that’s dancing. Listen to this album and even two resolutions seem superfluous and I have just one, this: Don’t fight the feeling.

Jan. 9, 2012 at 12:15pm

This song is beautiful!

Jan. 4, 2012 at 12:34pm

I’ve always wanted to toss a drink in someone’s face, some swanky cocktail from a Collins glass during a sexually-charged argument in a dimly lit bar. Last night I got the other and wetter end of the deal, in a unfancy way:  a full twenty ounce styrofoam cup of ice water from a patient at work.  It’s not that bad, a mild affront, a big surprise, and as my older lady coworker pointed out as she helped me clean up, “You’re lucky. That coulda been PISS!” 

Dec. 26, 2011 at 1:18pm
A early resolution of sorts both for writing and for life:

You just go on your nerve. If someone’s chasing you down the street with a knife you just run, you don’t turn around and shout, “Give it up! I was a track star for Mineola Prep.”

That’s for the writing poems part. As for their reception, suppose you’re in love and someone’s mistreating (mal aimé) you, you don’t say, “Hey, you can’t hurt me this way, I care!” you just let all the different bodies fall where they may, and they always do may after a few months. But that’s not why you fell in love in the first place, just to hang onto life, so you have to take your chances and try to avoid being logical. Pain always produces logic, which is very bad for you.

from Personism: A Manifesto, Frank O’Hara