lame lame lame

i met danielle brutto, she was a young painter. her paintings were lame. it was still cool to meet her.

i regulared a bar where my dream state static stood out. i ate heaps of fries and cheese grits. My sloppy, sloppy state quickly warmed the hearts of the owners, who gave me drugs. I hoped they would still be in my pocket when i woke up. I always wish this. I did them in the bathroom and made time speed along to the rhythm of my heart beat. by the time i came out everyone was gone.


i lay in bed and look out the window at the skyline of new york. the beep beep honks are lullabies. I feel emptiness and longing and all that because it's not real. I consider installing some sort of streaming video in my window at home...


i yell at you for getting with my friends. leave my friends alone! i say --- well next time, just leave my friends alone, okay?


We all get massages and Target adds a second floor/embraces the industrial look. They also put their conditioner in those gasstation fridges with the slidey doors. Everything is run off of ipads. you can even make the escalator go faster...with your ipad.

hello grandma, come visit me more often

i dreamt you were at the table, your young self across from your dying-state self, me in between.

Your absence came up in their conversation. To which I said, but can't you see she is right here! You looked at me knowingly. You reminded me that I believe. You reminded me find faith.

What is wrong is they don't already know.