i have an art exercise for you.

first, get a #2 pencil and a piece of paper.
draw a vertical, straight line down the middle of the paper.
now fold the paper on the line.
now draw a large circle in the middle of the paper.
fill in the circle with the pencil.
now wad up the paper and break the pencil.


you now have what is called an incomplete art project.  



Somewhere in the Future

a tiny, precision screw
that you removed from your watch
and then proceeded to drop,
is falling in slow motion,
turning and twisting in the air.

it strikes the hardwood floor,
and then bounces
and then  v a n i s h e s.

it is GONE.

that screw does not adhere to any established thread standard,
and therefore is an irreplaceable part for which its
absence renders your watch completely useless.

you'll look for it under the table
(because that's where you saw it fall)
but it will not be there.
it should be there.
it should be right there under the fucking table.
(because that's where you saw it fall)
and you'll say,
"why is it not there?"
and you'll frantically begin sweeping the perimeter
and you'll examine every dot, scratch or potato chip crumb
or every speck of glitter, twinkle or notch in the floor
and eventually you'll exhaust all of your options and
turn to ridiculous places,
like looking inside the tongue of your shoe or the lip of your sleeve,
or under the stack of mail, in the dog bowl
and under chairs halfway across the room...

but it will not be there.

it will not be anywhere.

that screw simply does not exist anymore.

it was absorbed by the world
and is now deep inside the center of the earth,
melting into hot magma and churning under pressure
waiting to be blown from an island mountain
halfway across the world,
thousands of years from now.

somewhere in the future
is the moment you drop that irreplaceable screw,
hurling towards you like a spear
and there's simply nothing you can do about it,
but live your life as if it isn't going to happen,
while at the same time,
keeping a spare set of screws
to lose.


music that represents the downfall of civilization

sometimes i am reminded of 4'33",
the 3 movement composition by John Cage
where musicians are instructed
to refrain from playing their instruments
during the entire duration of
each movement,
creating nothing but silence.

and then other times
i am reminded of the hip-hop artist Sisqo
and his famous, chart-topping hit from 1999,
"Thong Song" where he reminds us all that,
"She had dumps like a truck truck truck.
Thighs like what what what.
Baby move your butt butt butt
Let me see that thong."

and when i listen
to these two pieces in succession of each other,
in the order as they are written here,
i can't help but pine for the silence of the former
throughout the noise of the latter
which eventually directs me to another song,
the 1933 piece "Gloomy Sunday" by Rezso Seress
also known as
"The Hungarian Suicide Song"
which i am forced to play on a loop
for as long as it takes
to eradicate the The Thong Song
from active memory.






There is a thick well
filled to the brim
with all the words I
when conversation
is required of me. 



and once again, the hills of Southern California
go back to brown
and the dry brush piles up in the corner

this place is arid most of the time
and any vagaries in the weather
feel like a broken promise
or a delusion
like a man with $3 left to his name
ordering a brandy and a steak dinner in a brasserie.
with every bite he is reminded of where he is
and that he can only close his eyes and savor this hour,
his final dinner of intemperance before the bill
unseats his fantasy.

i am like the grass on these hills.

i do not belong

in this desert.