I’m on the High Line completely lateral with billboards. Wild grass and tracks that go nowhere. Some pirate-looking schooners in the distance. I feel like I’m backlit by stadium lights and catch myself talking about the world in abstract, disparaging tones. Why don’t you sit on my face and tell me how you really feel is pretty much verbatim how I feel. True love in place of real death. The false infinity of spacelessness. I headphone all the way home and lose my shit someplace public. Text some bullshit like REALLY GAY SCIENCE and refract life everywhere at once like an image of an image of God.
THE PIN-UP STAKES: Poetry & the Marketing of Poetry
THE PIN-UP STAKES: Case Study on Jon Leon
THE PIN-UP STAKES: Clarifications
SURVIVAL IS THE APOCALYPSE: Britney Spears, Bataille, and the Phantom Zone
