27Chicago, United States
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What I’m doing with my life
In the world of this is all just for kicks
I had a dream that the crook of a wet rose stem tin can crushed against a tree in long tunnels--It gave way to a universe of harmonium ; masking the sun , congratulations you have stolen the prize , entirely new landscapes infinite notes playing all possible melodies at once--it forms an arc--start the engines the sways of the tide his coattails flapping in the breeze now I am the king of the stars

- ◘ ~ . ~~ . ~~ . ~ ◘ -
I’m really good at
The first things people usually notice about me
My opalescent plumage and Rococo tics.
Favorite books, movies, shows, music, and food
"The fact that there is nothing but a spiritual world deprives us of hope and gives us certainty."

--Franz Kafka, The Blue Octavio Notebooks

"'Small Variation'

Thursday 8 pm. On the table:
Matches, cigarettes, tobacco, knife, and lamp.
My tools.
You already know my song from five or six things.
You already know my song from five or six things.
My little song.
As it sizzles on the stove, as it bubbles in quietude
The song of the interlude,
Which happens only once in history.

Matches, cigarettes, tobacco, knife, and lamp.
And dust on all of them.
The silent horse gallops and carries it on hoof.
Dust of the barren flat.
Dust of the barren flat.
For the last time unsettled, is lost into history.

Thursday 8 pm. On the table:
Newspapers, cigarettes, tobacco, knife, and lamp.
Newspapers: /Papandreu/, /Pierlot/.
Furniture: Divan, ornamented credenza.
My little song.
Big drops hit the badly boarded window with a splat.
We'll get wet inside the flat!
We'll get wet inside the flat!
And even shabbier boards
will be left for the coffin."

--Ivan Blatný

"Leaf back in your diaries. Wasn't there always a time around spring when the burgeoning year had a reproachful effect on you? There was a desire in all of you for happiness and yet, when you stepped out into spacious freedom there was something displeasing in the air and your steps were unsure as if you were on a ship. The garden was beginning but you (that was it) you dragged winter in as well as the year that had gone; for you it was at best a continuation. While you were waiting for your soul to take part, you suddenly felt the weight of your limbs; and something like the possibility of becoming ill entered your open anticipation. You put it down to your dress being too thin; you drew your shawl round your shoulders; you ran down the allee to the end, then you stood, your heart pounding, in the wide turning-circle, determined to be at one with it all. But a bird-call sounded, and was alone, and denied you. Ah, should you have been dead?"

--Rainer Maria Rilke, The Notebooks of Malte Laurids Brigge


my ice skates on a wall
luster of stumps washes his lavender horizon
he's got a handsome face of a lousy kid
rooming houses dirty fingers
whistled in the shadow
'Wait for me at the detour.'
river . . . snow . . . someone vague faded in a mirror
filigree of trade winds
cold white as lace circling the pepper trees
the film is finished
memory died when their photos weather worn points of
polluted water under the trees in the mist shadow of
boys by the daybreak in the peony fields cold
lost marbles in the room carnations three ampoules of
morphine little blue-eyed twilight grins between his
legs yellow fingers blue stars erect boys of sleep
have frozen dreams for I am a teenager pass it on
flesh and bones withheld too long yes sir oui oui
craps last map . . . lake . . . a canoe . . . rose tornado in
the harvest brass echo tropical jeers from Panama
City night fences dead fingers you in your own body
around and maybe a boy skin spreads to something
else on Long Island the dogs are quiet."

--William S. Burroughs, Exterminator

‎"There's a certain Slant of light,
Winter Afternoons –-
That oppresses, like the Heft
Of Cathedral Tunes –-

Heavenly Hurt, it gives us –-
We can find no scar,
But internal difference,
Where the Meanings, are –-

None may teach it –- Any –-
'Tis the Seal Despair –-
An imperial affliction
Sent us of the Air –-

When it comes, the Landscape listens –-
Shadows –- hold their breath –-
When it goes, 'tis like the Distance
On the look of Death –-"

--Emily Dickinson

If you like Owen Barfield, you should message me right now. Don't think about it, just do it.

Oh yeah! There's also last.fm if you like metrics.
Six things I could never do without
Salmon roe, salt water, wheat, sugar, flowers, and snow
I spend a lot of time thinking about
The most private thing I’m willing to admit
I went to college at Simon's Rock and graduated with a degree in music theory and composition in 2010. Austin, TX. is my hometown. I spend most of my time reading and writing literature and listening to and writing music or exploring Wikipedia and YouTube. I'm really fanatic about all of those things so if your enthusiasm is like peak high for any of them we are liable to have lots to talk about.

I spend all day, every day thinking about deer vocalizations and goat vocalizations
You should message me if
you know
The two of us