I long to lay at home
Away from the speed of modern woe
The rush hour
The happy hour
Life where the hours
Have all the power
I long to lay at home
Where the hours like a metronome
Click one after the other
Then after the other
And I can feel each minute
In my bones
The greatest joy of life at home
Q. Thank you for being here.
A. You bet.
Q. You once said, ‘Art is that which shows a statistical anomaly in our reality.’ What did you mean by that?
A. Well, I believe it was Shakespeare who said… and please, I’m not… comparing myself to William Shakespeare, I mean, I’m not… as widely published as he was, or rather published for that matter, but I just feel in my bones that we were just very similar individuals and if he were alive today, I’m almost certain he would be the first person to agree with me.
A. Thank you.
Q. Ok. You didn’t actually answer the question. Or even give the quote from Shakespeare you began to introduce…
A. Yes but 99% of the time, you know what solves the problem?
A. Restarting your computer.
Q. I asked you a question about something earlier you had printed about the nature of art?
A. And I stand by that statement.
Q. Yes, but what did you mean when you said it?!
A. I actually… yes. I actually do not recall ever having said that. I… drink… a lot.
Anger or disaster. I look up too much to James Franco. I choose to write horizontal. Fuck vertical. Fuck American principles. Try to learn about the world. Experience true art. Like something James Franco would do. But in a less reality-celebrity-kind-of-way. Fuck the reality stars. The engines of the hell-bent bus. That can’t go below 65. Or else we’ll all explode. Light up the sky with star dust to star dust until we all die amen and forever and amen.
Anger or disaster. I look up too much to James Franco. I have a Seth Rogen at home waiting for me. There’s nothing in this called art. Only shapes forming something forming something longer that stretches on end to end longer and endless and horizontal because I meant it when I said it which was goddamn anything vertical to hell.
by her beauty.
to the sounds
of her singing
in her arms.
the universe tells me I’m free.
And I believe it.
Because in truth,
I’m enslaved to it.
The monster left its vomit on the rug
I see its shadow
Dart from room to room
We hear its shrieks
Which keep us up at night
Nothing satiates its appetite
It wants more and more and more
We figured the only way to destroy a monster
Was to find a bigger monster
Which we did
They became friends
Teamed up against us
Destroyed the apartment
Left us hanging
With no possibility of a security deposit