Impulsive Pandora

Life is a bowl of lemons for your own recreational use.
Costume for Dream of Venus by Salvador Dali, Photo by Horst P. Horst, (1939). 

Costume for Dream of Venus by Salvador Dali, Photo by Horst P. Horst, (1939). 

The Last Night at Ally’s Apartment

Everything I scrawled when I was drunk and emotional, just as it was:

Ally has a habit of not cleaning up
after herself. It is intriguing.
She falls asleep, careless. You
can infer all frivolities conducted
in a night, an evening of improvised
dinner over wine, by what she
has not erased. All her tracks, there.
She is guiltless. A wine glass half-full
sits idly on the kitchen table, next to an uncapped Nutella jar,
tablespoon still stabbed in… an
open box of Madeleines next to it. 

The dishes are cleaned…and that’s
from my guilt, for she did all the cooking…
but all else remains still, filled with
remnants of the activities and thoughts
concocted when those items and objects
were un-did, their placements rewritten
by the tempest of
tipsy human
intentions and desires;

One of those summer nights
where you feel cursed and blessed
to fall into the some sack — the
same step, the same feeling…
of conducting, stirring, changing
and then…sliding back to where
you came from, that un-capped jar of Nutella with a tablespoon stabbed in, hoping, praying, that this sameness of inescapable chaos in the decipherable atmosphere leads you back to unsolved curiosity. 

Those nights of tangled intentions…to fulfill and perfect virtues we don’t yet recognize as the un-virtuous senses. 

Morals chasing you, the wine glass staying with you…

She never washes the dishes before going to bed and still she sleeps soundly. 

Boxes are strewn everywhere and though it is for a reasonable cause where one uproots themselves utterly and decides to embark upon a new disjointed plateau——

It all seems an improvisation of Ally’s uncharted manipulations and menage-a-troises with the properly placed, un-used pieces of civilized organization. 

It is all chatter about physical metaphors, but it is the best I can do, of an essence I chose not to understand or “interpret/know” better, with a mechanism I have only bravado and no belief in, 
to reach out and grab wisps, 
and carelessly spit them out, 
to preserve the un-didactic nature she has visualized to me. 

(Interrupts with sketch of her cat, “G’now, g’g’g’-now” scrawled next to it. 
And under: “I am five, I draw boob-indents on myself, imagining what it’s like, to grow up.”)

I will miss this apartment in Bay Ridge. Nostalgia grows fervently in me like mold on five-day-old peaches, but this is an object I am trying sincerely not to remember, because the missing-ness would be real. 
I will not think twice, 
of the sights I learned to remember
and constantly discover, and realize
I don’t dream it, but
feel comfort in it…
because there was careless security here, and sound
the tie-dye shirts and
sculpture, the
Walt Whitman left unread on a 
shelf, and all the 
art, of each family
member… careless and
left near a vase chosen 
without much care
with an assortment 
of dried floras. How does
insouciance make 
itself sleep soundly here?

A haven for many
wanting sound sleep without
envisioning “order.”

The crafts-made humping
elephants, somber on a shelf, 
& the formless lovers of Matisse
still in embrace…(me) all guilt 
with a crumpled tissue on
the couch…all messy &
not fighting.

The navy walls. I miss this
place. But I only miss it 
when I am here. When I am here. 
Maybe this is nostalgia? Or perhaps
not, — because I chose to appreciate

But the kitty (“Kics-ya”) meows
& she will meow, at wherever
she will stay alive next. 
Much pot was intended to be smoked
here, but this night came & we were
just the same without it.

Wearing Lipstick, Indoors & Out.

I like my smoke & veils. 

Salvador Dali’s Dream of Venus (1939) - photographed by Murray Korman 

Salvador Dali’s Dream of Venus (1939) - photographed by Murray Korman 



Michael Lombardo, Railing and Foliage, 2014. Oil on canvas, 48 x 36 in.



Michael Lombardo, Railing and Foliage, 2014. Oil on canvas, 48 x 36 in.

(via journalofanobody)

Revision can grind a good impulse to dust.

Billy Collins (via theparisreview)

Some roses by Cy Twombly 

Some roses by Cy Twombly 

I Never Eat Enough Breakfast

The old men in the other rooms stopped having conversations. Feel like a snail sliding out of its shell, becoming a slug, to “move forward.” 

It’s “unfortunately liberating” to realize you’re not cynical anymore. 

The most un-svelte thing ever is to be sentimental, realizing you have to say something without a Bloody Mary in your hand. 

It always feels too late, but that’s relieving. It’s when you realize you’re not dying yet…

Lovers sketches by Ernst Ludwig Kirchner 

Let Me Stay a Sentient Being….

Intellectualization, for me, is simply finding an external, “realistic”, representation (a “where”), for what your values always were. 

Deep down, once the existential crisis passes, … realizing the filthy desire to be optimistic. 

Antoine quickly started the car and Lucile crookedly put her makeup back on. When they pulled up at the restaurant, they saw the Rolls was already there, and they realized in a flash that they could have passed it in Paris, that it could have been behind them as they entered Saint-Cloud, and it could have easily have come up behind them and surprised them in its headlights, like two birds in the night. This hadn’t occurred to them for a second. But there it was now, reigning over the small square, a symbol of power and luxury and of their ties to the others, and the little blue convertible parked next to it seemed ridiculously childish and vulnerable.

That Mad Ache, by Francoise Sagan 

I Ran Out Of Nyquil For Sleep

Don’t dwell on unimportant things like politics and ethics, you’ve got to pick out what pair of shoes to go with that outfit. 

Don’t be too anxious, anxiety is only preserved for death, and that’s an affair we’ll all be present for. Go ahead, pick a hat for it though, if you must.