"room night

i held the cruelty-free soap to my arm
and moved my arm in various directions
a kind of meat-eating liberal
was making me move my body
that was the day i argued against publicly-owned companies
on my blog; the shower felt nice
so i did not leave the shower
something beautiful was moving me
away from my philosophy; in my room at night
i blogged about the preconceptive nature
of right and wrong
a kind of self-righteous argument
something about the cruelty of abstractions
capitalism felt harmless and fun
really, it was just a kind of game
that made people into various abstractions
a kind of harmless movement
of bodies; laying on my bed
a kind of emptiness
moved through my politics
it was cruel
to leave the homeless man
‘there’s no such thing,’ i mumbled
‘as good or bad’; something about being
in the center of my philosophy
i walked through someone’s vision
and it was a vegan walking through someone’s vision
something about the way i felt kind of abstract
the impermanent nature of things
was making a terribly beautiful emotion
in the center of my being
i was going to feel it as a kind of emptiness; really
the political gesture was neither good nor bad; ‘see
when you break a heart nothing really breaks,’ he screamed
to music, ‘it’s just a figure of speech’
an indefensible waste of water
the day i unofficially changed the name of my job
to ‘fuck craigslist’ politics moved through my brain
in various directions
and made me choose the cruelty-free soap
i moved my body to the kitchen
to get something to eat; alone at night
a kind of abstract longing
the uncompromised expression of emotion
through words and music made me feel better
because it was not really changed by abstractions
or publicly-owned companies
something about the kind of vegans
who feel terribly empty and alone
at night, with peanut butter
i listened to beautiful music
created by depressed vegans
i tightly held my sesame bagel
‘the peanut butter is not a metaphor,’ i mumbled
something about how the emotion was felt alone
‘my life is empty without blogging,’ i emailed someone
‘terribly empty’; the existence of beautiful music
was kind of depressing
because of the unidirectional nature of time; i got a job
the day a terrible emptiness moved permanently into my blog
i stole the organic lip balm
by putting my cell phone and the organic lip balm in my pocket
a kind of emptiness existed in the center of my bagel; really
it was just the hole that’s in the middle
of all bagels; ‘i need to go read my blog
to find out what my politics are’
the cruelty-imbued pork chop
was a terribly expressive pig
i held the sesame bagel to my face
because i was going to eat it
the homeless man’s politics
were telling the homeless man
not to exist; melodrama
had infused the evening
in the kitchen i felt sad
the indefensible nature
of existing alone; a terrible longing
not to exist; the abstract nature of sadness
the existence of movement, and a kind of harmless fun
‘this organic peanut butter tastes like carrots changing into brains’
really, that was the kind of terrible night
it was; a kind of eighty-cent sesame bagel
my cell phone shook
with a kind of existential terror
really, someone was just text messaging me
i decided to take a very long shower
‘someone find out exactly who loses money
if i steal from whole foods,’ i blogged
an indefensible cruelty towards animals
a vision of being kind
and alone; i longed to be permanent
the corporation existed as various abstractions
a terrible self-righteousness moved through the emptiness
in the center of my being; really, it was just what happens
when you kind of try to do things; kind of happens
a vision of brains
a sort of harmless world
something about the various emotion in the center of my being
really compromised"
room night from cognitive-behavioral therapy by Tao Lin
When the American poet Kenneth Goldsmith came over to talk to my students in 2001, I took a shine to his shoes (Camper 16937-004 EUR44 USA 16937MPM Black 44 XX CAT.35). I then found a pair in Paris and then another pair in Leeds and finally the fashionable clogs arrived in York. In total, I have worn what came to be known in our house as ’Kenny’s shoes’ for the last nine years. Once when I stayed with Kenny, Cheryl and Finnegan in New York, sleeping on Cheryl’s studio floor, Kenny walked through the room and said: “Hey, aren’t those my shoes?” and I just nonchalently replied, “No, those are mine.”  Recently, I came across this short piece of text in my Samuel Beckett biography: ”When Beckett and Joyce were alone together, however, mutual silences were often one of their principal methods of communication - silences, as Beckett put it, ‘directed towards each other’. Joyce usually sat in the attitude familiar from photographs, legs crossed, the toe of the crossed-over foot pointing downwards in its tight, patent leather shoe, or twined round the calf of the other leg. Beckett adopted a similar posture, the faithfulness and humility of the imitation being emphasized by the fact that he had also begun to wear similar footwear even though such natty shoes did not suit his feet and he suffered accordingly.” Apparently, it is not uncommon to wear the same shoes as your literary heroes.
Simon Morris, Shoes (2011)
i emerged as a dolphin instead