The official home of FAUXNICK

Tiny spoon shitty coke at the COVID country club wedding whoops the architecture of trauma the inanity of recollection I can smell my own cologne 

Disappearing is conceptually presumptuous no continue to attempt this you haven’t achieved a modicum of honesty yet the shit you forgot is hugging you like a shark jaw 

Your head is still in a sink filled up with water it’s often the case that intrinsic in the solution is annihilation and that’s okay too this dive bar is just a portal 

This world is an illusion a reflection something existing as a conception I’m the day in the night the night in the day I never learned to pray until I discovered recollection! 

What you see in dream is the only real thing a guy who looked like Burt Young bent down on Broadway and picked up ostensibly a dropped coin yesterday 

Two receipts for twenty four eighty four to the penny back to back I was slightly surprised Cambodians with breast milk communicate through bar tabs 

Just to remind you your life is a lie I’m a walking apology suck my dick my granddad lost the lottery the United States government honors the words of pieces of shit 

To prosecute ambiguous cases against respectable men tell the right lie and you might just tell the truth read the income statements of enough shell companies you might find a reason to remain aloof 

Chug a double espresso and pop a shroom before patronizing the Dominican shisha establishment Ray gave Matthew twenty bucks on Broad it made his night I was glad to see it 

I enjoyed the company of BBWs before it trended you have to stay ahead of the curve no pun intended because you can’t discuss with anyone the images that remain ice cold frozen in your mind 

I’m a new beginning with a prewritten suicide note asking God for forgiveness only to be told I’m an inimitable extension of what I can’t compute 

Truthfully I’m nothing if not basically straightforward in nature an old lady wearing a navy blue political tee inebriate-ly confuses me for some shitty son she claims she has 

Being flagged and informed of body hair fetishes for body hair awareness month despite believing in some indivisible Oneness I can’t comprehend rudimentary social cues I’ve heard 

It’s almost as if I emerged from a parallel universe—‘The organism is the first fallacy’ I recite imbibing my own beauty in a full body mirror 

I'm trapped in an infinite illusion and things have never been clearer!—I’ve finally become incomprehensible to myself and I find it swell at a Clarks-Bostonian retail outlet I discovered Hell 

Bartenders at Muldowney’s understandably claim you could’ve been present on a plane on Nine Eleven reprehensible images of youth 

That can only be overridden by fresh regrets a form of hell that I accept partially agreeing with Imams texting Wordles to my mom 

Multinational procurement anal probes fund pre-revenue record labels slightly unstable there’s no statute of limitations on oppressive shame 

Perception is nothing beyond assigning names discriminating in taste between artisanal Mezcals like a complete cunt two genders of cock the one and the many it’s opulent fun

A half cup of white rice and green peas with fresh lemon and cold pressed olive oil failed to absorb my nine mezcals I gave a nice black girl eight bucks walking home she claimed she’d fuck for the twenty but I respectively passed 

Feelings come from gain of function labs gleefully disassembling yourself over a subtle pack of American Spirits are you just a little ridiculous?— 

Indulging in animalistic shit or is it that the intellect is ultimately always bereft—hold up the Caucasian chick looks like Wyclef 

And she’s got a cigarette and a sincere compliment while others present a left hook and an honest guess you should always introduce yourself as a Roulette wheel 

Everything you feel comes from a gain of function laboratory everything’s an excuse for a ceremony or a photo op or a food co-op 

Or an allegory—we genuinely claimed to not recall our names when the shitty parking lot cop called the city cops he’s got a heart of slop I wish him the best in his endeavors 

FAUXNICK - Body Hair Awareness Month

Release Date: 10/10/2024

Waves Frozen in Time

‘We come down from Truckee surfing against that sun / As if off a great wave but in the / Wrong direction certainly the wave is frozen / Or just moving so slowly that no one can know / If you've done it though you know the feeling’  - Robert Ashley, Foreign Experiences

‘There are no points or positions in a rhizome . . . there are only lines . . . when Glenn Gould speeds up the performance of a piece . . . he’s transforming the musical points into lines.’ - Deleuze & Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus

What’s the fulcrum of modernity, the fulcrum of the so-called Western world, the fulcrum of the scientific method, the fulcrum of ostensible rationalism, the fulcrum of sanity as we generally understand it if not this notion that ‘things’ can be broken down?—and not just broken down but disassembled into a more or less infinite regression? 

To us every atom is a little explanation, every subatomic particle is a tiny special meaning for us to gossip about—to us every building block of nature is a dead frog to be dissected by high school sophomores, every single conversation is something to be recalled and divided into little apple pies of intent and cause and effect, to place on our window sills overlooking our white picket fences. Musically, this trend expresses itself, at first, through musical notes—being quote-unquote ‘noted out’—notes functioning as tone-spaces, and then, eventually, the trend graduates to a concept of microtonality, where said tone-spaces regress to infinite spectrums, infinite spectrums that still contain infinite points. 

But listen. I don't want to, you know, like, get into a whole philosophical discussion behind all of this?—other people have explained it better than I could—I don’t even understand it.  But compositionally—there’s an idea that, rather than component parts, we could compose via irreducible waves, waves frozen in time, that, yeah, maybe exhibit some attributes that we can notionally attribute to them, but these attributes, they’re attributes that don’t negate the fact that the waves themselves can’t be disassembled—that they don’t actually contain infinite points. That to disassemble them is to change their essence essentially. They contain no points at all.

The compositions that comprise Body Hair Awareness Month, sure, are tethered to certain principles of measurement—namely that elements are in a more or less fractal relationship with one another, five lines per verse, 34-55 syllables per line, a mode of 377 syllables per minute—they reference concepts like word-enunciation and breath-blowing, but they don’t strictly consist of parts. These are just attributes to irreducible names. This is my understanding of macrotonality—or at least that’s how it came to me. Who am I to argue? I wrote the majority of this introduction while listening to Thou Art Lord’s “Nine Steps to Hell” on repeat.

Watching Larry Kudlow while I tickle her butthole the ways of the world those are the breaks everyday I’m elated to be fertile if not awake 

Let me unrobe as well just so you can successfully kiss my ass I drink tears like ginger-ale after twelve mezcals no disrespect but fuck you I’m a nice guy fuck me I’ll stick a Civic car key into your brother’s eye 

Suicide bomb your fuckin grandma’s assisted living center three hipsters talk getting food truck bullshit at Guatemalan festivals 

Screwing in cymbals Alice Cooper performed with Filter nah I respect that craft shitty fuckin bands relapse to playing the same shit every night it’s actually nice 

Koreans crank you off mid stroke asking if you're Pakistani identities are antsy in fifth grade Anthony never successfully pantsed me 

I enjoy believing what I hear they ID’d bin Laden by his ears my lobes are super distinctive too twenty thirteen I was in three hundred square feet double debt to income with none of it expungeable 

To be honest I wasn't against being run into by a bus or two but RIPTA fucking drives too slow if I’m gonna go ideally I’d like to go 

My hair clippers sounded like helicopters in the wet Rome lavatory Americanos the size of a micropenis agitated me 

My zipper had a mind of its own on New York Avenue I didn’t tip on my second set of Fernets at the tavern oops!—too busy bonding over wanting to cease completely 

Local journalists have become too busy to write more than fifty words on a murder some fuck got shot now I guess he rots?—let them snap a selfie for their IG before confirming

Being made vaguely aware I could have possibly gotten beaten up by anonymous parties at an undisclosed period in time 

The old guy with the white hair in the pink house picked up an Amazon package on his stoop as I walked by a week later he was beat to a pulp 

Deceased in the basement by a guy with a face that looked like a decent looking insect dying is underrated annihilation is essentially reflexive 

I was elated at the baseless allegation every day I pray to remain the politest chucking spears like Leonidas at middle aged men making moronic threats 

My sobriety’s Ben Simmons on the Nets I’m embarrassing myself in public it’s the best rusty trombone phone home nothing’s of interest to me there’s an indivisibility to perceiving a fucking tree 

Even Cheryl eventually threaded more eyebrow than appropriate leaving me practically bare boned in brow despite default caterpillar contours 

Questioning if the light skinned lady guzzling a creamy espresso martini was actually dating the old East Asian man or if he was only making motel donations 

Meanwhile the big bearded bartender with the lower level central tooth gap seems to dap every fucking body but me is it possible he recalls my exposed bracciole and balls from his previous bar—fuck it 

The empty pint of Yuengling looked like it was having a seizure on the cement in the wind on Fricker there’s an architecture to walking drunk alone in the dark sometimes I dabble in gin after dinner 

Analyzing arguably asinine signs in Dallas Cowboy games broadcast on solitary Sunday afternoons I no longer take what’s figurative as anything more than something assumed

Tethered to an uninterrogated subjectivity we bicker about one drop rules and data dumps of public policy fat tails fuck you 

The Bill of Rights is junk email I check my gmail like I'm the fucking algorithm when analyzing such and such within the prism of what the fuck seventy percent of NGOs concluded many males often pay bucks for cunts

Not to get political but a wise man once told me the only good politician is a dead politician decapitated Palestinian children keep playing the victim 

While Millennial US Senators listen to Limp Bizkit with limp wrist kids who enjoy getting fisted until making a modicum of sense is blacklisted 

Voluntarily shoving US government propaganda up my own ass mentioning dollar denominated crude oil trades is considered a touch crass—I caught a shitty sea bass on my Uncle’s boat and tossed it back 

FAUXNICK - On Incongruities & Recollection as Fabrication

Release Date: 09/20/2024

FAUXNICK is a band that was formed basically as an antecedent to first wave American free jazz, taking the concepts of improvisation and chance and moving them into conceptual frameworks that aren't 100% restricted to notions of European harmony.

In fact the crux of these tracks are that the tempo is the mode, and the mode is informed by the Fibonacci sequence and fractal geometry. The mode here being word-enunciation and breath-blowing that stay in the range of (+/- 5% of) 377 syllables per minute, with 5 lines per verse, and each line containing between 34 and 55 syllables. Each beat is set to 89 BPM and was written in the Hijazkiar maqam. The two components maintaining a "fractal" relationship to one another in time.

Whereas Project Blowed ingeniously invented a style of recitation that was akin to the saxophone solo - drawing from the rich history of bebop - these poems are akin to a buzuki or oud taqsim, a modal improvisation with an emphasis on acceleration and indeterminate gradations of pitch.

Credits: Nick Nassafa - solo voice, electronics

Recollection of minutia as fabrication on my way to drink my face off at Needle I bought The Novelist: A Novel at Symposium the cashier was not the nicest I'd encountered—

every center of gravity is the single center that's ever existed there are in fact infinite centers I pondered this sitting silently on a tall roof assisted by my so-called sensory organs—

it’s no longer the case—things have morphed to the extent that people have no actual work to complete which is maybe why the podcast industry is on the rise with such impressive growth rates and they're all sublime— 

the nationalism of the Romiosini was corrupted Romanides should have gone further east to find himself drinking scotch my glass reads ‘girlfriend’ scratch that ‘fiancée’ 

I try to achieve honesty with myself every three days perusing Rubmaps with the royal nonchalance of a British prince when unevenness is evinced that's just a ripple of triplicity. 

Actually Giordano could have succumb to a devilish little trick his own damn self is he burning in flames of folly I’m tossing syllables onto a blockchain with the ex-boo of Sam Bankman-Fried— 

rereading Noah’s nine hundred fifty year five paragraph creeds are they drowning in the flames of an immanent plane that extends into the jurisdiction of the Kingdom of Heaven?— 

troubled souls are telling us ‘Timing is everything’ but they only call at the absolutely most inopportune times you ask yourself if it’s possible you’ve become morally outraged in illogical ways 

just maybe about matters which have jackshit to do with you?—wearing five dollar Foot Locker tees I tossed Dave Yurman rings into the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean or actually it could have been just the box 

but maybe the relevancy is out of stock timing is everything—no waiting is a logical impossibility since Biblical eras people posted up til last call and only received chlamydia. 

Imbibing blended scotch out of measuring cups filled up with ice on a quaint Saturday night The Social bartender although polite deep down definitely held a ruthless vendetta against me 

remembering a comment I made months ago correctly critiquing her slow Corona Light service she’s now superfluously charged me seventeen and a half bucks per glass of Mezcal 

faces contorted frozen in time I chugged the cup of agave helpless but at the same time it seems so antiquated investing in things like depression and elation 

if you can’t annihilate yourself in the midst of Mineral Spring what can you do Rocco’s bar’s girth got extended the cul de sac streams with lovely ducks got a cement redo the tailor’s building is now a gas pump 

the Syrian’s spots gone too I spit on the terrible white truck after doubling back to spit on the white truck in two decades we’ll remain the exact same age the loogie on the windshield was just an illusion of change 

A young Korean female is wearing an ‘I (Heart) BJ’ white tee in the singular tense while waiting at the Broad Street bus stop whatever the idiocy of your youth 

it’s indubitably true that eventually it becomes something soporific and increasingly idiotic as times passes ruthlessly asking attendants for top shelf liquor 

then quickly flickering into states of existential shock at the opulent bills received insects with telepathy hypothetically could control the cosmos we'd have no science to prove it untrue— 

they tried to impolitely poop on my aura probably unaware of their actual bowels I had to head a different direction we used to obsess over revenge

press necks against walls certain substances suggest you could evade the Unseen you might think you see a demon but perhaps it’s just a generous gift? 

Emerging from the condo sun baking a white crackhead is naked pulling up her Juicy Couture sweats in my fucking courtyard I carry a black trash bag glancing at her pasty asscrack 

she stares blankly back as I toss trash into a rat filled navy blue dumpster Staten Island’s shaped like the Peloponnese I enjoy vaginal cavities when they’re wet and they’re greased— 

on shrooms I find I’m often in tune with herbs and plants shit hit when I exited to amble toward Cranston Street dark skies fold origami-esque the tinnitus of June was architectural I guess— 

why would you want to be in control when you could instead be out of control ‘time to come’ isn’t always linear ‘raised from’ isn’t necessarily literal 

we could consider memories recurring concurrently with current events Sunday seems different during the day sitting in utter silence at the bar. 

FAUXNICK - "Only exaggeration can make things clear."

Release Date: 09/06/2024

Topics include: Existing in a parallel universe, vomiting up mint hookahs in parking lots, grotesque binary constructions, nipples emerging on Main Street, Ingo Swann's audiobook autobiography, asking old bags their exact ages, disgust with modern photography, doppelgangers in hell.

Mechanics: Each verse consists of 5 lines; each line has a minimum of 34 syllables; each line has a maximum of 55 syllables; each beat is set to 89 beats per minute; English is generally spoken at a tempo of ~233 syllables per minute; each verse is performed at a tempo of ~377 syllables per minute.

(Fibonacci Sequence: 1, 2, 3, [5], 8, 13, 21, [34], [55], [89], 144, [233], [377], 600, 987 . . .)

Credits: Nick Nassafa - solo voice, electronics

Off Eddy getting politely asked by Matt to leave as impassioned we discussed the political merits of men razor blading their legs at one AM I was on my way out anyway 
Inveterately rhetoric seems something akin to a plaything of nonsense is that basically frowned upon in this era? 

Made members of the mafia replete with YouTube channels you're on the precipice of forty praying to get permanently pushed to pavement by a stray RIPTA bus on Point Street 
Puking up a mint hookah in a Pizza J parking lot people enjoy smoking marijuana because they become less likely to get bounced from bistros and bars grab the damn wet wipes please? 
The true beauty of rhetoric is found in um double shots of vodka and bummed American Spirits from people quoting Big Pun lyrics I don't agree or disagree 

Eating pussy on an immanent plane reading books but in an innocent way I discovered Thomas Bernhard spent some time at an Ali Pasha mosque I wasn't shocked 
Tossing darts at the impotent no one said mercy necessitates some universal innocence consumerism loses vision of an indivisible Oneness 

Marx thought quite highly of discrete units on a roof lit above Broad Street orders of ice coffees in informal Spanish sound like they're emerging from a circus megaphone 
Two dimensions is understudied man's best buddy ages like sped up podcasts my beta fish Larry lived for half a decade above three rocks from a Taco Bell parking lot 
The live band said they had tees in their SUVs as I suddenly realized I may have misunderstood a bar fly's intention is it possible baseless presumptions can also veer from the truth? 

I told Mario ‘You know yo quiero lo siento I don’t know maybe some yo tengo’ his cousin exhibited three and a half of thirty two teeth I’ve detested rationalism since my sweet sixteen. 
A newly minted couple shares a newly lit solemn thin cigarette as I drunkenly question the method of Twenty Three and Me with a Portuguese immigrant I just met 
Who wants to be reintroduced to their own multitudes?—I feel convoluted connections with select architectural structures 

Yet another grotesque binary construction my significant other is a bundle of my securitized interpersonal shortcomings 
The holy legato of spoken language asexually passes through select edifices I puked twice in July once it was a vegan Oreo smoothie once it was living my life as a lie. 

Chord change seventh chords variations among geometric shapes and shit tricep dips decimal points considering you have an undiscovered mental disorder or if perhaps demons exist 
I find the post-COVID inflation of light beers demonic in character a country club wedding's hysterical you'll never see any of these fucks again 
Landscapes change for Lent you look at a patch of grass and it refracts to black understandably some are hesitant to take that as that but how can you fucking edit what's sent to you? 

Plagiarism psychotherapy wanes in cache it's a fact I called a twelve year old gay but he was acting cunty for a bunch of the afternoon 
What you create doesn't necessarily cater to you my Aunt Dena owes me an eighties era Cadillac my dad said it crashed yet I never saw proof of that 

A nipple emerges on Main Street with a brimless hat I have a taint for TSA to taste select members of a West End Planet Fitness seem to visit in NPC intervals my stock phrases escape me 
Tony's titties drooped like tear drop tattoos at a certain juncture I said fuck you the voices in my mind are the real ones is that still a sign of being batshit crazy? 
Ingo Swann's autobiography's audiobook on YouTube aliens at grocery stores I'm at Urban Green perusing overpriced pineapple fractal geometry's a hole in the floor 

Mineral Spring vape shops Parlour improvisation the doorman enjoys maqam music subpar vegetable broth off Power Street zesty with horny GILFs at Mezzo 
He said Oh you live off Woodward in falsetto he actually got whacked off there twice a year discussing donuts with structural engineers with wire rims that find your opinions on picture taking in poor taste 

She admitted if a male wore a fitted cap to just go to quote-unquote CVS that that was an act deserving of examination and you nodded your cranium just slightly erect 
The purple beam under my old stove struck me as black American in essence as I laid face up on the floor for an extended period 
Sitting by myself at the Elmhurst Pub at approximately one AM I was reminded of casino Christmas parties with middle aged floozies who still sought dick 

It's been beyond a half decade since the insect's corpse survived a strong rain in outline form on the laminated map of the Seekonk River 
I said If you can't see yourself as the penis of Jesus then you'll never understand Allah with an authentically minimal amount of irony evident in my tone 

In absolutely no way shape or form do I regret expressing my vicious disgust with modern photography among young mothers who dedicate their Instagrams to infants 
It's essential in my mind that we question the intrinsic value of the frozen image in fact of anything we note to be quote-unquote frozen in time 
Laotian hookah bar on Douglas Avenue abandoned basketball court on Douglas Avenue recalling my own decade old imagined images also on Douglas Avenue 

Have you been by any chance to that new Tapas place off Wickendon ‘suck my penis’ I said I haven't had exceptional sushi since Tokyo closed 
Apparently Parmenides believed a divine being of some sort informed him of a certain indivisible oneness which moved him to write a poem 

On the chest press adjacent a stress test relayed a series of wall panels shifting of their own accord to which reminded myself of being completely sober 
Fucking chalk it up to some intermittent vegan B Twelve deficiency or I'm just losing my mind which historically happens from time to time 
At times it seems like you're often in the process of for lack of a better wording losing your goddamned mind and I find that curious and/or disturbing don't you? 

Often the text retains Byzantine intricacy because of traditions that may not even be our own outside Tripoli two hundred years past September twenty three 
I feel the blood from my veins on my face horrific violence still appears somewhat regularly in dreams time travel isn't mythical it actually happens intermittently 

The gaze of others considering faithful lovers whose sole request was to express how you obviously felt in some remotely comprehensible jumble of spoken words 
Instead you chose to query some old bag on her actual age like it was some sort of novel notion the cubicle blows its own brains out we can't strain out imperfection from memories 
We're little more than big babies who want to reconvene with our Maker there's something fucking immanent here and It's relaying Itself in what can only be called a circuitous fashion 

April five into six two hundred years amiss the middle aged redhead who doubled as the sub-Saharan bag you shamelessly fornicated with? 
Two as one suggest in a quaint manner we wake up yet the words struck us as statements that hardly even needed to be uttered at all 

‘I try to describe what I’m feeling inside’ a guy wears an old tee inside out explains with unearned confidence why he adorns himself is such attire 
Basking in our bourgeois tartuffery we're actually considerably more despicable than anyone in prison for any sentence of committed crime 
In fact glancing at a hobo quaintly napping on a patch of grass behind a Broad Street bus stop I find his life decisions worthy of distinction I'm inspired 

Packs of scattered needles discarded Double Whopper wrappers a dilapidated wheelchair there's wisdom in this unwinding of modern capital concerns 
Are you in love with the well-worn architecture of this place or is it people who perplex you an ironic mustached man gets into what seems to be a relatively new Nissan Rogue 

Even Moses had shit to deal with on South Street nonlocal intervals become rowdy perhaps instead of a parallel universe your fucking genetic history requests a brief word with you 
You've been reminded of things you implicitly understand memory's a fucking scam yet all of this shit can only be expressed in um 
Should we say circuitous fashions the same abstract manner you enjoy indulging in with others which results in people without exception failing to comprehend what the fuck it is you're trying to say 

You own a tendency of expressing things in obscure fashions that invite absence which is perhaps the most accurate way of comprehending this strain of befuddlement 
Yet all of these people are nothing but projections of your own single self wall panels shift it's not B Twelve it's your favorite doppelganger in hell 

It’s your birthday We should inform you of where you actually are you’ve been selected to experience horrific dreams how else can We convey this it’s a clear sign for your birthday 
What We give to you is the simple fact you exist simply two hundred years ago as well as two hundred and two years ago leave the city 
Find a village some shit about cherries you’ll begin again a new name and life but know that the horrors you witnessed will stay with you in dream 

This is why the wall panels move why ironic mustached men ride in Nissan Rogues until you repent!—until you return to Us in the form We intended 
In a place where you don’t exist where you’ve yet to truly discover the meaning of the mirrors We’ve placed in homes and automobiles in this realm 

Where architecture speaks where old bags confirm their ages when asked it may seem paradoxical in concept but it’s entirely sensible leave the syllogisms to the side—We genuinely wish you a happy birthday! 

Nas Safa - 13 Golden Rectangles

Release Date: 07/23/2024

Rather than the more linear narratives of Unique Towels and Spaceship for Sale, 13 Golden Rectangles was written in the shape of the 30th sura of the Qur'an (The Byzantines).

It consists of 60 lines and 3 mystery letters. 

Each verse is enunciated at approximately 377 syllables per minute, while structurally each "orchestration" consists of the verse recited at exactly 233 and 144 syllables per minute simultaneously, the three components referencing the first three "sides" of a golden fractal rectangle.

In a sense this is a choir work. 

You said something deep and no one gave a shit my oil paintings looked like cunt fucked up at the Greek fest who said buying a subsequent bottle of Retsina is ill-advised? 

I'm ninety nine percent Pine Sol this is ritualistic writing erotic poems for Russian whores and signing my name χριστός ανέστη you can drown in a glass of water. 

Philosophy still can't save us people no longer chew wrapped pieces of gum no—the industry has transitioned to free floating mini buckets of gumballs. 

How can I possibly concentrate on nuclear holocausts with all these big bad booty bitches around the mountain has better ears for bullshit I've never been a fan of camping. 

I've always found things somewhat preposterous I suppose two hookahs twist the little knob there you go I apologize for forgetting the meaning of cuando. 

Put some clothes on for Christ sake before you ball your eyes out I never lied about wanting to kill myself if anything the opposite!—mountains have better ears for bullshit. 

Trees—some of them are old as fuck that's why we built cities our fictions play better surrounded by buildings a Burmese python ate a forty four year old woman alive. 

It's just like a snug little sleeping bag who doesn’t like to take a little nap four or five milligrams of melatonin why would you lie about wanting to drive yourself into a tree?

Walking down South Street witnessing a few chubby goth adults nibbling on handfuls of potato chips from disparate fun size bags I had an odd feeling I was entering a parallel universe or something. 

She told me with tears visible on her cheeks that sometimes she wished she'd get hit by a bus I said ‘Sometimes I feel sad too’ Socrates only laid down with an adolescent Alcibiades. 

He never fucked him in his asshole that's why Alcibiades was still in love with him years later you know there are signs in things Socrates never wrote shit down. 

Muhammed was illiterate why the fuck are you enrolling in an MFA program in the coastal United States?—memory is a stain on my being it takes a different form every other day. 

She told me with visible tears streaming down her beautiful face that at times she hoped she'd get hit by a bus to which I retorted ‘Sometimes I feel sad too.’ 

What really happened in that bed with those two these are philosophical questions relativism only emerges after a certain axiom coagulates. 

Thinking about architecture about the necessity of chance on a Nickanee’s patio with a group of people adjacent. 

Adjacent and discussing Chinese food in a manner that strikes you as the talk of pure imbeciles that like if chance is necessary? 

And it has to be necessary otherwise everything would become irreparably fixed but if it’s in fact necessary then it’s also in a sense fixed essentially being a necessity?—puzzling. 

There’s a little triangle tattooed on a pinky finger there’s no individual ecstasy in architecture only during periods of intense collectivism at any given time it’s difficult. 

It’s challenging to quantify the amount of conversing occurring on the planet that’s architecture in a sense guy with a hook nose intensely biting his fingernails as upper middle class whites watch in awe. 

As other upper middle class whites recreate a modal jazz that was cutting edge in nineteen sixty five on Elmwood Avenue you recall images. 

Which informs your decision making in material ways recollected images are animated and in turn falsified solely in your mind. 

Which exists in a location that you can’t quite place at the time as you cross a windy Washington Street bridge a figure of this or that proportion is constructed in your memory. 

What we call your memory currently we’ll call it your memory to move out of the realm of seminal attraction into one of pure representation. 

Lights flicker numerically like CPA firms Neoplatonism was a corrective on the integrity of infinite numbers Sufism a corrective on the rationalism of the concept One.

I feel more in tune with God when I vehemently condemn photography at a bar where no one gives a shit every situation is set in a unique context in what we perceive as time. 

A curiously significant shift seemed to occur in the repetition of the smile addicted to dying a thousand deaths with that said hold the red onion on the gyro I’m fresh out of gumballs.

Sent to remedial English simply because we questioned the nature of signifying pronouns but we never got offended at it sans repetition you can’t get back to sleep sometimes. 

‘If the whole ocean were ink for writing the words of’—sans repetition sometimes I can’t get back to sleep mirrors are now placed regularly in households and automobiles.

I felt a sudden sense of the whole accelerated heart beat thing you know?—an Elvis impersonator playing his guitar with a perspicacity that was just a delight to behold. 

The notion of this oneness as indivisible in essence is only truly comprehended in states of extreme intoxication get drunk by yourself and you may apprehend it. 

The bartender at Figidini’s explained how to order a pizza I considered replying something to the effect of ‘Go fuck yourself’ but instead thanked him for the extremely generous insight! 

Only in states of isolated intoxication isolation that’s only possible in densely populated areas the desert is a misunderstanding of solitude I think. 

It assumes that people exist which is an unproven presumption of our social fabric to some extent so-called population centers of shit piss and semen it’s really just a mirror. 

It’s not technically an offspring not in the way that you’re thinking to overcome this um—seminal state this theoretical amplified seminal state as an overcoming of some implied European self. 

Pepperonis discriminated by Bib at the bar marble counterwork with the homosexual Chinese quaff—managerial—Michelle said to just shoot the double shot correctly. 

Mirrors looped into incoherence another Friday night sat at a bar thinking about oneness typing to yourself that you’re thinking about oneness. 

Tiny Bar wasn’t quite as cunty the second time you went there blonde platinum Nordic telepathy dreams in technicolor doppelgangers of gaze. 

Thinking about God as the precise indivisibility of this Oneness we’re still typing all of this shit down as we’re thinking it—I may not actually comprehend the origin of so-called feelings. 

This notion of being emotionally damaged seems intriguing the shattered self assumes once again let’s not forget this that people actually exist! 

Which we’ve previously deemed somewhat presumptuous you talked to the lady with the look of death in her eyes playing pool in the black skinny jeans her name is Ellen she’s seventy-one years young. 

A sort of nonlinear seminal yearning Madden Ninety Three dream but the opposing team is a multitudinous feminine entity abutting orgasm as the Detroit Lions.

A tale of two Pearl Streets concrete ear plugs in old Earth soil a Third Reich-era Nazi said Sufis don’t get fucked up—should we consider this a reputable source claim?

Siberian Russians speaking broken demotic Greek pale-faced disgusted sitting at the Chili’s bar TV screens every three feet chugged sixteen ounces of Dos Equis Amber muttering something about sucking my penis.

Thought about jumping off the roof at eight fifty eight PM I remain ambivalent about grain carbohydrates pondering the social dynamic between Latin busboys and Trans bartenders. 

But in a totally gender-neutral type of way treat ideas the same way seasoned exotic dancers maneuver impressionable men of all ages molding manifold fictional worlds until it’s extinguished. 

Until we no longer know what’s true and what’s false until veracity and falsity became totally subservient to a sort of nonlinear seminal yearning—until the icon collapses. 

Discrete units repeating themselves you had a dream about a guy named Nate Bonleo from Chicago a peculiar figure from out of town the name has no hits in any search engine. 

Something impalpable in the language something a Hellenized Islamic scholar might attempt to explain velocity ergo legato spatial inquiries into syllabic distances. 

This is a five paragraph essay I wrote an extended gaze into the human form itself can manifest divine revelations Shahidbazi tell the bitch to pull the panties off. 

Those are one dollar bills in your hand dialogue heard in the so-called mind phrases generated in some sort of involuntary process Gabriel—what does voluntary mean exactly? 

The word tartuffery comes to mind we sat on the roof of Pearl Street and drank Soju out of an emptied Ginger Ale bottle and asked ourselves ‘What can a poem express?’ 

‘What exactly can a poem express’ the word tartuffery comes to mind Gabriel in the cave I can relate a musical mode no—the sound of the fucking human voice.

You asked yourself what can a poem express getting drunk by yourself on the roof of Pearl Street drinking Soju out of an emptied Ginger Ale bottle. 

We’re not necessarily in the Thirteenth Century Asia Minor one could argue we’re in Twenty First Century America it seems a lot has changed in eight hundred years. 

Everywhere I look I see fucking morons scrolling through feeds scrolling through bullshit and I’m doing the same shit this is art but it’s also an indivisibility of Oneness. 

Pre-algorithm the feed disseminates this indivisibility an extreme compression of time the word tartuffery comes to mind the utter dissolution of memory. 

GFK tenor the summer months are no time for cum bibs Nubian co-eds speaking foreign melodies thru high vol airpods on the Bridgeport Amtrak the hair product lingered for the next four stops.

Abutting pissy on the HOA call magenta fat faced legal representatives with tight high fades we find follicly inspiring perhaps to my own detriment gradual extinction of the semicolon. 

Meteors don't extinguish species they disappear into a collective unconscious of their own volition I was in a cloud—descend to vertical lip stubble. 

Give her space when she needs it words replacing tones five letters for λογος adroitly fear scriptural allusions you're the mirror in which He sees his names. 

I detest the median lifespan of bananas annihilation has always been the ultimate end-game you write things you arrange words but there can only be the one thing. 

The one thing contains multiplicities but remains fundamentally somehow unaltered as one annihilation is the only end-game and there’s really nothing objectionable about it. 

We love insemination of near-strangers getting our toes painted Nintendo Switch Online getting fucked up three times per week what’s so bad about returning to the one thing.  

Language fundamentally must precede mathematics you think lying in bed repeating four words over and over in the hopes that the memories will cease. 

We must name the number two!—we must imagine two things distinct from one another to begin to construct this name without the name sans the image. 

How would two and two become four!?—it simply wouldn’t is the only conclusion available to us although mathematicians would certainly scoff heartily! 

In the abandoned parking lot on Battey the infinite fails to care about the eventual implosion of our solar system there’s a reason Parmenides wrote poems. 

Michael has one tooth and pays nine hundred eighty five dollars per month to live in a basement in Warwick and enjoys the company of girls with glasses. 

He loves them with glasses and only considers redheads to be true redheads if they’re white redheads which I personally found sensible! 

I found this notion that people of color with red hair aren’t quite authentic redheads in the colloquial sense of the phrase to be the sole logical conclusion one could draw regarding the nature of redheads. 

It’s simply what we can’t conceive it’s our conception of this extension of this one thing that seems so inconceivable people spend their days talking about nuclear families and rainforests. 

The nature of the infinite is in no way similar to simply shaving gyro meat off a giant slow roasting kebab vomiting up the dairy free Ben and Jerry’s cookies and cream smoothie. 

Eating ten dollar per pound salted pepitas over my kitchen sink I considered that distinguishing discrete items in space is a form of doubt in itself. 

Shove a Corona Premier up your butt and do a handstand you could possibly get a following on YouTube a  guy you’d never met alleged that Brett Smiley is a disingenuous cocksucker. 

You took his word as gospel and didn’t think twice about it despite knowing neither this person or any of the intricacies of the municipality’s politics. 

We recalled that Timothy had fairly plump breasts prior to disappearing I personally wish him all the best in absentia.

Spanish girl tossing Reposado into her body like raised ranches sinking into the Earth in the midst of acute Richter scale events a random carousel seemed psilocybin-adjacent. 

‘He could never come to terms with being born into a world that basically repulsed him in every detail from the very beginning.’ 

Around the year two thousand nine the notion that I was an individuated piece of fate became more or less nonsensical to me which caused a certain type of implosion for a period of time. 

Nas Safa - Spaceship for Sale

Release Date: 05/31/2024

In a future world, where esoteric Lunar Caliphates are in unrelenting decline, where i-Spleen technology has become ruthlessly pervasive throughout the inhabitants of the Third Dimension, where long-standing power structures exist in states of general decay and gradual upheaval, a man by the name of Ibrahim Pasha and his intimate business associate, “J_!!1,” are trafficking cocaine as a primary source of income.

Working in close concert with the Guistiannini Syndicate, a semolina-based usurper of what used to be Caliphate terrain, Pasha is supplied outside Pluto, distributes in Manhattan, and generally spends his free time at the clubs on the Moons of Uranus.

Yet on one fateful afternoon, Pasha and J_!!1 are suddenly robbed of both their narcotic supply as well as their spaceship. Ibrahim, well known within the Solar System as a man somewhat prone to tumultuous bouts of caprice, follows his immediate instinct—tracking down the perpetrator and murdering her in cold blood.

What remains unclear, however, is which parties are declaring war on this final descendant of an original Lunar Caliphate—and to what purpose?