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some new favorites: Jeremy Reed (jesus, how has he been so overlooked), Baudelaire, Artaud, Rimbaud, Bob Dylan, I'm Not There, No Direction Home, Emmylou Harris


Shanghai means on the sea, but it's really not. Thus a lie.
In the summer the city has this quality, extreme humidity. It only takes the walk home to get drenched. Everything bleeds into eachother - the garbage and glitter, mixed together. It hits my nostrils all at once and it all stinks. No line whatsover between what's refuse and what's fake. We all look for things in it, and it makes us all beggars (my opinion of most of this SCENE). Shall I refuse...nahh.


And, to be frank: Why I hate, say, Tabard, "ethnic literature", and similar. I like my own brown skin well enough. These AGENTS politicize it (politics completely synonymous with boredom, trivia, noise, nothing). A most petty sort of no-saying. I'd much rather be exoticized, essentialized. I think it's time to invest in a sari.