May 2008



These are men of the jungle. They know nothing of us, the crucifixion of Jesus, the penguins in the Galapagos, the melting ice caps, the impending collapse of the US dollar, the nationalism sweeping across Europe, the Naaxalites of India, they nothing about any of this. They are pointing bows at a low flying propeller airplane, because they want to shoot down the airplane and eat it. They are heathen men, deeply connected to the snarled roots of the thick trees that stand so close together that the canopy blocks out the rain and the light – creating an ecosystem like that of a cave, a shallow cave; but a cave. They are cave men! But they live in the jungle and have ritualistic sacrifices, and treat their illnesses with broad bitter leaves. They have painted their bodies red, not with blood, they make this body paint because they are fierce hunters, and the red makes them that, in the eyes of the women the men who are painted in red are virile things; oozing semen, ready at any moment to impregnate them.


Bespoke Cashmere hearts these carnal souls, these men of men and their holy connection to an earth only they know. There is honesty in there existence; there is meaning in their subsistence. They have accurately avoided the pervasive alienation that closely accommodates our branded life that has no choice but to commoditize everything. “We are sick things,” we proclaim over a plate of strawberries and litchi’s and a delicate cup of rose hibiscus tea; and then we proclaim it again, knowing that there is nothing more to the statement, and glad that there is no discrepancy between our speech and our acts. Sick and conflicted, dreaming of the peppermint patty Murceilago, thinking how sick it would be to push through main street in Sag Harbor before letting it loose on those macabre twisting roads back to the bay; but also nauseated at the redevelopment of Mecca. Such a holy place, where we could see the footprints enclosed in glass, or the magical black rock that came from earth, where Gabriel and Mohammad broke bread, in this place – Mecca, they are building malls and thirty-five star hotels, and nothing about that sits well. How could the most sacred of the monotheistic pilgrimages – (traveling south on the Nile heading to Thebes for the Egyptians would have been a good pilgrimage, or following the Ganges up into the Himalayas, to watch the ice melt and see where Ram was born is another one, but the Egyptians and the Hindu’s, they have too many gods for our taste.) – the most sacred and holy of a pilgrimages, turned, in effect into a Islamic Disneyland.


We hope to make our Haj before the Carlyle group and Blackstone and all the rest begin to finance the false idols of capitalism and money in Mecca, but the tailor is taking too long with our dish-dash, and even then, problems abound.


These men of the jungle, they are also facing capitalism, as it slows eats away at the holy forrest, leaving tree stumps and wicked water stewing about. But they under the cover of nature, it is inhospitable, and though inroads will be made, and soon these hero’s will figure out a bow isn’t going to hurt Caterpillar bulldozers, that Dunkin Donuts make these coconut blueberry donuts that are really good, and everything else about an existence that has become homogenized in the understanding of development. But they have time, still some time, and there are some island where their primordial brothers still eat their meat raw, but only under the full moon; there are still some of those, and the world is okay, because Mecca will be commoditized, but there are other places — holy places filled with holy men who eat fruit and wear loin clothes, and when everything is too much, we will find these men and honor their gods together. 



We need to testify


When the sun stops being so big and white and it

gets a little cooler, that sun shines on my balcony.

The French doors are open and Janis Joplin is on the

radio, or Nina Simone; but that doesn’t make a difference.

It is only Tuesday, but there are a bunch of girls on

the balcony with plumes and plumes of smoke. There

is a meeting, a lawyer who needs talking to, the phone

should have been answered but we have just sliced

frozen mangoes and they are juicing

all over every thing – there is only juice and sweat –

the song shifts and the next one is on, and the girls

dance real real slow and a tickling breeze moves the

palms of the garden below.


Teeth scrape against

the frozen white pit of the mangoes who share the

color of that sun. and when we have sucked the rinds

clean, and have not stopped sweating, the ice cream

wallah comes.


We sit on the railing, with legs jangling against the marble

watching the garden, with not much to say only smiling with

a face filled with ice cream and the certainty that tonight there

is a party that won’t be better than this.

We need to Testify, that this it, this everything,

and it is good to be somewhere confused with home.


New Delhi May 29th 2008


7th Grade – books are amazing!


9th Grade – we see guys like Holden, Boarding school kids are loosers anyway.


11th Grade – don’t give a shit


14th Grade – That whole protaganist as a victim of middle class angst being treated as a serious literature is played out. Holden was doing his own thing, but really – how many books about overcoming Bulimia are clogging the stalls now? All because of the success of Catcher In The Rye, all because of it. All those phonies! All because of some lame brain book, creating the cliché is all well and fine, but at a certain point the cliché out weighs the original, man that book is a dud. Filled with phonies, written by some old pedophile phony himself – that flit.


18th grade – peace be upon you brethren, you need to get that monkey off your back before it eats all your bananas. Each breath is a blessing, and worrying about phonie all day is no way to live. Do you.


20th grade – not concerned.


22nd grade –J.D. Salinger, that ol’ bugger, he can write a sentence alright. But still – all that mega angst is pretty boring.



Not That Lonely Yet

Day & Night


I started giving the three witches at the next table again. That is, the blonde one. The other two strictly from hunger. I didn’t do it crudely, though. I just gave all three of them this very col glance and all. What they did, though, the three of them, when I did it, they started giggling like morons. They probably thought I was too young to be giving anybody the once-over. That annoyed the hell out of me – you’d’ve though I wanted to marry them or something. I should’ve given them the freeze after they did that, but the trouble was, I really felt like dancing. I’m very fond of dancing, sometimes, and that was one of the times. So all of a sudden, I sort of leaned over and said, ‘would any of you girls care to dance?’ I didn’t ask crudely or anything. Very suave, in fact. But god damn it, they thought that was a panic, too. they started giggling some more. I am not kidding, they were three real morons …


But it was worth it. The blonde was some dancer. She was one of the best dancers I ever danced with. I’m not kidding, some kind of these very stupid girls can really knock you out on the dance floor.

 — Haulden Caufield, Pg. 63




When the world is going through it, and the end is near; our seeds are safe. One hundred million seeds have been deposited on a island in between Norway and the North Pole; they are safe there.

Zaha Hadid and her performing arts center that is being built in Abu Dhabi


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