FALSE PROPHET

[transcript: Oh God. Hand me the champagne, / I think it’s finally happening. Ladies and gentlemen, / it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for, where / I realize it’s all bullshit: everyone knows / when you say my new year’s resolution is to / work out more you really mean that your sadness / has become a beast too big to wrangle with / your own two hands; when you say there won’t be / any more clothes on my bedroom floor / there’s always the unspoken caveat that / you would be perfectly happy if those / clothes belonged to someone else. Oh God. / Hand me the champagne—no, scratch that, let’s celebrate—hold my hand, dance with me— / because I have found yet another reason to live. / I have found yet another copy of the same / poem to scream about living, living, living, / as if my body is my soapbox, my pulpit, as if to say come one, come all, we made it nowhere / again, cue the Springsteen, ‘cause baby, / we were born to run. Oh God. / Hand me the champagne, I think I’ve lost / my mind. When the clock strikes midnight / I promise I’ll become a new person entirely, / erased and redrawn in new colors. I’ll prove everyone wrong about me, even myself. I’ll lie down and / let the water decide. Oh God. Hand me the champagne, it’s all too much. And I know you can’t stay but / I need someone to kiss me now, right here / on the sidewalk before the sun comes up, / while you’re still beautiful and backlit / in silver. When was the last time you saw / a moon this bright, anyway? It’s almost / enough to make you believe someone’s / up there looking out for us. Almost enough / to make you trust the universe again. And now, / at long last, my bullet-train brain has meandered / along to the point, which is, of course: here’s to / another year of being ordinary, of having coffee / and napping and sitting around each other’s houses / doing nothing. So long and thanks for all the fish— / I trust that this year, if nothing else, / you will keep on walking / towards the light at the end of the hall.]

I’m so embarrassed. I’m not a real person yet.

Mahmoud Darwish, Life To The Last Drop

some art posters I'd put up in my dream home

Jean-Michel Basquiat working on an untitled painting in 1986.

Be Born Again, Dr. Kim

fever dream vibes

[transcript: Oh God. Hand me the champagne, / I think it’s finally happening. Ladies and gentlemen, / it’s the moment we’ve all been waiting for, where / I realize it’s all bullshit: everyone knows / when you say my new year’s resolution is to / work out more you really mean that your sadness / has become a beast too big to wrangle with / your own two hands; when you say there won’t be / any more clothes on my bedroom floor / there’s always the unspoken caveat that / you would be perfectly happy if those / clothes belonged to someone else. Oh God. / Hand me the champagne—no, scratch that, let’s celebrate—hold my hand, dance with me— / because I have found yet another reason to live. / I have found yet another copy of the same / poem to scream about living, living, living, / as if my body is my soapbox, my pulpit, as if to say come one, come all, we made it nowhere / again, cue the Springsteen, ‘cause baby, / we were born to run. Oh God. / Hand me the champagne, I think I’ve lost / my mind. When the clock strikes midnight / I promise I’ll become a new person entirely, / erased and redrawn in new colors. I’ll prove everyone wrong about me, even myself. I’ll lie down and / let the water decide. Oh God. Hand me the champagne, it’s all too much. And I know you can’t stay but / I need someone to kiss me now, right here / on the sidewalk before the sun comes up, / while you’re still beautiful and backlit / in silver. When was the last time you saw / a moon this bright, anyway? It’s almost / enough to make you believe someone’s / up there looking out for us. Almost enough / to make you trust the universe again. And now, / at long last, my bullet-train brain has meandered / along to the point, which is, of course: here’s to / another year of being ordinary, of having coffee / and napping and sitting around each other’s houses / doing nothing. So long and thanks for all the fish— / I trust that this year, if nothing else, / you will keep on walking / towards the light at the end of the hall.]

the siren 🌊