Thursday, May 31, 2012

OH, POEMS

I just wrote in a comment that I could do a whole post just of favorite Stevens lines (but, as Sarang replied, it would be almost too easy). I could also do a post of favorite lines from poems I published in Absent. This poem from Absent 2 cracks me up every time:

Leaves
JOHN COTTER & SHAFER HALL

You will hardly know who I am or what I am but I shall be of good use—
I can lay around on a couch like none of your business, I make a good rug.

Reading great poetry makes me want to get up and do something with myself,
but it never works out, I inevitably spend the entire day rolled up like a taco in the rug.

You are the shredded beef of my heart, the lettuce of my cool desire;
you’re the little bits of tortilla chips that I brazenly sweep under the rug.

And if, my sweet, I grow bow legs one day and lose my lovely hair,
no orthopedic shoes, expensive wigs for me please, just an indoor/outdoor rug.

Keep the washboard and the jug, I’m only writing love poems this October.
The silence will be comical, the kisses will be deep as a bug in the rug.

Listing lies is heavy work, so I’ll just say I’m sorry and hope you’re kind enough
to ignore the lump that is my body in hiding, shaking under the rug.

If you’re quiet long enough, all you hear is birds and traffic,
the peace and goodwill of fenderbenders and birdcalls spreads out like a Persian rug.

A few of my favorite lines of poetry

"Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so." - "Dream Song 14" by John Berryman

"I'm the individual." - "The Individual's Soliloquy" by Nicanor Parra

"And here I am, the center of / all beauty!" - "Autobiographia Literaria" by Frank O'Hara

"I am backward light, which isn't as cool as it sounds." - "The Above Song" by Julia Story

"I won't breathe this unbreathable blue light / I don't trust it; it's not to be trusted" - "Vow with Salt" by John Cotter & Shafer Hall

"The day crawls by like a living document, / the prettier for having forgotten me." - "The Detonator Always Has a Red Button" by Justin Marks

"I think that black into pink is devastating." - "Skin" by Marjorie Welish

"I felt that tiny insane voluptuousness" - "At the Desk" by Theodore Storm

"it was like that, and after that, it was still like that, only / all the time" - "Part of Eve's Discussion" by Marie Howe

"Dude I am not going to steal your acorn" - "Jackhammer Namaskar" by Chris Nealon

"Wide tree, / what are you like?" - "Nearing Summer" by Chris Tonelli

"No one / is as stubborn as me, and my Tartar horse / prefers a north wind." - "After the Chinese" by Tess Gallagher

"I was bad luck, de-flowered, / a version of the wind / blowing through a woman / that a widow is." - "The Return" by Frances McCue

"I eat men like air." - "Lady Lazarus" by Sylvia Plath

"She exists, I swear, I see her everywhere!" - "City of Moths" by Sampson Starkweather 

"But no queen comes / in slipper green." - "Depression before Spring" by Wallace Stevens

"I have wasted my life." - "Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy's Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota" by James Wright

"You must change your life." - "Archaic Torso of Apollo" by Rainer Maria Rilke

Tuesday, May 29, 2012

Extra Medium

There's no accounting for which straight males other straight males think are attractive. Historically, whenever a guy I know tells me a friend of his is really good-looking, I meet them and think, Meh. What's up with that? I have a couple of theories:

  • Men think women are looking for Mr. Normal, so they assign high points to basic stuff like symmetry, a decent build, not being bald, etc. Being slightly above average height, but not too tall, seems to go some way with straight men too.
  • Men don't really think these guys are especially good-looking, but they promote them in order to appear friendly and generous, or out of some vague hope of reciprocity/karma. 
  • Men delude themselves into believing these guys are the most attractive specimens around so they don't have to confront the fact of the really attractive dudes.

Alternatively, maybe I'm the outlier. Maybe everyone thinks these guys are attractive but me?

Anyway. I went to a carnival. It was fun! I have proof:


Me and J. Michael Martinez on The Scrambler. (Photo credit goes to Joshua Ware.)

Sultry & Profound

John and I went on a walk yesterday and had this conversation:
John: What a shrill, insistent bird. It must be a feminist.
Me: I'm pretty sure it's mostly guy birds that sing.
John: Nah, guys aren't shrill. Guys are sultry and profound.
By the way, this is one of my favorite videos:



I love the part where she's crying in the orange jumpsuit.

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Lucida Handwriting is my Comic Sans

By which I mean visual sandpaper. When I see a business using Lucida Handwriting in their signage or on a menu, I instantly loathe them.


Friday, May 18, 2012

Two theories about the brain

Learn Is Discrete, Not Continuous -- I figured this out when I went through my "divorce," at age 25. (We weren't actually married, but we'd lived together for so long it felt like one.) It felt like I'd learned a lot over the previous six years but few of those changes could actually take place until my life was thrown into upheaval, like they were just queued up and waiting, and then I suddenly got six years smarter all at once. I think familiar context, being in your comfort zone, makes it easy not to change. Learning happens when you get thrown out of your routines and are forced to question assumptions. This is on my mind because I just read a revision of a short story that John started a couple of years ago, and the quality of the prose is palpably richer; I think moving across the country allowed him to level up, as it were. 

Talking Makes Us More Emotional -- There's something about speech itself that allows us, or forces us, to appreciate circumstances on an emotional versus an intellectual level. There have been many times that I've known something is "sad," objectively, but felt no emotional connection to it until I tried to talk about it, and then started crying. I remember this happening once in college; I had heard that a childhood friend, someone I wasn't close to anymore, had been in a car accident and her arm was severed off. When I first heard, I was just like, "Wow, how awful." But when I told my mom about it, I got suddenly choked up; I was surprised to learn how much I cared. Talking triggers something. My friend Kevin agrees -- when his wife Katie had her pelvis crushed by a wall a couple of years ago, he maintained composure until he had to start calling family members to tell them she was in the hospital. Leaving that first message is when he finally lost it.

Thursday, May 17, 2012

My best blind buys

A "blind buy" in perfume parlance is an unsniffed purchase, a bottle you buy based on whim or reputation without smelling first. At better stores, naturally, you can always smell the perfume from a tester before buying, but often the best deals are to be had on the Internet or in discount stores like TJ Maxx, where you often have to go on description and instinct alone. Some deals are just too good to resist, though anyone who succumbs to temptation will inevitably wind up with some duds in her closet. Wizened perfume veterans will wisely advise you never to buy unsniffed, but bah. Bah, I say! Some of my favorite perfumes were unsniffed purchases, so no regrets! I've always been able to unload unwanted bottles eventually, often in swaps that were satisfactory to both parties. Here are some of the blind buys I've grown to love:

Moschino Couture! - No one ever talks about this wonderful perfume, so I'm not sure what compelled me to order it, except that I was already ordering Moschino Funny! (yes, the exclamation point is part of both names) and they were both silly cheap, under $20 a bottle IIRC. It's simple but perfect, a sheer fruity oriental if you can imagine such a thing. The fruit note is some red, tart berry whose real-world analog I can never put my finger on; it's not as green and hissy as blackcurrant buds but it's not as sweet as rasp- or strawberry. It kind of reminds me of those awesome three-layer popsicles from Trader Joe's, the raspberry and lemon sections. (The official notes list pomegranate but I can never figure out what pomegranate is supposed to taste like.) The base is a slightly creamy, woody-resinous vanilla, but at summerweight. Couture! -- exclamation point aside -- is a dumb name for this fragrance because it's essentially lighthearted, and "couture" makes me think Serious Glamour. Similar perfumes include Clarins Par Amour, but with less rose and more vanilla, and, even closer, Armani Sensi, but without that weird buttery lime thing up top that feels like you're wearing beurre blanc.

Cuir de Lancome - Quite possibly my favorite perfume of all time. It's very hard to do a leather fragrance that actually smells like leather, while still feeling refined and feminine. This has just enough smoke (via birch tar), without that nasty animalic edge some leathers have that makes you think of meat on the barby. It's the exact olfactory equivalent of that shade of nice luggage or handbags called caramel. Cuir starts off slightly sharp, almost medicinal, even Scotch-like, with saffron and bergamot, then it's smooth, smooth, smooth all the way into the long, mega-delicious styrax drydown. Criminally, this perfume is discontinued. I have one backup bottle; I hope it's enough.

Donna Karan Gold - Possibly my second favorite perfume of all time, this was an early discovery, on close-out at the Marshall's on Boylston, near my old gym. I remember rushing home to open it and spray it on paper, and cracking this huge smile because it was so delicious. DK Gold is a lily perfume, but most lily perfumes (see the recent Baiser Vole from Cartier) are usually almost rubbery in their freshness, meant to evoke the air inside a flower shop or the front of the church on Easter. I love the smell of lilies in a vase, less so interpreted literally into perfume. But Gold takes a very realistic lily accord and places it in front of a backdrop of amber; the warmth almost cooks the lily, so it's like a dessert version of a bunch of flowers. It reminds me of salted caramel, but the lily reigns in the sweetness in such a way that it feels appropriate at any time of day or year. Truly, no other perfume smells anything like this.

Belle en Rykiel - This shit smells SO GOOD. Like Couture! above, it's also seriously underappreciated. I never hear anyone talk about it. How can I describe it? It's definitely in the Angel family of patchouli-inflected gourmands, but it's much more subtle (not that I insist upon subtlety, by any means). The top notes are slightly fruity, but in a kind of concentrated way, like a fruit liqueur, and combined with lavender so again, the effect is a bit medicinal. But that burns off pretty quickly and you're left with this awesome, warm, slightly smoky concoction of heliotrope (almond), patchouli, vanilla, incense/amber/woody stuff that is just one of the most wonderful, addictive smells in the world. I tend to wear this when it's gray and drizzly (in Boston, that was a lot) or when in need of comfort. When I do, I regularly press my arm to my nostrils and inhale deeply, like I'm getting high off a mimeograph. GOOD STUFF.

I've also obtained lots of unsniffed winners via swaps -- trading bottle for bottle with another perfume collector -- but the risk there is somewhat less, since you're trading something you know you don't want, versus money, which is always pretty cool. My best blind swaps include Serge Lutens Cuir Mauresque (I wrote about layering it with Chergui here) and Donna Karan Black Cashmere (maybe the subtlest use of clove in perfume history, but Tabac Aurea is up there too).

If you're not into perfume, the closest equivalent to the "unsniffed" blind buy is probably buying music that you haven't heard. Do you play aesthetic Russian roulette with your paycheck?

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Epiphanies versus profound thoughts

Marjorie Perloff, in a (probably) interesting essay (that I haven't read in full) from the Boston Review, diagnoses the typical "prize-winning, 'well-crafted' poem ... that the New Yorker would see fit to print and that would help its author get one of the 'good jobs' advertised by the Association of Writers & Writing Programs" like so:
Whatever the poet’s ostensible subject ... the poems you will read in American Poetry Review or similar publications will, with rare exceptions, exhibit the following characteristics: 1) irregular lines of free verse, with little or no emphasis on the construction of the line itself or on what the Russian Formalists called “the word as such”; 2) prose syntax with lots of prepositional and parenthetical phrases, laced with graphic imagery or even extravagant metaphor (the sign of “poeticity”); 3) the expression of a profound thought or small epiphany, usually based on a particular memory, designating the lyric speaker as a particularly sensitive person who really feels the pain, whether of our imperialist wars in the Middle East or of late capitalism or of some personal tragedy such as the death of a loved one.
I am generally sympathetic to this critique of sameness in poetry, though one is less subjected to sameness if one chooses to read, say, Action Books titles versus The New Yorker. But certainly, this is the kind of poem that tends to end up in Ploughshares and in collections that win the National Book Award (though simply writing these kinds of poems is not enough; one must also display pedigree).

But I tripped on the part where she says "the expression of a profound thought or small epiphany," seeming to equate the two. To my mind, there's a distinct difference between an epiphany and a profound thought. A poem may need to manufacture an epiphany or pseudo-epiphany to qualify as well-crafted/prize-winning, but it seems to me that the poems in any given issue of The New Yorker are seriously lacking in profound thoughts. In fact I think most poems could benefit from more profound thoughts (AKA good ideas).

So what's the difference between an epiphany and a profound thought? Here's my differentiating criteria:

  • Epiphanies, almost by definition ("a usually sudden manifestation or perception of the essential nature or meaning of something"), are closed. They usually come at the end of the poem (the poet creates the illusion of having arrived at the epiphany by way of writing the poem; the reader arrives at the same epiphany by reading it), and make claims toward truth ("essential meaning"), so they are presented as final in two senses.
  • A profound thought ("having intellectual depth and insight"), on the other hand, can occur anywhere and need not aspire toward truth. The most profound lines of poetry to me are more like questions, or little bits of thought that tend to spiral out into more complex connected thoughts. I think profound thoughts open up a poem, rather than close it down.
  • Poets may shy away from putting thoughts or ideas in their poems because they worry those thoughts won't be seen as profound. Epiphanies, on the other hand, are usually personal. They're more like opinions that can't be proved or disproved. As Wolfgang Pauli would say, they're "not even wrong."
Let me illustrate this with a couple of examples. I opened up a recent New Yorker expecting to find some epiphany poets but, improbably, the featured poets were John "What's an Epiphany" Ashbery, with the flarf-like poem "Resisting Arrest," and Virginia Konchan, whom I always already love because she once reviewed my book (Thanks Virginia!). 

Virginia's poem, "Love Story," actually begins with what I would call a profound thought, even though it's personal: "My body has never been my body." This line is open because it invites questioning, interpretation, even denial. Logically, it's false (A always equals A), but poetically, it can be "true," since poems often hinge on the polysemy of words or phrases. In other words, "my body" has multiple meanings, and the first instance of "my body" in this line may differ semantically from the second instance.

Another recent New Yorker does manage to supply an epiphany poem: "Interrogation" by Yusef Komunyakaa. The poem begins, per Perloff, with description and "extravagant metaphor":
He picks till it grows
into a tiny butterfly,
a transfigured bee-
shaped wound,
& then into a secret icon
filled with belief,
bloody philosophy,
& a drop of stardust. 
A moment of half-
dead radiance
pulses on his skin
till his mouth closes
on a phrase in Latin,
& he wonders if an oath
leaves a scar.
It goes on for three more stanzas, and the sixth and final stanza contains the big epiphany:
He lifts the scab
with a fingernail,
till the almost healed
opens its little doubtful
mouth of resignation,
till he can gaze down
into himself & see
where eternity begins.
This sentence (each stanza in Komunyakaa's poem contains a single sentence, FYI) feels more shut down than the opening sentence in Virginia Konchan's poem in part because it's the final sentence in the poem; it feels less interesting because "eternity" is more of an abstraction than "my body," and because "where eternity begins" sounds like a cliche even if it isn't one, sounds like vaguely numinous bullshit (see also "a drop of stardust").

I don't want to go on record, however, as believing all epiphanies are bad. There is some overlap between epiphanies and profound thoughts. See "You must change your life" and other Rilke-isms; "Childhood Stories" by Matthew Rohrer. In general, I'll take profundities wherever they come. If you have a profound thought, please, by all means, express it (in a poem or otherwise).


Hat tip to Sandra Simonds for calling my attention to Perloff's essay.

Monday, May 14, 2012

Things I have tweeted this month (presented without comment)


















Monday, May 7, 2012

Selections from "Martha's Month"

Earlier this year, I started getting issues of Martha Stewart Living in my mailbox, addressed to my name. Did someone buy me a secret gift subscription? (If so, they haven't come forward.) Did I win it somehow? Is it a clerical error? Who knows?

The truth is, I kind of like the magazine (and I kind of like Martha Stewart, even though she's nominally hostile to feminism); it's full of pretty photographs of gardens and floral arrangements and various elements of a lifestyle I don't and can't aspire to. I do take inspiration from the recipes, which are generally simple and effective.

But the most delightful part of each issue is "Martha's Month," a calendar of "gentle reminders, helpful tips, and important dates." Presumably, these are Martha's agenda items, but readers are invited and encouraged to follow suit.

The following is a list of real, unembellished items from "Martha's Month" in May and June:

  • Reinstall fans in chicken coop for summer
  • Deadhead daffodils
  • Speak at James Beard Foundation Awards 
  • Spray peas with compost tea to add micronutrients
  • Horseback ride
  • Harvest last of spinach and cool-weather lettuces
  • Receive honorary degree at the New York School of Interior Design
  • Assemble garden first-aid kit with insect-bite remedies
  • Give a speech at the Financial Times Business of Luxury Summit in Marrakech 
  • Friend David Rockefeller Sr.'s Birthday
  • Plant cold-house beds with melons
  • Boat trip to islands
  • Apply organic fertilizer to eggplant, pepper, and tomato plants
  • Friesians and miniature donkeys get their checkups

Sunday, May 6, 2012

"Technique is racist"

This is a passage from the delightfully funny novella Lucinella by Lore Segal, first published in 1976 by FSG and later reprinted by Melville House (this scene takes place at a literary conference that no one attends but the speakers):

"--and Lucinella," says Newman (I jump), "writes for her private phophylaxis, she says, the way she cleans her teeth--" 
"You know what I meant," I cry, shocked. I thought I was on his side! He's righter, surely, than the rest of us. "I only meant that writing has grown as deep as habit--" 
"Aren't you--" Betterwheatling tries again. 
"What I meant"--Winterneet leans toward Newman--"is that to refuse forms perfected by the past is like having to invent the bed each time you want to go to sleep." 
"Your forms," says Newman, "were created on the backs of blacks." 
"And women," cries Pavlovenka. 
"Aren't you confusing--" Betterwheatling says. 
"I'm talking," says Winterneet, "about the mastery of technique." 
"Technique is racist," says Newman. "Its purpose is to master slaves." 
"I'll never master it!" Pavlovenka promises. 
"Aren't you confusing the realms of poetry and politics?" says Betterwheatling, bending his neck into a U to force Newman's attention. 
"Poetry is politics," says Newman.

This is parody, of course, but nonetheless I sort of agree with Newman. Technique is racist, in the sense that we hold everyone to the standards of the hyper-educated, but do everything we can to keep black people poor and education expensive.

I went to a reading and talk by Thomas Lux yesterday, and I was disappointed to hear him espousing Collinsian rhetoric (he actually name-checked Billy Collins) to the effect that poetry should be "accessible," the poem should be "hospitable," and even that difficult poetry is "rude."

I don't understand this mindset. It's one thing to prefer a simple, straightforward, user-friendly, and personable poetics. It's quite another to turn your tastes into an ideology, to frame accessibility as some kind of moral imperative. How exactly are we supposed to manage the arts so that everything is equally "accessible"? And isn't "accessibility" almost entirely subjective, depending on one's education, class, race, sex, culture, and so on, not intelligence per se? Accessibility, as far as I'm concerned, is racist (and sexist), because it's defined so often by white men who assume that what is accessible to them is accessible to everyone. (Sorry to be picking on white men this week; fight racism with racism I guess.)

If you like "accessible" poetry (whatever that means to you), then write and read accessible poetry. But leave me my Stevens (not accessible at all), my Anne Carson, my Lyn Hejinian, my Kirsten Kaschock. You can have your Billy Collins.

Friday, May 4, 2012

Why do so many dudes hate Updike?

It's become fashionable, for white men in particular, it seems, to hate on John Updike, presumably on the grounds of his being sexist and maybe racist, and all that being a successful, white, well-off male writer presumably entails. Upon questioning, at least some of these haters reveal they have read little to no Updike. I think it's fine, to a degree, to object to a writer on philosophical grounds without having to read their full oeuvre; you don't always have to experience something firsthand before you can come to an opinion. But these same men seem to have no problem with sexist Hollywood movies like Drive and The Hangover, in fact deriving great pleasure from them. This leads me to believe that many liberal-minded white men are not fully capable of recognizing sexism on their own; instead they feel obligated to agree with David Foster Wallace. The thing is, it's OK to like both Updike and DFW, or, better yet, some of DFW's work and some of Updike's work, but not all of either of their collected works. That's where I stand and it doesn't create any weird feelings of discomfort or cognitive dissonance.

If you're instinctively repulsed by John Updike and think I've got it wrong, please enlighten me: Whence the hatin'?

What I've been reading: Partyknife by Dan Magers




The poems in Dan Magers' Partyknife (Birds LLC, 2012) take place in a world very like that of Jon Leon's Hit Wave (Kitchen Press, 2008) (both published by outfits at least partially headed by Justin Marks, incidentally). In Hit Wave, it's a world of endless parties with interesting lighting, populated by beautiful artists and the super-rich. These people aren't rockstars and actors like Tom Cruise. Rather, these are the parties in a Tom Cruise movie, where no one is an actor. In Partyknife, it's unclear if anyone is actually rich, beautiful, or even interesting, but who cares? They're still having fun. (Are the super-rich even capable of having fun? Is fun a third-world problem?)

Both books depict an adolescent-boy-fantasy-world of drugs and booze and hot chicks and car chases, but Hit Wave's world is navigated by a hero, and Partyknife's by an antihero. The speaker in Magers' poems is not a Cruise-like man-god, but a delusional loser who drinks Natty Lite and plays video games; he occasionally sees through his own bullshit but keeps partying anyway. As such, this "little dude girl" is exponentially more lovable. Witness the oscillation between extreme egotism (ironic, natch; that's one of the moves) and deflation in "Total Summer Vibe" (abridged):

My intern broke up with her boyfriend for me.
I did not ask for this. When she spoke
I saw your face. 
Misheard lyrics of my favorite songs inextricably linked
to my love and that time. 
Yeah, I love it the best. 
Fetishize the moment into a lifetime. [...] 
There's something about 4am that robs legitimacy of every effort. 
Check out that coat! I need me that coat!
That coat just says FUCK YOU WHITE PEOPLE! 
Dancing girls dance away from me. [...] 
Adderall is doing such amazing work in me,
I have little time to figure it out. 
Then I realized they were slumming
and were not my friends. 

This voice feels like a parody of Jon Leon's in Hit Wave, were Hit Wave not already an advanced parody of the artistic life, with fewer chinks where the contempt shows through. (I once described Hit Wave as a kind of mockumentary, "a fake memoir written in an absurd world where a poet can live the decadent life of the rich & famous. The depraved, egomaniacal narrator is better at 'making real life seem like movies' than directors are at 'making movies seem real.'") This is from the chapbook's Bret-Easton-Ellisesque first section, "1982":

Marcel and I had breakfast at Trieste nearly every day that summer. Late evenings we would drive out to the shore to relax. At those times a melancholic haze covered the sky above the surf. One memorable evening while reading Mountolive several seagulls landed near our recliners and I kicked sand at them for some unlocatable reason. At nightfall we'd take the Corvair back to my condo in the Matsonia Gardens building. I'd regularly fall asleep in the nude, recalling a poem from one of my favorite writers: "The Dreams in Your Heart That Never Die." 

Both Leon and Magers mimic the wealthy habit of name-dropping the recurring characters in one's entourage. See for comparison Courtney Love's food diary in New York Magazine:

I know Mario Batali well. Why bother knowing anyone else? Michael Stipe told me to talk to him artist-to-artist. Those clogs built an empire, man! I took my soccer-mom/lawyer sister with Stipe and some people from U2 to Babbo, and it changed the way she ate forever. It's like when a fat, American woman goes to France and she realizes there's another way to eat. [...]
Hershey leaves me my tray of usual foods. 
Me and AndrĂ© were going to open a salt store. And then across the street opens the Meadow with 800 kinds of salt. Even though they stole my fucking idea, I stop by there all the time. Of COURSE they're from Portland. I told Fred Armisen that I'll only do the show if they make it "Courtney Love Is From Portland Day." 
My art party is at the Americano. Someone booked it without asking me. I could have just called Mario! The last good party I had was for Ed Norton in '98. I'm scared for this one. I'm a stranger in a strange land with the art world. And I'm not an attention whore as much as people think.

Is this parody? Is there irony in Courtney Love's food diary? Who can say? Love and Leon occupy a space where self-awareness seems beside the point. Magers on the other hand is just hilarious. This may be a "project book" but he is a poet of the line, and he delivers a deadpan delight of one-liner after one-liner like some of our best crossover poet-comedians (see Sommer Browning and Mark Leidner). If you have the chance to see Dan Magers read, go. Here's one more to make your Friday and get stuck in your head:

At karaoke, I ruined 'Don't Stop Believing' for everyone. 
Someone is having a lot of trouble
in the bathroom---gasps and groans, 
and whoever's in there is morphing "Thriller"-style. 
Another inelegant night last night. Nice and stoned
back at the lab with Dr. Rob. 
His mix tapes suck.
Putting together at random would have more effect.
Mixing tapes at random,
then chunks of songs at random. 
I release them under the name Girl Talk. 
Looking at my face without mirrors
just blew my mind. 
Some serious dudes place amps
in full-circle manner of Stonehenge.

The amps are the band. The dudes are the roadies.

Noise through another
all layered and decayed.

We tried to achieve hypnosis
and one of us levitated.

If you're doing it with that girl right now
then this message means jackshit, but probably
you're not---probably she's like, "Where's the beer?"
and you're like, "I don't got any,"

but we've got the beer right here.