late last night i walked along the edge of gloucester's inner harbor with my friend liam through a forest of radio antennae and masts atop fishing boats in a cloud of irridesence and talked for a long time about how neither of us could hope to capture the ways in which we each were immersed in what we were seeing, liam not with a camera, me not with letters.

because each was thinking about holding it in place, each in his own way felt it slipping away.

in my mind this morning i have walked along the edge of the inner harbor again and again. such complexity the world. how little we manage.

I went cruising with my 12 year old nephew last night.
He made me put the top down. We both wore aviator hats and went skimming through the chill of night.
He would look at the stars and tell me stories about the ways in which he and his pals like to antagonise the local cops.
He has a plan for Halloween that involves putting bologna on police cruisers.
He has a theory that pieces of bologna, applied to a car and left there, will take the paint off.

There's something really odd about the image of a 12 year old on a skateboard armed with a package of processed meat products traveling down a rural street, stopping periodically to slap individual pieces onto the sides of cars.
Stranger still was the impression I got that he was trying to enlist my help in some obscure capacity.

But mostly I wondered whether he had done tests, but thought my role as the Bad Uncle did not extend so far as to encourage my nephew to experiment...

The thick green and yellow forms I move through, torus and conics, catenoids and helicoids, phalluses and satellite dishes & the thin black peppercorn trees irregular spheres atop trunks like strings immobile but should be rising like balloons should be rising, points and lines that mark the shapes of the distances beyond or further into the shifting nets of sounds made by strange birds which pull me into other folds in the world each a result of movements through the air which breathe into the visible the pages of thinking and the complication upon complication each generates that bear me along like waves toward becoming the forest of moss through which the hole in me and I are passing. The hole in me ground to my figure. I fill it with a catalogue of event-horizons.