the poet is on YouTube the poet will write you a poem the poet drinks coffee the poet rocks back and forth the poet drinks a coffee the poet is writing a poem the poet drinks a coffee the poet is coughing the poet drinks coffee the poet smells like shit today the poet drinks coffee the poet is hassled by the police again the poet smells shitty the poet is writing a poem everyone laughs at the poet the poet never goes out anymore the poet laughs the poet will take a shit on you the poet drinks coffee the poet is on YouTube the poet is a piece of shit the poet is alone the poet looks for headphones the poet wets himself the poet snores the poet recites a poem the poet poops the poet recites another poem the poet drinks coffee the poet pees the poet drinks coffee the poet writes a poem the poet chews on his pen the poet chews on his styrofoam cup the poet poops again the poet doesn’t have a home anymore the poet doesn’t sleep on a couch anymore the poet drinks coffee the poet laughs up phlegm the poet poops again the poet sheds a tear for himself the poet sits on newspaper the poet rocks back and forth the poet opens his mouth the poet chuckles the police hassle the poet the poet wears sweatpants the poet rubs his eyes with dirty hands the poet wants a real job the poet is sticky again the poet drinks some coffee the poet yawns the poet rubs his eyes with his sticky hands the poet presses his knees to his chest and rocks back and forth i feel no sympathy for the poet the poet poops himself the poet smells shitty the poet resembles a bag of shit the poet shits a lot the poet naps a lot the poet is easy to recognize the poet is reciting poetry, but no one hears him because the poet is really timid i can smell the poet’s crotch from here the poet has sores on his lips the poet has eczema on his ankles again the poet grinds his teeth oh my god, the poet is sticky again, for the third time the poet is sticky if the poet stops moving, he’ll die hm…the poet doesn’t scratch his eczema the poet fingers his sores though the poet thinks we friends the poet the poet is begging for shit the poet limps in my direction the poet is alone the poet’s smile is all gum and now his feet are sticky the poet eats with his hands the poet is totally unaware of his surroundings the poet has a boog on his upper lip the poet pretends to be reading the poet is probably uneducated and gay the poet hasn’t the poet won’t wont, but the poet is ew, the poet yuck, the poet sniff, the poet ha, the poet the poet, what? there are pieces of the poet there are some shreds of the poet the poet the poet is the poet sits on his hands i hate the poet i hate the poet when the poet disappears the poet has pudding on his hands the poet forgot the poet is running the poet sure is
the poet is gone
I Am More Human Than You
I am not the most human, but I am more human than you.
My breath smells like my farts, which are smellier than yours
I waste time better than you do; I stare at walls and think about myself
When I don’t think about myself I think about how other people think about me
but I never think how others relate to me, unless I’m comparing my humanity with theirs
It is spectacular how unremarkable I am
It is remarkable how dirty and inconsiderate I am
When I work I work harder than you; I don’t sleep. I don’t take shits. I don’t have time for shits.
But when I do sleep I sleep harder than you. I sleep for fifteen hours. (and I don’t have time for shits.)
When I shit I shit harder than you. And more than you. I am shitting right now.
I don’t apologize for my shits.
I don’t apologize. (When I do I am insincere.)
I want to know what everyone is eating at all times. I like to tell everyone what I am eating at all times.
I blame others.
I keep food in my bed.
I inadvertently hurt others.
I prepare meals in bed.
I want to know when everyone is shitting. I like to tell everyone when I am shitting.
I admit that I am great without using the word great.
But I admit when I am ashamed by using the word ashamed.
I am more desperate for affection. I just keep that desperation bottled inside of me.
Oh yeah, I bottle my anguish harder than you ever will.
That energy, when released destroys other humans than are less human than I am.
I don’t mean to kill, but my mistakes are more devastating than yours.
Don’t you dare say you are different from me. We are the same.
I am just more.
The Staircase (2004)
French television documentary about the trial of novelist Michael Petersen, accused of murdering his wife, Kathleen, after she was found dead at the bottom of a flight of stairs in their Durham, North Carolina mansion in December, 2001. Google for a torrent.
Michael Petersen and wife, Kathleen
I am always reluctant to begin watching a television series bc I have little self control and always violate my one episode per day quota. Depending on consumption methodology, the best examples of serialized art forms are either gobbled up in syndication or agonized over as they air week to week.
The Staircase is a naturally compelling case and Michael Petersen is suspiciously agreeable. He is neither pompous nor verbose, spooked but calm. He is introduced in the first minutes of the series by recalling the night Kathleen Petersen died, taking us on a tour from their post movie conversation in the living room to the poolside, where Kathleen retired to bed early. Michael’s alleged last words to her were, “Goodnight, I’ll be up a little bit later.”
I make assumptions he is guilty. When we hear his frantic calls to 911 I question my gut, but then when I see the police photos and the amount of blood on the walls and the stairs and beneath her head I go with my gut again. This won’t be fun, it’s clear he murdered her.
The prosecution smirks when they exhibit the lacerations on the shaved scalp of a postmortem Kathleen. “These injuries are not consistent with a fall down the stairs,” further positing that this is the work of the fireplace’s missing blow poke. I totally agree. I have no expertise in freak accidents or staircase murders meant to look like freak accidents, but I totally agree. There is blood everywhere.
The defense are cautiously confident, and I find myself aligning with them naturally despite my previous convictions because I like to side with the underdogs. They have also built quite a fucking case. Defense attorney David Rudolph’s handsome beard beautifully articulates reasons for Michael’s innocence. Nobody close with the Petersens, (including his two sons, two adopted daughters, step daughter, sister in-laws, and innumerable friends) can testify to Michael’s temper. Their portrayal of Michael remain as a kind, loving husband and father. His children remain loyal, but his in-laws and step daughters, although having given positive testimony on his behalf in the early stages of the case, turn apostate after the first episode. There is no sign of a struggle from Kathleen, and no blunt force trauma to her brain, an ailment consistent with every beating in the last ten years in the state of North Carolina as demonstrated by the reports he materializes during the trial. Kathleen was drunk, on Valium and walking up a narrow flight of stairs. Though both sides recreate the scene (prosecution with with plastic models of the staircase and defense with a 3D animation) Rudolph enlists the expertise of a Biomechanical engineer and forensic blood spatter specialist to support his claim, also mentioning that the prosecution still has not located the mysterious blow poke, which they claim from the start to be the murder weapon.
Some irrelevant secrets from Michael’s life serve as a roux and thicken the narrative: his private bisexuality; his exaggerated military experience. Debatably irrelevant to the case yet absolutely juicy for the documentary is the 1985 death of Elizabeth Ratliff. Here is the condensed story: Elizabeth was friend to Michael and his first wife while he was stationed in Germany and was also found dead at the bottom of a staircase, after having spent the previous night with Michael. In the aftermath of the tragedy Michael heroically adopts Elizabeth’s two infant daughters, Margaret and Martha. Upon the discovery of this damning information David Rudolph turns to the cameramen and says, “Ok, well you guys have a much better film now.”
To support their claim of murder, the prosecution has the body of Elizabeth Ratliff exhumed two weeks before trial is set to begin, to the chagrin of the defense and mortification of the daughters.
To support their motive hypothesis, prosecution claims Kathleen Petersen would have been upset and embarrassed of Michael Petersen’s bisexuality, had she discovered his illicit correspondence with a male escort, who he planned to meet for anal sex.
In the series’ last minutes, Michael Petersen is convicted of murdering his wife and sentenced to life without parole. My outrage motivated me to write my feelings and open a dialogue so it wasn’t all bad, but c’mon! the prosecutions case became weaker as the trial progressed! The indignant tone of their closing statement focused on Petersen’s bisexuality (not the evidence) and his ostensible incapability of sustaining a happy marriage if he required cock once in a while to maintain his sanity. The defense was calm and measured and only referred to evidence directly involving Kathleen in their three hour closing arguments. Ah well, this was highly enjoyable and I heard a followup doc is in the works. Fun!
I was eating a grapefruit breakfast at my desk.
She walked behind me, looking over my shoulder, at the grapefruit. She asked me if it was delicious.
I asked her if she wanted a segment. She said no. She smelled like a sour uterus.
She sat at her desk and we faced each other and she asked to see my book.
I handed it to her. She said her books had beautiful pictures in them. Not photographs. Pictures. Beautiful drawings. Her description was lost in translation. They had all been ruined apparently, though it was no one’s fault.
She said the men came into her house and ruined her books. But it wasn’t their fault. I didn’t know what she meant.
I imagined latex men fumbling with a giant, unwieldy fire hose, spraying a bookshelf. She poked my thigh and handed my book back. This meant that she wanted to fuck me. I stared her down when she walked past me and tried my best to find her attractive.
HR said she couldn’t wear pants. They discriminated. Or something. I didn’t understand what she was saying. She said everybody. She pointed to a sign that said no eating and then she pointed to my grapefruit. Then she said it was a hostile work environment and mentioned Harry by name. She said that Harry wore a football jersey to work. It didn’t matter that she was Chinese; she was changing subject mid sentence. I thought about how annoying it would be to fuck her.
She suggested we trade emails. She had three warehouse jobs, and needed more to maintain her sinewy forearms. I needed a job, but thought it would be better not to stay in touch when she raised her arms to reveal wiry strands of armpit hair poking from beneath her white t-shirt.
She left in the middle of her shift and never came back. Floor support considered putting a trainee at her cubicle but didn’t feel right about subjecting them the lingering odor.