The Latency

That the new thing now?

eat drink stare sleep repeat

I woke up today with
no particular plans
gotten through xmas in
one piece

thankful for
that, at

no screaming or
everything calm and

came over to the couch
scratched the cat
behind the ears
turned on the stereo
sat down

the sun came
through the narrow

I had some pie
and a couple
of beers

at some point the
doorbell rang
I didn’t answer it

then it was night
it came on fast

now it’s almost morning
and I’m still
sitting here
scratching the
behind the ears
listening to
it purr


reaction to every possible thing

shut the

pain in the swell

what I’ve mostly got
is the cat
staring at me

country music
and cans of beer

it’s three a.m.

I miss

every sunset

makes things cooler
for a bit
until it comes up


and rewarms
the world again

you know

you don’t need
me to
tell you it’s
going to happen

it will

go outside
and see

the rest
is dust

Box Poem

the lid
is life

On Glut

too damn much
of everything
except money
and time

Scene From a Movie Not Yet Written

CREEPY GUY: Hey, Gloria.
GLORIA: Um. Hey.
CREEPY GUY: I wrote you a song the other night. Wanna hear it?
GLORIA: Oh, that’s –
CREEPY GUY (screaming): G L O R I A! G L O R I A! G L O R I A!
CREEPY GUY: Like it?

I’m starting to think New York wants me dead

I spent much of this year working a fairly thankless temp job at a sanitation garage in Douglaston, a little village close enough to the Nassau County border that you could almost smell the Aqua Net. Any prior misconceptions I might have had about the good graces – or, indeed, the existence – of karma or cosmic payback have been completely cleared up in the two months since that odd little gig ended, because since then there has been: nothing.

And I do mean nothing. Image

Five or six years ago I left a bookstore job that I’d had for longer than I’d like to remember. It was time for a change, it had been a long time coming, and quite honestly I felt strange continuing to work the same job I’d had before college after I’d, ostensibly, gone off and spent a decent amount of money learning to do something a little more productive and/or beneficial to society than telling some corporate lawyer why he’d rather read Jeffrey Deaver than James Patterson. (There was also the little matter of not really being able to support myself on my salary, which was more to do with the fact that it was East Hampton than the piddling amount I was earning. But I digress.) And I figured, hey, what would be more fun than moving to New York and being a job hopper? Think of all the material you’ll get, dude, I remember thinking. Sure, why the hell not? My girlfriend was already here.

I bring up my old bookstore job only to illustrate that another bookstore job, this one down in the Village, is only one of several places that have rejected my advances in the last two months. I mean, Christ. If there’s one job I can do forwards and backwards, in my sleep, it’s manage a bookstore. The guy said he’d keep my resume “on file”. Yeah, well, I’ve seen that guy’s files. That thing may as well be in orbit. It’d be just about as easily accessible there.

The thing that’s really starting to get to me is this: I’m not trying to shoot the moon, here. I want $35K a year and a job that’s not going to make me vomit. Typing, data entry, filing, copyediting. Usual, mundane, gutshot phlegm, the sort of thing that society and pop culture would have you believe any lummox with opposable thumbs and a four-year degree can just fall into.

If that’s the case, well, apparently I’m not that lummox. Or else my thumbs aren’t really opposable. And I don’t think that’s it, because I haven’t noticed myself dropping things. Maybe that’s the final joke: that I’m just good enough to know why I’m not getting any callbacks, but not good enough to, you know, actually get a callback.

even the people I know

with master’s degrees

are making lattes

and walking dogs

I’ve always been a pretty shitty networker, too. Maybe that’s it. Maybe New York isn’t what secretly wants me dead. Maybe I secretly want me dead.


The Latency are pretty terrible.

A few words of introduction and warning


Good evening. Here is a picture of my fat, smug cat.

I’ve been meaning to set something up here, under the immortal banner of The Latency, for a good long while now. Then I found out that there is a defunct Canadian band of the same name, but they’re defunct so the hell with them anyway. (Soon I will spend thirty dollars on a year’s ownership of, and then they’ll feel really silly.) What has been a deterrent, at least to this point, is the fact that there is a lot of uninformed noise out there, floating around, all of which has designs on our vanishingly small cultural attention span, and who the hell am I to presume to add my porcine shrieking to the din?

Just a guy, really. With a fat, smug cat and some time to kill.

So. Let’s get started.