I want to click
on a link
that will take me
to a place
I don’t


When I was young I named a mouse Thurston.

Thurston was killed by my cat.

So I wanted to name my child Thurston.

I felt like if it would be a boy, it would be suitable.

But if it would be a girl, it would be really perfect.

Though kids would call the kid “Thirst’n.”

And the name would seem out of place, probably.

Everyone I knew was named “Brandon.”

When I was ten I first heard Sonic Youth.

At fifteen I learned the name, “Thurston Moore.”

At twenty I knew so many people who knew that name.

I realized I could never have “Thurston” for myself.

It was imbued with too much meaning.

I didn’t even like half their catalogue.

Thurston Moore ruins everything.

But still, when I wear a brown cardigan

or use my book embosser,

I think “Thurston,”


it’s someone

I had,


and lost.


I'll look at your old

profile pictures

because it will make

me feel shitty about

my life.


I smoke cigars, drink coffee, take lemons, make lemonade, eat cactus fruit,
read Looking Backward, smoke marijuana, take oranges, eat oranges, drink

coffee, drink Alhambra, make an omelette, play darts, look at goats, climb over
rocks, order wine, have tapas, drink coffee, eat candy, look at graffiti, smoke
cigarettes, see dogs, see cats, see a castle, listen to Aissam’s music, look at
Brenda’s life, look at British tourists, read The Wall, sit on a pier, journal,
shoot stick, watch old men walk (hands behind their back), and drink coffee.

At night I go out to look at the Mediterranean. I want to cry and write.

Went to 7/11 because my roommate wanted milk. I said that if he bought me a cigar, I would use my EBT to get him the milk. The cigar was $1.27, the milk was $2.99. I smoked my cigar on the porch at night and drank coffee and watched Annie Cohen-Solal on Charlie Rose. I drank three cups of coffee. When my last cup was too cold I poured it in the pot and poured out another cup. I’m supposed to be editing an interview about performance art and avant-garde feminist filmmaking. Instead, I have been on onion.com, gawker.com, charlierose.com, newyorker.com, weedsteeler.wordpress.com, facebook.com, banalization.blogspot.com, pitchfork.com, gmail.com, statcounter.com, boingboing.net, amazon.com, artforum.com, and huffingtonpost.com. I read an essay by Wendell Berry. I read about the Delaware Republican Senate Primary. I read nine pages of Benjamin Franklin's autobiography. It’s 7:28 AM.

I've been up for nine hours.
I've done absolutely nothing.


- trying to write something good all day -

        keep thinking TVP:

“Spend all day writing silly poetry

for the girl I love who doesn’t love me.”

don’t understand

why I didn’t


cannot write that,

over and over again,

copy and pasted 100X,

tagged on all of our roofs

so we look out in the morning

and remember it forever.

(James Payne is an artist, musician, and writer living in Chicago, Illinois. www.banalization.blogspot.com)