james james franco
Just gave a tweenster a hit off my vape like, SORRY PLATO, art's not your mommy. But actually, I love my mom. Sorry, mom. I'm hitching to New York from La La like it's sabbath for John Goodman & the sun doesn't care, and I have identity politics on my mind. Like what celebrity am I? Let's start there. I'm mentally spotifying Drake's new release, and the guy who picked me up is wearing a Warby Parker Monocle, listening to some band named after an obscure cereal brand. He's got this new critical lens, and I'm scared, because here I am, the work of art itself, living, breathing, and this guy's so focused on the road that he doesn't get, in a Matthew McConaughey-y sense, that we're all part of the Road. If you're into random iHops in the middle of nowhere, raise your hand. Amen. I tell him, "Thanks, dude, but you're not my kind of sherpa." But he's so Western he doesn't even get it just because there's no mountain. He's like still thinking about my syntax, or something, kay yoda, when I bust open his door like a stunt double I once had, yank him out of his Tesla ripoff, take his still-buttwarm seat, and gun it like this other stunt double I once had. "How does irony work in the text?" I scream out the window. And it's funny. Cause dude wasn't even reading. “Gunning it” is, of course, a Freudian maneuver under the right circumstances, but it's hard to know which James is at the wheel when I voice-text this to myself. Chances are I don't really identify with either. I, you - we all live in a post-James Franco world. We live in a James James Franco world. So what do you think that means? Can this poetry still be friends? Am I a friendship? It occurred to me, my stagehands, that YOU might be doing the same thing - besides reading this - YOU might have hitched & hijacked, and are now thinking a little bit about who YOU are. Let’s think about symbols. Let’s talk about the road. Is it long winding desolate dangerous? A state of mind? State? I'm back in New York. & an archetypal road was to blame. & I'm not on Minneola Prep's track team, Frank, but I do feel like asking the killer for directions. (I should say - there was a killer stalking me - such is the fate of genre. . . but there is little time for that. . . some but little.) OK. Just wrote this in my iHop pancakes with boysenberry syrup: but to say I'm not James at all that there is no capital J James is not what I'm saying. James is there in my name. . . . this has gotten so V for Vendetta. Are you still thinking about yourself, i-friends? I can’t blame you if you are. I’m not really here, without you. And sometimes, I think I’m not really here at all. ~~Dream Sequence~~ I’m reading Kafka in limelight and having a temper tantrum over this orange soda. It spilled over my web-presence and I forgot who and where I was. I know I’m James. And I’m also, James. And I’m on the Road. That’s not really the Road anymore, it’s this white page in my mind that’s on this journal in this website on this blog on a 2007 Tumblr blog. But beyond that I’m lost without you little guys, and I’m scared behind this pocket screen. I’m scared because I care. I’m screening out my thoughts to you and letting you tell my tale. Are you worried yet? I am. ~~Back to reality~~ These iHop pancakes are smeared all over my face and I’m looking into the desert sun or a screensaver of it (i’m not really sure) at a reflection of myself. Am I - my stoner, or my neon or my Marina or my RISD or my HOWL or my NYTIMES or my PALO or my … self and I’m just like: dubious sausage freaks adderall fury god lace hospital 127 eat pray pineapple, whatever YOU KNOW? In a multiplicity of genres I don’t want to be right. I just want to be there. The holy room can’t kill me only my mother and not future wife. These pancakes are filling up space and the Road is eating up my WiFi. Tell me what I am, tell me what I’m definitely not. |
JAMES JAMES FRANCO is . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .:) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .:) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .:) . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
|