Dana Jerman

Meditations For The Age of Discernment

The first word in boundaries is bound —Jerry Stahl

Been meaning to ask my dad if his best friends’ house is haunted. Just feels like a discount disappointment machine alive with petrified guesses. 

The last time I met a decent man was my father, and even then that’s a shade away from never.

I’m not sure my heart goes to  anymore.

To cheer me up, here. I’ll make a swift list of my favorite pornographers.

Definitely we’ve got Genet and Bataille. De Berg and Apollinaire. Passolini and Houellebecq, King, Sotos. Cocteau and Indiana and Nin. Nabokov, maybe Huxley. Maybe Sexton. Algren too. 

Education in the recovery of their tatty disillusions. Margins ripe with glimmers of failure. Degenerate as birdsong. There, whew, all better. 

Since Covid, everybody has been so good at staying in their lane, it’s given me more room to get out of mine. But the loneliness remains industrial. Show me a fence and I’ll move my hips around it.

Late morning sleeping pill hillbilly fever dream— neighbors trash fire blowing across the road. Could I give one huckleberry fuck about these tinsey gods of odds and ends sighing united into some leaky biohazardous hopeless hospital mirage?

Overheard: “you’re really on brand, goddess” at a bar yesterday. Definitely a phrase dudes should be heavily incorporating into the modern lexicon.

However much most might prefer to stop pretending and let it evolve like some tangerine aftershave mellieu caught on my shoulders for a few hours post sex.

Not going anywhere today. The black silk robe. My favorite burgundy lip color. Old classy nuance. Time to stain tea mugs and watch traffic cones tip over outside the pawn shop. Ah ha— now a windstorm. No wonder for all the bad fantasy.