Recording someone who I am longing to take a long slow dive into and drown in. My most sincere wish is to inhabit him, but I wouldn’t want to push any buttons or grind any gears… I just want to ride inside him as a passenger who is plugged into his matrix so I can feel his every sensation, think his every thought, taste with his tongue, see through his eyes, touch with his hands… I want to experience every urge and dirge that surges through him—then I can die happy - having fulfilled my life’s ambition. Haha! I am serious! My writing (such as it is) owes everything to him… most of what I have written was inspired by my musing on him and has even become a form of pastiche based on his inimical style… it’s not so much a conscious effort on my part, it’s just that I am infected with him, but I'm always a pale imitation, I’ll never do what he does, though… his brain is teeming with science, facts, myths, and madness... all manner of cultural germinations from the highest brow to lowest toe fungus. I think Jorge Luis Borges’ polymathic phantasmagoria may be the closest in terms of breadth and depth of eclectic and esoteric knowledge—although they each express themselves quite differently, they are both singular in that regard. That being said, despite his thermonuclear explosions, Albert is a very tender vittle, his capacity to empathize with humanity and his insights about life always leave me breathless with wonder… <br /><br />Here is a poem of his I keep in my wank-bank. His writing is true spontaneous bop prosody… the way Kerouac always claimed to but never quite wrote. There is no editing… He just starts pounding on his phone’s virtual keyboard without cessation, no pausing to read, no less edit, what he writes. He says it’s not because of some writing manifesto he’s fulfilling but simply because he is a very busy Monkeyfist and hasn’t the luxury of time to prune and polish now, though one day he looks forward to doing so—which I know to be true… ubermensches are far too occupied saving the world to stop and dot an i or undangle a participle. I accompanied my reading with images from the great Bill Brandt as well as clips from the 1926 classic film, "A Page of Madness". <br /><br />On the poet: <br /><br />Albert believes "there is some shit you can’t unsee. Like a glassy eyed one-legged rooster pecking a brit Marine for fucking with it with fire. Ever since then that fucker has became his spirit animal. “Don’t tread on me” is their peaceful stance, “don’t fuck with me” with a flaming one-legged crazy rooster is all out war. A poor man’s phoenix. “Son, do not embarrass yourself. I will send your hit men time and mother fucking space home in body bags.There are only three sure things in life: death, taxes and me not giving a fuck. The only thing red and dead have to do with each other is rhyming. Yosemite Sam WOOW!!" gun noises, kick, flick off, nap, start again"
