Explorations of the Abyss

In the late afternoon

2011-12-26T19:30:00.003-05:00

The birds, spray-painted on the wall outside, make me pine with green as they swoosh, fiercely, this way and that way; the little one flying in front of the big eagles and seagulls, up and over, I see him barrel roll all- over and out from under glides a drifter-- cats, dine in the

Capt Ray Lewis Joins OWS Protest,Gives Message to NYPD and Slams The Gre...

2011-11-17T21:45:00.000-05:00

Words of wisdom from a retired Philly police captain at Occupy Wall Street, NYC.

3:00 am meditation

2011-10-25T03:51:00.002-04:00

Watching Derrida, gazing on the camera that gazes, that gazes, that . . . watching Derrida philosophize about past philosophers, watching a mind theorize the history of the evolution of the hand, I recalled that moment in my life where my friends and I believed in the power of thought, non-practical philosophical thought that was going to revolutionized our being (perhaps even practical in ways

Robert Thurman Speaks at Occupy Wall Street

2011-10-15T04:39:00.000-04:00

Now this is what I'd call a paradigm shift.

Immortal Technique Toast To The Dead in Zuccotti Park

2011-10-02T01:59:00.000-04:00

Immortal Technique Freestyles at Occupy Wall Street.

Immortal Technique #OccupyWallStreet

2011-10-02T01:42:00.001-04:00

At Libery Plaza near Wall Street, illustrious rapper speaks out. Wise words- speak up brother!

Live Stream of NYC Protests

2011-09-24T20:43:00.000-04:00

No national or even local coverage of thousands of protesters in Manhattan for the past eight days. This is a live feed. Watch live streaming video from globalrevolution at livestream.com I was at Union Square earlier today and saw a peaceful assembly, where people were sharing their political views. The police surrounded the area and came in with nets, attempting to barricade the crowd. The

July 7, 2011

2011-07-07T17:13:00.001-04:00

All authors are cowards in certain respects. They speak once and for all, without having to hear and respond to how others react to what they say. Readers are cowards of a different sort; they argue with texts that cannot rebut. In short, the literary world is made-up of cowards on all sides, trumped only by the critic. And it is thanks to this that anything that is at all daring is said among us.

untitled

2011-07-07T00:27:00.002-04:00

You need the snap of the sissors for your hair to breathe or an empty palace full of dreams.

In theory of my dreams

2011-03-21T23:17:00.001-04:00

BUDAPEST reads the sign on the taxi beneath my window. I wouldn't be able to smoke the darkness out of my hair as the light fills the room. There she is across the river, standing, shining in all her color, in all her filth and glory. The exile is the pavement of my mind It's all in the silence of the stemcell heart The curling walls brush-up against the throbbing of my temples If the train

Previews

2011-03-20T15:36:00.003-04:00

"Light it up!" exclaimed Jess. "Or we will miss the previews." Marlo turned from the front seat and gave me an impatient look. "It's too packed. Are you sure we want to do this? The theater is going to be so packed." "Give it to me," he said in an agitated manner. So I handed him the bowl. "This is why we should have rolled a dutch," said Franklin. "This movie better be worth it!" stammered Jess.

Feeling this today

2011-03-01T21:17:00.002-05:00

White Space

2011-01-19T05:07:00.004-05:00

White Space,lend but a word,but a curl to slide through,lend but a lightto be blinded by the moon on your finger. Voice broken in my throat, hoarse, sore, this voicebroke, muted, voice in my throat,. . . if in an ear a spring, silver, shiny as a ring, should sprout,voice, hidden in my chest, if. . . the tongue, twisted like a noose,should spin before it learned to sing,bind me, brand me, put me

Desperate language, frozen.

2010-10-12T01:57:00.009-04:00

And Always the struggle to shatter the tyranny of the phrase, the wrenched, floating wretch, along above & within ...the invisible guck of clear glue... the nutz and skrewz flowing outta lungs. The common bolt in the metal temple shall turn a roborant friend, stranger still. But a stovetop flame beneath the brim, will bubble-gobble,

Flash

2010-09-30T05:59:00.012-04:00

In the morning my Uncle said, he had heard on the radio, that a boy's sex life was recorded by his roommates on the internet, and on his drive home from work, he had heard on the radio, that in the afternoon the boy had jumped off the George Washington Bridge. I'd thought of suicide today, as I often do on dark days. But it would be rude, so instead I got a sandwich. The past couple of weeks

Modern Wonders

2010-09-21T20:19:00.009-04:00

Brooklyn. What is it? Is it the mix of skeletal bums, heavenly hipsters and drunken, tough-looking jerks, mean like a manic bulldog with barbwire tattoos, beside hilarious misfits in retro haircuts walking down the block, or is it the neon-lit diners that frame the night and look like movie-sets near bad Indian and Mexican cafes that I can picture Brando, leaning against a red Mustang and smoking

Slightly dated idea

2010-09-19T08:30:00.004-04:00

but still a great piece. Thanks Daniel.

2010-09-10T23:12:00.009-04:00

Candlelight lips painted in 80s pink, kissed, deceived, kissed again tonight, as the movies rolled across the streets, as the light bounced off her hair and the city streets atop the bar stretched as far as wonder goes, as my eyes rolled across those black pearls, stoning me.

To Stay Sane

2010-09-07T00:35:00.001-04:00

Thanks to Lauren's Facebook status update.

Water Over the Bridge

2010-06-29T23:37:00.015-04:00

To the girl who hates the rain, The sun slides on the wet night pavement, and somehow we always meet in the fog, but it doesn’t have any feet, nor does it look like a cat, just grey and hazy like a smoky canvas hanging in the background. The rain on a bench by the Throgs-Neck bridge shines in a lime-luster, sparking like the back of a Caprisun, while washing away Pollockian bird poop rolling

6/8/10

2010-06-08T21:15:00.000-04:00

Just as you would be ready to kill yourself, you realize they've made you too strong to die. Motherfuckers.

1.22.2010

2010-01-30T01:03:00.002-05:00

He placed that hand of his on the surface of the page, and the words climbed up and twisted on his fingers along the wrist, and what, what said those sentences trekking in his veins; those letters, those marching ants or birds or fire around the elbows like a wire; what, what said the text shooting up his neck, as fine and rare as money flung in the air, what was it written on the old man

The Flight of the Faceless Man

2010-01-10T00:15:00.017-05:00

As Giuseppe handed the girl the money to pay for his new scarf, she made a remark that opened with the unpleasant phrase, ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way.’ Which is never good news. But because the phrase is so full of intrigue, curiosity is always aroused, and since it is a phrase that Giuseppe encountered a lot, and judging by the playful look on the girl’s face, he knew what was going to

2009-12-31T17:34:00.007-05:00

Lawrence on Woman

2009-12-30T18:01:00.005-05:00

'A woman is not a "model" anything. She is not even a distinct personality. It is time we got rid of these fixed notions. A woman is a living fountain whose spray falls delicately around her, on all that come near. A woman is a strange soft vibration on the air, going forth unknown and unconscious, and seeking vibration in response. Or else she is a discordant, jarring, painful vibration, going

Disappearences

2009-12-27T11:49:00.002-05:00

2009-12-08T00:36:00.000-05:00

The non-i might take a while

As Always, Something Silly

2009-11-29T22:16:00.009-05:00

It was the way she said, Klapper Hall, even though, as movies go, she had me at hello. It was everything in between the words, though i clung to every thought she sung. Okay. She didn't sing, but, but what if she did? It was something out of a dream, a painting, in fact it was so,,,, unreal, i doubt it happened. Or if it did, i doubt it happened to me. And then, the calm in the window, the slow

Silly Poet,

2009-11-19T22:45:00.006-05:00

Trix are for kids. Yes you, now go on, explain yourself. There was once a day when a boy lay on his bunk bed, all twisted and wrangling on the inside and out, and put pen to paper. He wrote his heart out, as honest as he could muster. But it wasn't easy to spill his heart out, even out of a pretty silver pen. So, being the silly fool that he was, he cloaked himself in imagery. The boy wrote of

2009-11-09T13:26:00.002-05:00

Art has always been a battle. More so against oneself than anything else. I am unheroic. Likely, a stereotypical enactment of a play written by others, a character whose every fault is loaded in a literary canon, all on display to demonstrate his utter unremarkableness. His human, as Nietzsche said, all too human characteristics. How, then, do people affirm something uniquely their own when there

Clarity

2009-11-01T23:04:00.005-05:00

I could not live without a woman at my side. I am only a one piece of a two-headed and two-sexed being, which is the true biological and thinking organism. Italo Calvino The 'true' is not accurate, or necessary. But absent that, I'm with him. If I acted on every impulse I ever had, I'd be one of the world's most evil criminals--the authorities would not know whether I belonged in prison, an

Inarticulate Black

2009-10-27T22:47:00.012-04:00

short girl spread the crowd night on Main street intense black brows cuts of jagged thought swiftly walked past my chest Bengali beauty in a cotton-black-trench the static of her frizzing hair caught my eyelash, my exlover in despair moments later the Indian woman pierced my eyebrow for love, for fear of jade and on the way home I cut the crowd Yelling into the clouds the barber shops the

At night the windows turn semi-opaque

2009-10-27T20:50:00.063-04:00

and there you are again, red rectangles on cries of crimson-gun-black plastic set like equalizer nodes, and the neon-scarlet liquid of elevator light -cylinder slash- flashes from the dark glass and speaks tonight. Look, she says, look at the black desk; look at the Chinese Evergreen behind the girl on the laptop, sitting as Rodin's Thinker trying too hard; a watch beside her elbow, an orange

...And it saddens me deeply

2009-10-26T19:20:00.006-04:00

that a poet missed my metaphors. I don't even know a single name on the Red Sox, nor do I even follow baseball unless the Mets are in the World Series. And after what a cabbie told me a few weeks ago about one of those players--the guy tried to rip the cabbie off like five-ten bucks--I don't know if I'll be rootin' for anyone at all. But that Yankee spirit--I ain't neva heard New York like that!

Peeeeeeeetttttttttttttttttttttttttttteeeeeeeeeeeeeeee

2009-10-26T19:06:00.003-04:00

rrrrrrrrrRRRRRRRRrrrrrrrRRRRrrrrrrRRrrrRRrrRrRrRrTell me if what I did was okay. Can you guys just be direct? I'm playing a game I taught myself, and the nuances aren't spelled out. I can show you the pages on which these, well, whatever they are, pour out. I fixed the reference, is that enough?I've never been to Yankee stadium. But I'll tell you man, now I want to go, though you brought it to us

Cupid Shrugged

2009-10-07T17:13:00.011-04:00

Journal entry from four years ago.It was many years ago that I stood on 5th Avenue, right near Rockefeller Center, one of the richest spots on the planet. A man sat on the corner of the street right in-front of Saks 5th Avenue, an amputee with a desolate expression on his face and an empty coffee cup in his hand. I had the chance to observe this man for about forty-five minutes, while I was

Peeeeeeeeeeetttttttttttttteeeeeeeeeeee

2009-10-05T03:05:00.002-04:00

rRrRrRrRrRrRrRrrrrrrrrRrrRrrRr i Hear you!! I can fly again!! @

Michael, man

2009-10-05T02:52:00.009-04:00

Forgive my wretched I,please my friend, really, I take it all back. Of course Theatre is art, of course, how else did it press so deeply into me? It brings the art of life into the magical transformation of performance. Please, forgive me my friend.Tom Cruise is a great actor, better than I'll ever be, even if I still dislike the American version of Vanilla Sky. Because it's like eating

...And I don't know how to spell

2009-10-04T11:44:00.015-04:00

These are just drafts . . . works in progress. Except for the gem below (and a few others).What a beautiful day. For anyone reading Pothead, the character is 19, and though much of him is me, he is not me in the now. I know the last chapter, and have the first two, what I'm working on is how to fill the space between, as Morrison taught me.This blog, in its many transformations, is a writer's

Schoolboy in Adolf's Apparel

2009-10-03T21:20:00.012-04:00

"What is the goal of writing?" asked Boone Gorges, and so I thought I'd answer along the lines of Woolf. My cousin Marina said that the best actors are those who are able to keep a sense of self-identity, even as they are forced to play roles that are nothing like themselves. If this is true, and intuitively it seems to be the case, then I should have inside myself what it takes to be a good

Now, That's Shock Therapy!

2009-10-03T11:15:00.014-04:00

Okay, how many of you really thought I'd pick up on such a cunning, loving, eclectic display of electric subtlety? Or let alone, even pick up the zine! I definitely needed that, yes, but really, can we keep this a secret? I'm afraid to walk outside of my dorm-room. ...Knew I should have used a pen name. You never saw me, I'm not real. No, was never here. Stop it. Don't read me! Okay, I don't

My Sole out of the Abyss

2009-10-02T22:59:00.045-04:00

Writers are notoriously self-obsessed, but I think few people realize how much of that self-obsession is based on self-loathing. Pamela BurgerNot long ago a vacant apartment stared into me. I had moved out on my own, supposedly, ready to begin adult life. There was no furniture in the larger room of my co-operative, the fridge was empty, and the walls were bare. There was no television, as the

Dionysus and Apollo.

2009-10-01T02:21:00.007-04:00

Sanity definitely has its upside, but madness is fun and instructive. The key, as Nietzsche said in The Birth of Tragedy, is to find a balance between reason and madness.

Man in the Elevator

2009-09-30T18:09:00.026-04:00

(I thought I was really working out of myself this time. Who authored this? Never again will I listen to prose on NPR, pretty sure that's where a bunch of this came from. Well, Kerouac did say, some writing is just for oneself.)An ordinary April day he hit the emergency stop button. He put his hand over my shoulder and I panicked. It wasn't homosexual, more camaraderie-like, as if we were old war

Soul Searching Sucks

2009-09-29T01:22:00.007-04:00

What a dumbass kid. Chose art over life. My stupidity confounds me. Reatrd, I don't--scratch that. i don't even know the meaning of confoundness. Art over life, service in the name of truth, unable to turn a glance away-and life? Just flies by, to be consumed . . . art they say. Sold my soul to the devil, eh Faust? Truth sculpt within, why not falsehood? Death compels, nothing else. Feeding of

On the Edge

2009-09-28T22:55:00.005-04:00

The edge is an absurd place to be. The edge, do you understand what is meant? The place before the word is written, the space before the first sentence illuminates and violates the horrendously spectacular space of possibility. The edge. That perpetual flickering madness of sacred sanity frothing in an effervescent fizzle of spontaneous erection. Attention. We’re not there yet. I’ll try again.

birds

2009-09-28T17:44:00.007-04:00

Broken bottle-neck sallying along,sings along the songs of sleepas a record spun, black and edgy,and dreams of days to reap.By play of fractured noisewith freedom spurting froth, your song of fictive poisein a game of naked cloth,makes a melody of romance;knows the future like a book,has the heartbeat in a trance,and the present in a hook,a wormwood at a glance.here is the originalbirdsThis

2009-09-27T20:03:00.002-04:00

Dream Maker...Heart Breaker

2009-09-27T14:47:00.006-04:00

By my friend, G.S. PayneThere you were last night,in my living room.Bigger than life, you were always that,so small, and so much bigger than life.I haven’t a clue when I’ll stop thinkingabout you this time...stop thinking about the march of time,and age and death - the certainties that even your angelic eyes couldn’t stop. You were softly,so softly singing,and strumming your guitar,and I was

A Silver Fork

2009-09-27T03:54:00.026-04:00

looked up from the cold cementWas it the painter-poetwriting circles in philosophydropping a note--silver pain pierced beneath her lipensorcels every eager--did a black-cotton- trench-coatwalk bythe glorious Spadeunder enchanted eyeswhen last did a needle pierce a chest did the light--deliver-a-truth-so-cold--

A Yellow Motorcycle

2009-09-27T01:57:00.045-04:00

waits in a campus corner Would we dare to risk-- strap on leather and Go where my pa and my ma Cooler than I'll ever know crashed lay under ural Cobra metal on the train tracks he broke his leg, mama, photographs beautiful black curls egg-beaten, dark-tire-eyes, cigarette smoke curling in the holes of the fence she could hear the train Crimson streaks on steel mama smiled on the beach by the

Sociology

2009-09-25T18:31:00.002-04:00

Algorhythms

2009-09-25T18:27:00.004-04:00

Digital Dating

2009-09-20T02:14:00.032-04:00

My hands warm-up on the keyboard, as the nerves connect to the circuits, beneath the keys. Been following her images for months, seeking clues, little flickering hints, wishing to under- stand the meta-data on the Youtube; wondering who the songs are for: me, or the other hundred and three; will I face her outside Facebook; should I text her next, maybe, memorize, then watch her movie list so I

What a day, what a day!

2009-09-16T20:35:00.013-04:00

So said the poet at the end of Mindwalk. Why not turn interiors inside out? To hell with contemporary critics raging against the private life becoming public. I'll stand naked in the sunshine, roll through the grass, dance on the keyboard in an infinite symphony of digression; re-winding the tape in my mind, for no better reason than a lover has for kissing his beloved in the dark; for we are

Hey Worm,

2009-09-08T03:52:00.020-04:00

When a poet pulls a rabbit out of a habit,as a magician looks toward tradition,he lies only to himself.Now I admire your desire.I sense passion, I sense fire,I sense truth calling from the telephone-boothdressed in animal attire.But never Sir, ever question my honor.For childish as it seemsthese are the paintings in my dreams-and honest as you are,with wit, even fit, I assure you thatwe both need

Pull

2009-06-08T01:29:00.013-04:00

The living room is dark, there is no way to jump the gap, please, let a guy talk. I've already said too much, I know, but maybe the darkness will climb out. I walk down a piano trench in a borough full of trees. Flowers bloom, pulling down the branches in the spring: big white flowers that look like snowballs under the shimmer of night. The smooth black pavement glistens and sparks with glass

expression ii

2009-05-30T04:07:00.007-04:00

I'm pretty sure the following piece of writing is entirely from the words of another poet I had heard one day, possibly half asleep in a daze. It was triggered as I walked through Needle Park in the East Village, walking past a lesbian in a black dress. Anyone know the poet's name?lesbian in a black dresstwirls a sea of glitter-sprayon a Wednesday afternoon, afterwork, afterschoolin five years,

Something beautiful

2009-05-10T16:33:00.002-04:00

Poem by Pavese

April

2009-05-09T17:57:00.014-04:00

It was raining on campus. I walked into the coffee place in the science- building and saw her sitting there, reading a book. At first I didn't believe it was her, but then I looked again, and a third time, gasped and walked toward the counter. Several days ago we spoke on the phone and it was intense. A small coffee. I put a little half-n-half and one sugar. I sat parallel to her,

"He wasn't addicted to any substance;

2009-05-08T21:23:00.003-04:00

he was addicted to love."-Mark Rudman on PaveseAlter Ego by Cesare PaveseFrom morning till evening he saw the tattooon his silky chest: a russet woman,lying concealed in the field of hair. Beneath there was sometimes chaos, she leapt up suddenly.The day passed in cursing and silence.If the woman were no tattoo butclung alive to his hairy chest, he'dcry out more loudly in the little cell.Wide-eyed

rebirth

2009-05-08T21:21:00.000-04:00

2009-05-04T02:42:00.000-04:00

2009-05-04T02:40:00.000-04:00

2009-05-03T22:00:00.006-04:00

Square Times

2009-04-29T17:21:00.007-04:00

A tour around an asylum for the crazies. Children. Maze of narrow white sandy-brown corridors. Flickering florescent lights buzzing in blue hues. Smell of urine iodine fluoxetine hydrochloride ProZzZac rubbing-alcohol Windex seamen rotten brown plumbing. Mind-recorders on every metallic-grey flickering desk Loudspeakers in every white-cushioned flickering roombox. Faceless flickering

Note on artistic beliefs

2009-04-27T16:32:00.011-04:00

"We are farthest from what we are closest to." -NietzscheMy work is in a constant process of revision. All of it, from the first poem ever written, to the unfiltered monsters that storm out of me day by day. Time, and Will, permitting.Writing is a process of self-revelation, self-knowledge.Only after I have revealed myself, to myself, am I able to acknowledge what is in me and overcome! This is

Art by Lisa Rabinovich

2009-04-23T01:13:00.009-04:00

Did you know that all i freakin see is purple-everywhere! I've never seen so much purple.All this black graffti and then, as if,by magic, i see purple graffti. I wanna say more but i'd be percieved as a real madman.

Amorphophallus

2009-04-19T23:34:00.004-04:00

Lavender lake of skycross-eyed purple pout seems a shoredeathbe nailedtoday

The world has never been more beautiful

2009-04-19T20:21:00.003-04:00

Anja Garbarek - Stay Tuned

Question of the day

2009-04-18T22:11:00.002-04:00

Is there beauty in the world if there is nobody there to see it?

A Glimse Up Her Outskirts

2009-04-16T00:19:00.054-04:00

moonman82 http://www.flickr.com/photos/25830962@N06/3279144678/ Chased the L.I.R.R. from Roosevelt to Main - A Chinese girl in mud-brown leather boots up to her knees, running in front swoosh - dash to the platform I cut ahead of her on the stairs She won't make it, only three paces behind me - the door closing in my face Behold! the doors open, more for her than me and off to the city we race.

The Chimera and the Sphinx

2009-04-14T19:37:00.010-04:00

By FlaubertJumping, flying, spurting fire through its nostrils, and striking itswings with its dragon's tail, the Chimera with its green eyes, windsround, and barks. The curls of its head, thrown back on one side,intermingle with the hair on its haunches; and on the other side theyhang over the sand, and move to and fro with the swaying of its entirebody.The Sphinx is motionless, and gazes at the

Black

2009-04-01T00:54:00.004-04:00

To think that I've forgotten how to see the beauty in the world. My eyes have been polluted: black gum thrown into the eyelids. It's been a long time. The swelling in my chest has ceased. There used to be days where I could not bare the beauty of the world. To do homework, to do anything, with this majestic life brimming all around, how could I not be moved into a catatonic state.. How did it all

Through the Smoke

2009-03-31T17:38:00.053-04:00

Today in the pizzeria I felt like writing a poem. About the pizza-man. Oh Pizza man, Pizza man! That's how it would have started. The whole place has only three tables and I've walked past it often and yet I've rarely ever seen more than one customer at any given time of day. A little blond girl sits in the corner watching Spongebob Squarepants on the television hanging above the counter. An

Requim for a Day Off

2009-03-14T18:06:00.002-04:00

Tragedy befalls Suburbia.Taken from FREEwilliamsburg.com

On a Toilet Vitrine

2009-02-26T12:05:00.004-05:00

I'm writing thispoem on toiletpaper inside mycousin Marina'sbathroom. I'mvery High rightnow and themaid is in myroom which isa problem forme due to the factthat being stonedhas made me terrified of her.Which you mightunderstand ifthere was somethingcruel about her,but she really isjust a sweetSpanish, middle-agedwoman - maids havealways scared me.Do pardon me,someone tried toopen the bathroomdoor

Bottled Boy in College

2009-02-25T17:53:00.049-05:00

Vomits cryptic glass on a naked sidewalk. Sparked sounds of a fermented-fire, liquid shattering on dark asphalt, startles a professorial, one eyed, crippled cat. Tiny rotting birds flee the littered trees, two by two, criss-crossing their own paths like strands of D.N.A. while redblue co-op-lights flicker constellations; a red swarm of blue mosquitoes draining a cow beneath the haze of the

Awake

2009-02-16T06:04:00.004-05:00

28 October '04nyc Dreamer99: hitimebyheartbeats: heynyc Dreamer99: who are youtimebyheartbeats: meg..nyc Dreamer99: all I see are letters on a computer screennyc Dreamer99: i seem to know you yet all iv seen are letters on a computer screennyc Dreamer99: im finding this real strange all of a suddennyc Dreamer99: don't youtimebyheartbeats: yeah it is strangenyc Dreamer99: are you

SALE SALE SALE!!!

2009-02-10T23:11:00.012-05:00

A rational vacuum The Power Plug Super Strong Vacillator 2000 on SALEat Macy's with a Free turbo chargeddream dispenser, void after thirty daysof purchase or your money back.All for just three easy paymentsof spiritblood with a FREE LIFETIME GUARENTEE!

Marinetti’s Foundation

2009-02-07T23:13:00.018-05:00

Marinetti, in a mad maudlin manner full of mendacious, moribund music,dramatizes his and his compatriots’ emotional experience in favor of internal,subjective representation which stand in opposition to naturalistic views of art. He numerically lists the intentions of their art: to be dangerous, revolutionary, fearless;modernity—industrialization, technology—these are the new forms of

Wandering Thoughts in the Summer Rain

2009-02-07T23:01:00.020-05:00

Once I thoughtLove is the answer to everythingLove is like great homemade BorschtAnd all of the other problems, NothingnessEternal Recurrence, Dread, speculationsabout Simulacrum and Simulations,Preformativity and all other trepidationsare just fatty parts of beef to be discarded,chew a bit and spit out into a side plate.But my mind galloped through Heracatilian riversundermining such a Platonic

Bridging the Gap

2009-02-07T22:43:00.009-05:00

Her look is for you, if she turns.Follow her. Do not stray too close but hint. See where she leads. Go into the coffee shop, there is nothing to be afraid of, let your body guide your mind. Go sit down across her—there, that table but to the side. Do not pretend to read Travesty, enjoy her eyes tickling your skin. Return the favor and when she looks do not turn away. Get up and say, “May I?”Sit.

2009-02-07T22:19:00.019-05:00

Fast Eddie entered the joint all eyes glittering in the sparks of his gold-gilt jacket; “Eight hundred large, two hundred small!” He fawned his cash on the table like a Japanese fan. Tight Mike wheeled in two townies for three-hundred large was looking to hit and run, but fast Eddie changed all that. He had a way of doing that. Eddie was coked up, excited, had the nervous shakes of a chronic

2009-02-07T19:00:00.008-05:00

One of the ways toutter the nothings drifting: lies in cold cement

I could never hold a note anyway

2008-11-20T05:01:00.013-05:00

I fear that what I shall utter as a young man I will despise as an old man. Perhaps, then, it is best to never grow old. This a voice in my heart sings to me. If only I were able to define myself as a young man, why then, then, him who will be old in me, shall not only be the creation of a young man but shall become the young-man himself! This a voice in my heart sings to me. I fear that the

absence

2008-11-20T03:47:00.024-05:00

Yearning for winter in July not always, but this July, yearning. Music pours through a body -a spaghetti-water-drainer- cold steam, memories enlaced, my filter and bucket, a life, a photographic collection of evanescence; a life, mapped out in song-frags stones and prickling-skin the boisterous booming of door slams shattered plates the suppleness of a breast, a car-ride, alls combination,

This Old Man on 64th Street

2008-11-20T03:25:00.014-05:00

This old man came running through our street, yelling: “ Where did my mind go!? ” “ Where did my mind go!? ” Nobody understood what to say to the old man, so I said, "Old grunt, why don't you go and ask the cemetery trees" ecstatic by such cleverness. But the old man was raving: “ Who's got my mind!? ” “ Where’s my mind!? ” So, a little irritated, I decided to take pity on the old man and

On Theodicy Faith Optimism and Pessimism

2008-11-16T22:35:00.019-05:00

I accept the Grand Inquisitor's critique in the Brothers Karamazov of mankind and its weaknesses. To downplay this world and the suffering within it through a theological theodicy that seeks to justify the suffering in this world by pointing to another world in the beyond, to a "higher" world, is to do grave injustice to this life. As Nietzsche bravely argued, it is to devalue this life. To posit

What the mind remembers

2008-11-16T21:27:00.009-05:00

A few days ago I had written about prayer and penitence. I had used a metaphor which may have been read as an allusion to Dostoevsky's The Brothers Karamazov. There, Smerdyakov presents the argument: since mountains do not move when people pray, the existence of God is thereby rebuked. I had also used the same imagery in my entry; but this was quite an uncanny coincidence especially considering

Crossed-Circuit Dreams

2008-11-14T17:15:00.038-05:00

Somewhere deep in the celestial corridors of a boy and a girl's insatiable dreams, cobblestone pathways crossed, coincidentally, into a neural network of shared semblances on the same night, in separate beds. Both shared a communal dream of love and friendship in their hearts, which projected its deepest desires on their bed night screens. To make real what is already there but not here, what

A self-critical note

2008-11-13T18:42:00.005-05:00

Some lines in my verses and passages originate from other sources. Often, they are conscious allusions, at other times, they are unconscious outbursts which through the impassioned thrusts of creation are able to bypass my censors. It is with great apology that I confess my uncertainty of where precisely many of the lines I've written come from. However, I always Google the questionable ones.

Oh Ecstasy, Oh Joy!

2008-11-13T18:03:00.010-05:00

I've experimented a little with ecstasy and magic-mushrooms in the past. Ecstasy created an openness to being, an openness to love and others that lasted for twelve hours, at the most. Magic-mushrooms swirled the liquid beauty of the world before my eyes and slowed down time to such an incredible near-stillness, that, combined with the thought of death, I vomited. Mystics, poets and artists have

Four More Holes in an Abysmal Exploration

2008-11-13T17:54:00.016-05:00

Today can never catch up with yesterday, for today, even when speaking of yesterday, only says of what is true today and not the day before. <-- Definitely a quote from something I read, but do not know where from.....Writing is my lifeIt is more important than love, And love has fled.There is no writing without love,For my love is dead.And, yes, it was I

Branded in a lie

2008-11-13T17:33:00.010-05:00

To make or not to make public the private sphere?It is far easier to confess in the safe privacy of a journal or notebook than to do so before the public. It is also easier there to forget and ignore oneself. So public it shall be. So be it.From the notebookThere is almost something of the poet in me. Years ago I had artistic dreams full of colorful marshmallows and an excited passion that

The matrix sky is gray

2008-11-09T04:00:00.014-05:00

Only at 4:40 in the afternoon was I able to get out of bed. The entire day I would wake to spot the overcast gray sky in a perfect dome which enveloped the world in its somber shade. Once again I accomplished nothing academically as my conscience does not allow for a moments rest. However, I did catch the Matrix today - the first Matrix - and saw the whole film in a completely new light. For the

Nineth Day of the Abyss

2008-11-08T03:20:00.005-05:00

The details of the day are rather trite in the great context of waking life; personal developments of an increasingly fruitful relationship with my mother, whose home I am spending the weekend at, and spiritual transformations in the middle of the night to moonlit sonatas. Really striking the chords of the soul today, after coughing out some devils in the shower, is a poem that broke me like a

Eighth night of the Abyss

2008-11-07T02:55:00.025-05:00

I lied. How easy it is to lie. Every day I was to chronicle my actions and already three days have passed, three days which have been excluded out of fear and self-deception. The unwillingness to remain honest with oneself, and consequently, everyone else, leaves holes in the attempts to chronicle the abyss.I've been plagued by rationality for the past ten or so years. Philosophy is what I study

A Dream Within a Dream

2008-11-04T00:54:00.003-05:00

by Edgar Allen PoeTake this kiss upon the brow!And, in parting from you now,Thus much let me avow-You are not wrong, who deemThat my days have been a dream;Yet if hope has flown awayIn a night, or in a day,In a vision, or in none,Is it therefore the less gone?All that we see or seemIs but a dream within a dream.I stand amid the roarOf a surf-tormented shore,And I hold within my handGrains of the

Cube

2008-04-09T00:08:00.018-04:00

They, wear you down. They, bury your spirit existential debris. They, pound, heart, voice, croaks, stomach growls, toes curl, knees tremble. Rebellion, ideals, try and try, hammer, it squeezes tight, your spirit, not knowing, where to hide? shortly leaks away. hold out for a few weeks months, one semester. Walk on crutches. Crutches snap! not meaning to frighten you, dear girl, meaning to warn;