Tuesday, December 28, 2010

The Source

A vociferous blast amongst nothing

A pinhole of light shines through

Casting a cone that ends, faded, at his feet

And then another

And another

And so on

Until what was once merely blackness now appears to have limits

A half-dome

Kept from being complete by the very ground you stand on

These holes are just holes

But someone made them more than that

They are looking-glasses into heaven

They are evidence of the realm of gods

As seen from the kiddie-table

They pull us

Guide us

We name them

Connect then with imaginary lines

And then give another name to the product

They project all things past and future

As long as you know how to interpret them

They are most numerous where the air is the clearest


Without them we would still live in this paralyzing midnight

The black dome blushes bluer until it is blue

As the rapturous light takes over everything

Too bright to be captured

Blinding those devout enough to try to see the source

And the holes disappear

These violent declarations of a waking gunfighter

Who fired into the black

He who first revealed the limits of the dark

Daring the emptiness to do something


Pleading with the design to show itself

But it never does

They fade and retreat into the gradient flush of pale purple

to red

to orange

to almost green

to the truest of blues

And mammoth cotton clouds arrive

To protect them in their slumber

And still the gunfighter watches

Laying naked

With his back flush against the smooth desert floor

His skin too thick to be burned

And he sleeps through the day

As he waits for the next coming of night

To once again challenge the source of this immense light

To at last reveal its true form

In the hope that as a result

He would finally understand

Monday, November 29, 2010

Saturday, November 20, 2010

Last Exit to Brooklyn

FIRST LINE: They sprawled along the counter and on the chairs.

On Becoming an Adult

I wasn't really living
I didn't realize it, but I wasn't
So many things to be done
All by yourself
With nobody to help you
Mom can't do it
You're left with only one choice
To become an adult
Or I suppose you could become a homeless person
But I feel like the novelty would wear off pretty quickly
Within a week or two



You have a to-do list
Dry-erase marker sitting atop the white board so long it permanently stains it
You gotta renew your car registration
You've got to figure out what the fuck you're gonna do with your life
And you've gotta say you're sorry to all those people you fucked over
And reply to emails

But it's ok

This is the beginning of a new life and the death of another
One day you're gonna turn around and realize that you're out of paper towels
And a baby is gonna throw up on your chest
And you'll think back to this time
Before you became an adult
And you'll wonder who that person was
And where that person went

Well, that's the thing

That rubberstamp image of a person is never accurate
People are ever-developing things
Bodies of water
Pulled by the moon
And the organisms within it
And over the years they become so diverse
and evolved
that the things that grow inside grow legs
And walk right out of them
Into the world outside
And sometimes those things become bigger than the person ever could have been
And for that
The others remember them

For a certain amount of time

Until they're wiped away forever

Dried up

And regarded only as a slight dip in the road
On your way to some new destination

Modern Living

The endless shift of phases
Modes of moods
At one moment seeing beauty in all things
The mold, moles and smog of the world
The ideographic pattern of the oil mixing with the once-clear water
The brilliant coaxing fire consuming someone's childhood home
Like black ants ravishing a fallen ice cream sandwich
And then later
Who knows when?
Or why?
Unable to find a molecule of reassurance
Not in the tin voice of my mother's advice
The oversized bones of a young white lab
Or best rant Chayefsky ever wrote
By what means is this switch flipped?
One moment becomes that trapped grain of sand
That develops into a pearl of choking disdain and endwise forethought
A great masher bargained for by the loudest of the children
Adored, embraced as gospel and, yes, forgotten
Once again
All is right inside and out
Simply a moment passed
As fickle as an infant's attention in a crowd
The real human condition
That some might call bipolar disorder
That I would call modern living

Sunday, November 14, 2010

Some of Us

Some of us are the lost ones

The thousand yard starers

Grown appreciators of fine patterns

Both planned and accidental

Detectives of moments

Scientists of love and regret

Some of us don't like being the center of attention

The voices wrestling in the air can take you away

And bring the walls rolling in

Some of us are a mystery to ourselves

On an endless nighttime road trip

Of black-ice epiphanies and pothole hindsights

Sometimes we need help

Or a pass for some misdeed

(because we didn't mean it)

We don't agree with half the things we say out loud

We don't like people for something that we also do

And yet we still do it

Something continues to wind us up

Just as it always has

Actions and words that follow some preexisting pencil line

Like termites leaving a chewed trail behind

Leading other mistakes

And following this line that disappears, dipping, in the vast stretch to the horizon

Some of us are lost without a guide

A consoler

An encourager

A beacon

A love

Another one of us

A Word on Subway Performers, Everyone Else

Like so many subway performers

Trying to figure out what works

What their special talent is

The people go on with their conversations

Or smile, recognizing his tune

Or nothing

No reaction at all

This man

Only a set of mismatched sneakers

And a plastic bag tambourine of shaking, settling coins

Oh, God is on your side

I hope you've enjoyed my song

Anything will help

A penny is good

A dollar's better

(laughs, alone)

I'm hungry

And in the next car is another starving man


My baby does the hanky panky

With the most endearing smile

The whitest teeth

You've ever seen

Just and flourishing with his place in the world

Like a tiny fish swimming in unison with his surroundings

In the mouth of a much larger fish

A sick handstyle I saw waiting for the train

Tuesday, November 9, 2010


the little things

It’s not the those monster Hindenburg occurrences that gets you
It’s the little things that finally do you in
The tiny triangles of fiberglass under the collar at the wrong time
The insolent little bastard on the train calling time out too many times
A cut in the hot pretzel line
A snorting laugh that was never so brilliantly awful
These are reminders of the spectacle of humanity
Calling it fate is to consider yourself more important than you really are
This is not His plan
To say there’s a plan is to turn a blind eye to the obvious
That in a world of billions
All is
And will be
And what never was
Will still be reported as fact
This is not God’s will
This is you daily newsletter from the human race
That dandruff in your coffee
That doppler effect fuck you with your hands full
Hold on tight to someone
And don’t ask too many questions
Because denial is your savior
And only ego can crush you
So when you walk up to your car
And see the galaxy spread of blue cube window glass on the ground
Your GPS stolen
Your prescriptions rifled
Just laugh
At the absurdity of it all
And buy yourself a peanut butter and chocolate shake at lunch time

Book Covers: The Hustler

First Line: Henry, black and stooped, unlocked the door with a key on a large metal ring.

Book Covers: Honda Civic 2001 Owner's Manual

First Line: This Owner's Manual should be considered a permanent part of the car, and should remain with the car when it is sold.

Book Covers: Hollywood

First Line: A couple of days later Pinchot phoned.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Thursday, October 14, 2010

Sucked into the Land of Giants

I sit here

Me and Dillinger

We're both pretty sad

I'm watching him because Ricky went to go see Trish in Brooklyn

He misses Ricky

I've sunken deep into a chair that used to be mine

Smoking dry flakes

The black rectangle

The missing front to an empty drawer

A part of the world that doesn't quite fit

Like those robot lights at the Rail

Systematically shucking and jiving

Like a futuristic exterminator shooting invisible lasers

It commands attention

This booming black rectangle

It holds all of my fears, the hotlink to my stowed pricklers

A window to the unknown

It sucks me in

It becomes whatever is on the tip of my mind's tongue




Ants and Giants

Giants walk around and spit on gatherings of the small things

The tiny people try to swim out of the plasmic jelly

They struggle until it's over and the giant thinks nothing of it

Like tearing a leaf or smoothing out an ant hill

Everything is something else's god