In the late afternoon

        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
        alleyway,

        and I see a girl,
        small
            and
        strong,
        pierce the wind past Atlas Café,

        her
        suitcase, rolling steadily
        past this stanza

        as accents, curl around my red earlobes
        and hang themselves
        like ornaments. 

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

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

3:00 am meditation

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 we couldn't imagine) and the energy and excitement with which we carried on in the ways that we did. Sitting on a bed, sometimes passing the bowl around, sometimes not, we'd go on and on for hours into the night. How precious and valuable to us were the thoughts we read in the books that interested us and that we shared with one another, how awestruck we were by feeling like we were going to unlock a deep mystery, or even understand something as banal as falling in love.

We believed back then, perhaps naively but not stupidly, that in the very act of asking a philosophical question, such as, 'What constituits a philosophical question?' that not only was there an answer, but that it was important and worth pursuing. For me philosophy has never been about wisdom for the sake of wisdom or about the pleasure in discovery but about wanting to go as deep as one can go in pursuit of the truth about what it means to be human, to be alive, to be human and alive in the here and now, and to understand oneself. Understanding people in general, from the thoughts of Sartre, lead me to understand that I was capable of creating the purpose for my life.  Looking into myself, into the values that I cherish, I determined that becoming an explorer of thought- of consciousness- was a worthwhile, life-long purpose and pursuit. 

There's great pleasure in being a writer. To engineer and discover things about oneself and the world, to still be able to value fantasy and dreams. Work consumes all that.

I've been reminded by philosophers of ideas that I've valued but have forgotton - ideas that are my core, but are not enacted. Which means that I've been living an inauthentic life- a life of action that does not adhere to my core beliefs. My headache is so great that I cannot bare to get out of bed and do the most basic of tasks, like grooming. Even going to the bathroom. There is a suicidal impulse in me, an impulse of great destruction, but I understand it now. The suicide is a figurative one: it is the authentic me screaming out against the "I" that needs to be destroyed so that I may act in accordance to my values. Writing this is such an act. The continuation of such writing, that must go into those realms of thought that I cherish is the way to establish an authentic identity.

The truth makes me feel good, because that is the authentic person that feels.

Robert Thurman Speaks at Occupy Wall Street

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

Immortal Technique Toast To The Dead in Zuccotti Park

Immortal Technique Freestyles at Occupy Wall Street.

Immortal Technique #OccupyWallStreet

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

July 7, 2011

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

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

In theory of my dreams

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 speaks I don't know
what it says for it does not speak of me
The stare of the thirteen-year-old junkie
is still
Don't leave me yet
Beneath the pale moon sickness of your skin
I lose all sense of madness
in the arranged order of our epiphanies
We all want to crawl into the silence and cry

Previews

"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. "When was the last time any movie was worth it?" I asked.
 She gave me this look that she gives when I'm on her last nerve, so I backed down and waited for the bowl to be passed around.
"Do you have the one-hitter?" asked Franklin.
"Yes, I totally forgot about that," said Marlo.
"God this is so lame. You guys smoke too much."
"If you don't want any Jared, why don't you go get us seats."
"Who said I didn't want any? Stop giving me so much attitude. I'm just saying, that if we keep smoking before every movie, we'll never be able to enjoy anything sober."
"It's not like the movies," Franklin chimed in, "are good when we're high."
"Ferris Bullier was good," I said.
"Yeah, how long ago was that? And Ferris is a classic. Quit whinin' man. Enjoy."
He passed me the one-hitter.
"Do you think there are cops here? I'm getting paranoid."
"No sweetheart, no cops and nobody cares."
"Aww, okay baby. I love you."
Jess leaned over and her and Marlo went at it for a bit. "I must be toked, Franky,  with their matching hats they look like movie stars."
Franklin laughed.
"Common, let's get out of here. There's too big a crowd in front," said Franklin.
"Seriously you two. . . never mind."
"I can't believe so many people are out tonight. What day is it?"
"Friday. How do you not know what day it is?"
"You think I keep track of such trivial bullshit? Let me have the tickets."
"What for? We've got to wait for them anyway."
"Just give me my ticket, will you? I want to get some Nachos."
"Dude, there's no time. You'll miss the movie."
"I don't care if I miss the movie, the movie is gonna suck anyway. Give me my ticket!"
"Damn man, I want Nachos too."
"I'll get a large. We can share. Soda?"
"That thing is like five bucks man."
"So. It's not like it's your money. We'll split it, what do you want?"
"Coke or Pepsi."
"Alright, see you inside."
"Dude, don't go. I'm mad paranoid around people."
"Bro, easy. Nobody's gonna hurt you."
"It's not that man. What if I run into someone from school? I think I just saw Mandy."
"What? Where?"
"Over there. By the Terminator."
"What, the girl in the plaid skirt?"
"Yeah."
"Bro, that's not Mandy. How high are you?"
"Seriously? Dude I don't want Nachos anymore."
"Okay man, just go back to the car. I'll see you inside. Give me the ticket."
"But they're--"
"Relax. They're always like that. Just go in with them."
This is why I never like smoking with rookies. You'd think by the time you were a senior you'd be able to handle a little weed. . . no wonder they still like the movies. What a waste of time. . . .

"How's the line, Jared?"
"How does it look, Jess?"
"Oh can you get me Milk Duds? Here's three."
"Anything else?"
"No, that's all."
What the hell did I want again? Can't stand when this happens. What the hell kinda weed was that anyway; I should get some for later ...So heady. . .
"Uhm.. a large Pepsi and Milk Duds, and, and, uhm. . Nachos. With cheese.

"Psss, that you?"
"Yeah, sit down."
"How is the movie?"
"How should I know, it just started."
"What did I miss."
"Nothing man. Just watch."
Oh great, everyone is laughing at the corny jokes. I really can't stand the suburbs. There has to be something better to do. I better not end up laughing at any of this. . .
"The Nachos are hot man!"
"I know, eat them before they get cold and soggy."
"The cheese is so good man!"
"Pass them over here."
"Alright, and here are your Milk Duds."
"Still want them?"
"Yes."
"What the hell did we go for anyway. You know how much weed we could have bought. . .  four movie tickets buys a lot of Dro..."
"This isn't Dro."
"No? What is it?"
"Miami Kush."
"Miami? You can't seriously believe this stuff is from Miami."
"Shhhh!"

God I hate going to the movies on the weekend. Everyone makes such a big deal, as if they've never seen a movie before. If this was a good movie. . . but this? Gonna end-up replayed on TV a thousand times a year. It's like they've already anticipated where the commercials are going to be.
"They've anticipated where the commercials are going to be."
"You're right man!" Franklin laughed.
I could be home reading Kafka. Not that'd I'd really be reading Kafka. But, theoretically, I could be home reading Kafka.
"You know we should get high and read Kafka sometime."
"Who?"
"You don't know Kafka?"
"No."
"He's like Poe. But Jewish."
"A Jewish Poe?"
"Yea, kinda. Sorta. I dunno. Yeah."
Why is Franklin's knee pressed against mine. Is he trying to prove who is more liberal? I'm not moving it. Definitely not. No, he's the Homophobe. That part about Mandy was really good. I always knew he was gay. Maybe he's bi. Damn his knee is hot. That kid is on fire. It's the weed. Definitely the weed. Not moving it.He can keep it there all he wants! The cinematography is pretty good. That guy definitely went to a good film school. What a waste of talent. Don't they care about us. If we're gonna dish-out money to spend on such a rotten movie, why don't they believe we'll dish to see a good movie? Those people have to have brains.
"I don't get it. If people pay money, even intelligent ones like us, to see--the crowd erupts in laughter--such--that was so cheesy--garbage, why don't they make good movies . . . just all good movies?"
"Not enough good ideas."
That's a good point. That's why I like Franklin. He always makes good points when I don't expect him to. I can't believe he's going to business school. He should be applying himself. Making something artistic. Not enough good ideas. You know. . .
"All the good ideas are regurgitated anyway. It's the same idea, told in different ways. Just like all the bad ideas. How many times am I going to watch a movie about a guy who can't get the girl, or is trying to lose his virginity. Or SHIT GETTING BLOWN UP! How many different ways, can you blow shit up?"
"Dude, save the philosophizing for after the movie."
Instantly the sound subsumed us. The sound of the engine ripped through the theater moving its way from back to the front as if a turbo-charged Mustang GT500 with six silver chrome-metal exhaust pipes, huffing through the hood, ripped through the middle aisle. The turbulence thrust forward from the screen to the back row like clear-blue water at an amusement park and filled the seats with sonic splashing, so that I felt a sheer kind of somnambulistic joy at the peripheries of my consciousness; and on and on the sound continued its bling zang zang and zig bong gop, alternating between the left and right engines, back and forth like a wave-pool on amphetamines so that the whole theater became quiet and still and everyone momentarily stopped eating while we were consumed, as some wild Oz in the sound-effects studio was flipping switches. Pickaxes were hitting the asphalt, and here we were, little crumbs in a massive mass of concrete mechanics, grease in a gargantuan engine spilling fuel, pumping smoke, chewing metal, a turpentine sense of senseless wonder--and I loved it. The sound sent echos through the walls and reverberated the utterly false sensation of the floor shaking. The awful voices of the horrific, bad teachers I had endured, fell through the tectonic plates that were set in motion beneath the flowerbed of my skull.
I never fully lost my sense of self, my ego always maintained itself, but in its disentanglement from the past, and the nag-nuggets of my sardonic self, the caverns in my stomach seemed held by the sounds, the images, all at play with one another while I watched, focused and re-focused my attention on the aspects of the movie I was not meant to see, gazing upon all that was out of focus. That orb in my pits, kind of like a rotating Jupiter was lassoed by the sensations and its fiber-optic threads sent it spinning out into the Milky Way, while I contemplated the digital pixels of the cinematic sun, setting beneath the blown-up, giant actors. My eyes sunk in their sockets and I felt my body slump in the chair as the machine swallowed me. I was drifting through the film, a micro-spec on the screen, floating along.

Feeling this today

White Space

White Space,

lend but a word,

but a curl to slide through,

lend but a light

to be blinded by the moon on your finger. 

Voice broken in my throat, 

hoarse, sore, this voice

broke, 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 in a bag,

send me to the sea, 

drag me in the dirt, break my twig in three, 

lock me in a room and throw away the key

but let this. . . 

Desperate language, frozen.

     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,
    grease the grip, and turn the fuckers out.

Flash

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 were hazy, like my dreams, in which I watched my memories embalmed in instant, old photographs, all of which were half-burned and falling above my head and before my supine body, as only dreams can do.

Still a rational creature, I thought of calling a psychiatrist, the last one did not return my call, but I thought better of it and thought maybe a movie and sex would be better.

The movies were all bad, though good movies they were, and the only sex I found was on the internet; so I emptied my frustrations on the floor and tried a PBS documentary about art, half of which was good and the other not so good.

I stopped watching and thought of taking a bubble bath, which might do me some good, along with reading a local paper where I could read about the sexual exploits of politicians and also dead prostitutes and maybe a funny cartoon to cheer myself up and relax. But the headline was depressing. And I wasn't really in the mood for reading anyway.

I smoked a cigarette and ate some junk food in the middle of the night. I went online and yammered away at the white screen and thought of you again. There you are kind of blurry kind of dead kind of beautiful and I thought about all the sex we had, all the food we ate, all the movies we watched, some of which were kind of good, kind of beautiful, kind of dead, and I longed to smell your hair, to see your pout, to look again and lose my mind on your breast, lose the yelling and broken plates in those still-life photographs, lose my sense of time and maybe help you do the same.

The rain started tapping his impatient fingers on the roof, and at the end of the night, as my Uncle wakes to go to work, I realize I have nothing but half burning photographs, and even the rain can't put the fire out. Today will be like some five-year-old Thursday I cannot recall and

Modern Wonders

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 a Marlboro light in the back parking lot that makes me love it? Immigrants, poverty, Puerto Rican biker gangs, thundering past Hasidic Jews running home for the evening prayers; the Italian cop who seemed to be from the 1920s with his manner and grace as we held up rush-hour traffic looking for Lorimer street; the grimy buildings taken over by yuppie monstrosities; the street art of the factory district with New York City across the river, or that bloody pigeon feather on the curb of the pavement. . . .

They tell me, Brooklyn still has character. I'm not sure exactly what that means. But it sounds right.

I can see it in the expression of their faces. I can see it in the fight, cynicism, and expressions of their will. In that rugged force I see in their swagger. You've got to watch yourself in this town. A look will give away where you're from, what you've been through, and what you're made of. Are you a square, a poser, an emo artist or just emo . . . does titanium run through your veins? It's the street mix of old and young, the clash of culture, the clash of time, the clash of history and contemporary, the clash of character and drone.

This is the town where I walk down the street and imagine Ginsberg yelling "Moloch!" from the rooftops, "I'm madder than you are Carl!" Aluminum serpent and hallucinogenic wine to get drunk on Baudelaire hypnotizes the imagination in the vitrines of the vintage shops. Eighties and Nineties pulp-noir a few blocks away from an art installation in the back of a European clothing store and three blocks south of a Warsaw bar that serves Brooklyn Lager and Perogies.

The only vegetables in this town seem to dwell in the condo high-rises, who occasionally venture out, for their weekly massages and spa treatments in their posh salons. Everyone else is either in the fight- or dead. Action Action Action. Any minute I half-expect Oz to pull the curtain back and say, “Yes, kid, you’re actually in a movie, but nobody’s seen it.” The streets round themselves and you better be careful not to get too lost or you too shall see the sheet-metal eat the day.

There’s a poetry in the gusts blowing from the East river. I travel through that wind, to old New York. To the New York of the Twenties and before; the half-built masterpieces of architectural brilliance cut in half by the diagonal scimitar of the golden sun. The streets pulsating with music from factories whose only machinery are rusty sculptures that blast vibrations from their rusty shoulders.

Camus saw little more than the rains of New York, the horrific pale manikins and ghastly streets. I guess he forgot to take the eL across the river. To look at the Remington in the thrift shop on Bedford. What do you think he would have written Allen? A tragedy, I agree.

These are the streets, the only streets I know, to still bring out the light in my eyes. Maybe it’s the toxic goo running beneath the pavement and the machinery that you speak of, eating away at the heart of these walking wonders: that sick combination of everything to live and die for, caught beneath an oncoming tidal wave of corporate metal on the horizon. . . . and it stares back at you. It’s there. You see it. You know it.