The circle is the cycle is not the point

magic moments seem to be encapsulated by parentheses
suggestions of sepia flashes of light
things ablaze and angled

knowing memory makes things glow
and bend and take on
odd shapes

but memory is not
reality

and I dreamed of a woman lost
a woman gained a boy who
seemed happy and a man
unhinged

and except for this persistent unhappiness
it's
all

missing

wobbling
towards the infinite future

away
from an emaciated past

Sometimes a confession is not

tackled atop snow
twisting my back

screaming
wrestling in the front yard

2 a.m.
trying to leave

the quiet street our only witness
the white powder our canvas

she had been drinking
when she took MDMA

she had been smoking pot
and singing off-key

her teeth striped
black

grimaces leave
lips unsweet

thrusting with insults
begging

weeping unkind tears
to fool me

later

finally free
after shoving her off my car's hood

now having to live
with memories

knowing only the silence and the snow
witnessed the ending

the shame
the guilt

the bruises I showed no one
the bruises I left behind

no words
can ever give this meaning or redemption

we sinned in that house and on the lawn
and I have left out almost all of it

or at least anything
that blames

me

"Mystical Visions And Cosmic Vibrations"

Friday
Cafe Pick Me Up
off Tompkins Square Park
$3 double espresso
$2 sliver of brownie

scruffy NYC hipsters surround me
every one using a laptop
serious
working

another reminder that
the City rarely lets you rest
it's go big
or go home

slip on my sunglasses
head down Ninth thinking about St. Mark
and all the poets and prophets and madmen
who make the Village home

this must have been where the Shamans met
in old Manahatta

2593037

And now for something...

(Expand blog to see video)

from another generation.

I don't say this cynically, but all our modern art forms seem...exhausted, diminished.

I was downtown and saw 'kill your idols' printed on the back of a store bought shirt.

They have mohawks and fauxhawks.

The past seems like a husk and the present seems like a thin meal.

Something is going to happen.

When?

It might have already begun.

I like to think it has

in each of you.



My writing has shifted.

It has become a real horrorshow.

Wanna know why?

I used to run home trying to outrun the hellhound on my trail.

Something 'fanged and hairy and mad' wanted my blood.

He would chase me home.

His shadow outpaced mine.

He was biding his time.

Until

He caught me.

Then

He lived behind my eyes, in my hands, in my breath.

He left behind hunger and bent bones and a bloated frame.

The demon took me and he yawned.

Do you know why?

He knows a scary truth.

There is nothing special about my suffering.

Not a goddamned thing.



Scary truths however

can set you free.

(Expand blog to see video)

And now for something...



from another generation.

I don't say this cynically, but all our modern art forms seem...exhausted, diminished.

I was downtown and saw 'kill your idols' printed on the back of a store bought shirt.

They have mohawks and fauxhawks.

The past seems like a husk and the present seems like a thin meal.

Something is going to happen.

When?

It might have already begun.

I like to think it has

in each of you.



My writing has shifted.

It has become a real horrorshow.

Wanna know why?

I used to run home trying to outrun the hellhound on my trail.

Something 'fanged and hairy and mad' wanted my blood.

He would chase me home.

His shadow outpaced mine.

He was biding his time.

Until

He caught me.

Then

He lived behind my eyes, in my hands, in my breath.

He left behind hunger and bent bones and a bloated frame.

The demon took me and he yawned.

Do you know why?

He knows a scary truth.

There is nothing special about my suffering.

Not a goddamned thing.



Scary truths however

can set you free.

StCyr

Last comment 4 minutes ago:

now this one I adore.

"activity is killing the actor"

it uncurls like dust whirling
from a sharp point

to a furious spiral
to falling down

her hair scattered
soon to be swept

you think
as her lips approach

you see every crack and sore
sure you do but

the horror doesn't stop you

a whimpered no
wouldn't stop you

at 17 your question was
why am I hollow

now you know
making loving to a woman

you don't know
quiet

you don't know
without trembling

the clicking click clack
of your thinking

dreams blur this way
teaching nothing but teasing

this woman moans
grateful and with heat

cracking lips tracking
hungry mouths pressed bone-to-bone

you give
and the emptiness

yawns
beneath you

as she sways sweaty
her freckled ass stains the sheet

the worst verse of this evening
has not yet been reached...



just turn off the lights
it will be easier.

Rose slices

sometimes
flowers
look like
razors
on
razors

beauty costs
even the lonely

This is about one of you / This is about none of you

Dancing like lovers
gracing a stage,
she dipped and brought
his body to bear against
hers; with

his ear now near her lips,
she whispered,
" I know you're hiding,
there's some darkness
that keeps us apart. Let
me in, man, let me in..."

(dangerous kissing) In bed,

he laid awake wondering:
could she feel the heavy,
fluttering
beat of his heart? But
wondering was one thing


...he couldn't open up.
It felt like a proper
and an astutely
primitive response. That
which is hidden cannot
be stolen

you see,

there were omissions,
events shuffled and narratives
composed.
It was a deft manipulation,
an unfortunate prison,


and now,
trapped as a character
in his life's own play,
he had no choice

but to finish this act
which seemed
to have no ending

and less
and less
relation to meaning.