i went to the park at dusk with a notepad
and tried to write poetry
i felt everything
like the changing colours in the sky
the people running by
and the shadows under the trees that slowly spread out to tint the whole world
but i couldn't get anything good down.

I am content being in my closet-bed, safe and alone. I am ok with my window open and the night air. I can switch the switch of pursuit, fondness and a candid smile. I have my own sphere of existence and I am happy to have it. I cannot always start running on a new chapter of my life but I am fully able to continue to ream in the past with new vigor and statistical desperation. I am one of a few million-million and it is still unclear what creates the legend of capital uniqueness. I love my father and mother and always my sister. I want better for everyone and myself. I want to love on them all that I can.  Marriage no, children no, family is what I have as conflicting and contradicting as it may be. Thing fall apart. I love the ugly moments of my ceiling.

I am not a new story waiting to happen. I am not a ravid political face or frenzy. I am not a desperate grunt who got his just-comings. I am not the type to be escorted in any way by the crumpled void of fallacius fame and humble-beginning-fortune. I am the desperate coat bearer of the northeast bronx. I have the mind of a child. I have the graces of rat. I have the public anticipation of a broken man apart from his chariot-era. When sitting I grow anxious and hungry and mis-mannered and poor and terrified. I throw away any hour to the madness of deep seething and wallowed whispers of loathing per-the manuscript writings of two years ago. I cannot help myself like others can. I cannot say what haunts me the way they can. It's the deaf ears and I have some too. I was born this way and I who I am. They are permissible and I am another anachronism. I am tempted to start over somewhere completely unknown and away. I just want to break free from the cycle my age and be with my age. I want to chase my girl around the city and stop at another house and have another long conversation about the same daily occurrence of you evenings. Then move on when you have moved on and see straight into another tomorrow like I was unable to until now. To write myself out of another horrific night, alone. Defeated by my own revelations of my own determined normalcy and struggle for authentic dialog. Near the line of conviction that I should never say another word because the shy me now will be appalled by the shy me years later. That I will surely be an embarrassment in my own if I ever stepped on a stage. That I have nothing, and will never have anything, worthy or useful to the world around me. That I am completely doomed to die forgotten and unoriginal.

Today I come to the ends of my own unwinding. There is a lens piece around the corner on the docks. there are stair who don't relate to you. There is a truck with a window and a sign light up with a soft yellow spot light. As if to jump-launch straight out of the vehicle passing straight into space. In a world where you have perspective and see fit only to see today. There was a man I knew existed before who named out a name that I couldn't and nor would I ever have. There is a mad concrete haze stuck in our teeth! The downstairs gremlins drive semi trucks down the streets, they know the road are too narrow and the still go. Fat chance for that man who is with only himself on a bench, in the rain, by the truck, on the sand in some beech ignoring any demand of the world. So much has to be lost before defeat comes as a cold drink under the stars.

There once was a man who said you could beat the world with your words. That you could conquer an army with the knowledge of a greater narrative and move the legions of many with the action of one verb. I want to believe who ever can recreate the frameworks our race. The foundational narrative of our moral ethic, the guidelines mankind has been leaning on for millenniums. I want to know a alternative story, with made up words and no respect for a-priori intuition or tradition but a legend of unabiding experience that is unlike any tangent or discourse known. I want to reinvent another codex.  

I saw god as the architect I consoled in the grand tree house, with the grand green house sitting in a quaint english archway. The telescope room was laid with bricks and from it I could see all that made me content. I felt the time changing before my eyes. Whether I was in compromise or not was entirely up to the seasons of zeus.

I am now never afraid of myself, I almost died and I remember it all. I have known fear and still revere the quenching of it's animosity. I am only a swerving flake of inner rind. I am all that is exhausted of my honest dive for humanity. I am me finally, a shell no more! Man is the helplessness of lost spatiality in his own timid surrealism. I have never been satisfied with the explanations no matter how exhaustive! Revisited by the techni-color outlook of the turning millennium craze. The alleviation of all hopes when they turned out a dead end inthemselves, a lost avenue of my childhood.

I guess we all wanted that age-old rampant abuse of youth in ways that were neither aesthetically pleasing or unifying towards our own, best. I was tired of the beautiful sprites I grew up with. I was tired of locking myself in closets at nights and rubbing my face into the it's knotted carpet floor. I'm tired of the songs that advocated joyful frolicking into the drapped daylight. The oddities grow old and the used up phrase are clique now. I lost my mind seeing the years of my language frightened by the sound of my own breath. Grow into yourself. I am done with you anyways. I am done seeing them engulf a titanic drift of colorful intentions; flirting around the grand bonfire of the uncreated experience. I am lost with them. I question more than just our own value and I resign my thoughts on themselves for their own wealth and safety. When you want it said so bad but the forces of those unforeseen, creative hives oscillate and never stop it's steps into the night-legend. Then the world ends and was never in out of tension. I electrify my time and run into the a.m. frantic like a monkey, waving around and jesting my arms. I'm tired of the old music, in with the artifacts who architect the reverberation of my heart.





Your myth has lived into the century and I can see your ideas into the lives of all maniacs and the honest young, the deranged youth. We are amidst a heavy tension, i cry again. I want my mother's words three times a day and more on my weak hours. I am content in the alien maze of my music and want only the childhood campers to love me like a king. They gathered around at night, around the campfire. They initiated the song and dance with gaiety rhythm; that was the nights stars collided into bedtime. The same night I was torn by the dreams of an old horrid man who gave me no name and no rest from tear and horror. What evil is an anonymous the Will that censors awareness and knowledge. If it kills


So what then of the tribal pack psyche we all inherit. In days where beauty was up to chance. Our proximity to a woman was determined by breeding patterns and the realm of funds available for travel and food. What now in these days of the internet? When the whole world is at the tops of our finger tips and even more far away is the understanding we gain of our inability to have the cream of the world. We are in a great exaggeration of ourselves, of our will, and of our determined out-come. We have little but the pessimisme of our predecessors to guide our philosophies application. The translation of dream-world is perfectly out of reach for us and always for our posterity. From here on out we are a new age. A new age whose gates are christened by the ungenuine thugs and malevolent brand names of our civilization. We are faking it till the end. I am scared and drilled by horror and filled more with black premonitions. I wish I had eyes to see myself with a more generous charity but I don't and neither do you. What you see is an age of outward anticipation for the soring ribbons of undone realities.

The artist is the one who has seen the broad fleeting wisp of an out-of-world innuendo. It is the ethereal encounter with a cognitive defect that mimic as a supernatural sensation, this is seen by the artist as true humanity and rightfully so as it brings him to tears.

I always forget that we are always on the cusp. That we are simply a few bruised years away from reveling in the stained, sealed golden sunlight of the age that has came. What we do now is entirely crucial to our ability to be in unending sorrow and remorse. We see our people in a clearer way, for what they where struggling with, for what their reverie finally came to look like, ugly or gleefully self created, their vision of the world will always be our continual source of inspiration.

We are the stardust
Of the broken
And the damned

We are the followers
Of angels
And of sinners

We walk alone
In fields of gold
And fields of green

We are the dreams
Of all the dreamless children

But, they say
I am different
And they say
We are not the same

Look up
Watch the sky
And listen
To all the cries
Of the alone
Who shriek in vain

We are part
Of a movement
Changing the world
In a matter of words

We walk alone
In step with others
Our brothers and sisters
Who we may not know

Today
We link arms
Away, away, away
We go
Illuminating the night
With the daylight
In our souls

Today
We form reality
Today
We form the world

The train sirens fell ill on my skin as the gates of waves descended upon the lowly burrows of 12th street and blew it straight into tomorrow's windy, lamenting unification of loneliness.  The plague it drew on the youth only rivaled the great hallow abyss in it's forthcoming nature. To the young it was the rotting, the sinister desecration of our world to come. I am only stunned by the great rivalry that seems to coincide in my generation's thoughts, capricious-now or wiseful-tomorrow. We strain to be in the eyes of our fathers and mothers and aunts and uncles, proving to our grandfather that we alone will carry the family name and legacy towards great and unimaginable heights, without the help of others and without the need for pity. Conger a frightful doe perking it's ears to every other sound it hears, that quiet din, it's last acquaintance before the grand, all-knowing silence takes over and surrounds it's being forever. Love thy harkening sorrow and writhe in heavy screams. All will pass but I see none with the sanctity to carry a soul farther than you have already; the seas spring longer and will soon swallow the world. Too many years will pass by before I can understand this with a sober mind. One day will come before I realize that drunken ravings of my night will see it's critical truth in the day by scholars and priests of common sense.

11-7-12

These streets and hidden walkways are my mischief parody now. A mockery of what this city had been to me, a false harken to nothing better yet still...her and me...and us and them...we could of been so grand if things had just fallen better.

I would have that job at some cubicle in some skyscraper and you would work in the schools with the kids who needed your love and they would struggle and be grateful. Our days would be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. Then in the evenings I would pace my way home, to our home, the one on the hillside, with a window and balcony overlooking everything. And we would have a daughter and a son in the works and make love on a whim, enough love for the both of us every-time. And you would spill your day in front of me, everyday and I would never grow tired of any of it. And then in the morning I would rise quiet not to wake you and boil a full pot of coffee, not the expensive kind but just coffee, and read my paper on the warming kitchen table. I would read of politics and people and cats in trees and drink another sip. And you would wake and peek around the corner showing only a quiet smile and at my sight you sat and gently nursed the cup I had already poured for you. Still silent you would crawl into the chair as shiver ran down your spine, revealing the winkles in your face as you puckered but returned to the sereneness that was your always-expression, the same creeping smile that asked nothing but gave so much. [As you ask] Soon I tell you the happenings of our world and paint you the window I had only just read. Piecing together my words in bundles of sage breviloquence, still sifting through the chalky pages as you sighed in such sunrise-joy. And you would leave early as I left not to soon after and we both drove our own cars and parked them at our work and went about our day. And I would drive home from my cubicle to our house on the hill with our plan for a daughter and make love to you in many places, wait for you to go to sleep and find my way out to the balcony. And I would look for hours at the skyline, of the midnight machinery, dripping seas in black, of my own invention. And I would wait for you to come around that corner, out to the balcony, with your hair in your hands beaconing for me to come back to bed, because you knew all the thoughts in my mind and none where worth having in this late, in this night, with this job, with this car, in this place, on this hillside beaconing as well for me to stay. And I would phantom back to your side then remember the child we had on the way, only earlier that day, you told me, and I barely believed the words meant what they did, in this time, in this way. Then maybe on that day we would hold our child and look at him, or her, and you would say something kind and I would agree. And we would live in our house on the hillside for many years and you would still teach children, our children. And I would still get a raise every now and again at the job I would drive to except on tuesdays when we would all stay at home and play and laugh and gather up our dreams in a pot and burry it in the backyard. And our days would still be full and meaningful with hopeful promises of progress and achievement. And the kids would still need your love and be grateful. And so would I, after all these years, every-time enough.

11.11pm
i cannot explain
how i am feeling
for i have no reason
and no medical condition

12.01am
i saw the way
the shit of the world
consumed you
and left you dry

1.33am
in saying that my scars
looked beautiful
you had no idea
that it made me bleed
to please you

4.56am
tonight i am feeling more alone
and this is why i am finding myself
crying on your bathroom floor
tears mixing with blood and betrayal

6.00am
the only thing i have left
is my courage
and my strength

Tucking Dostoyevsky’s
Crime and Punishment
into the bedside cabinet
of the cheap

Paris hotel
having cleaned
the greasy sink
and bidet

you walked out
on the street
breathing in
the Parisian air

smelling the perfume
of the restaurants
on the side walks
seeing the sights

taking photographs
as memoirs
drinking the wines
and beers

and that fish
with eyes still there
putting you off
you tried to get out

of the cheap cafe
but paid for the meal
you couldn’t eat
the fish eye

gazing up at you
dead eye
battered fish
and the Left Bank

and night
and you taking in
the sights and lights
and those whores

sitting in windows
like gifts
to have wrapped
but not take home

or the sexy films
you never
went to see
in those cinemas

you just walked by
or the Eiffel Tower day
right to the top
the view splendid

the sight historical
or those rides
on the Metro
riding the wrong carriages

looking out
for the train inspector
pretending to be Aussies
giving it the yak

and later
in your hotel room
taking out
Dostoyevsky

and entering
the Russian world
of murder and deceit  
and being followed

you imagined
by the detective
looking out
onto the Parisian street

from the open window
of your room
gazing at street corners
and shadows  

or remembering
that French girl
in the cafe
who served you

with bright eyes
black and white dress
and white apron
the fine long legs

and wiggling behind
recalling the old priest
who once said
too much sex
will make you blind.