Naked again, tonight,
Alone with a typewriter
Balanced on the bathroom sink
Waiting for expectation
To meet acceptance.

She cries for me,
she who can cry no more

**

If in the Sunday weather I could see my eyes as I wrote, a few weeks after summer died…. And it doesn’t feel like a season anymore...Its too warm. But not warm. Its too cold. But not cold. What is the blanket here that covers me. I hear the shower faintly running in this hotel room. And I wonder what she looks like. I know what she looks like. ( Read more... )

It was like being born
in Paris without hope.
City of light.
A city of hills
forgotten & born.
My steel-less and steady spine.

The lady protests. That fucking park. That god forsaken water along the curb. That Pink Floyd graffiti on the corrugated aluminum stutter. If i could write. If I could only only write a story. The air is growing autumn. If i could only write a story. If i could ( Read more... )

“There isn’t any gold left. There wasn’t much to start with…but there in the hills there’s plenty of dirt. Lord knows we’ve turned over every inch of it…the world is full of it…dirt and stone and dust…we’re out numbered you know…cleanliness is a common courtesy, but we’re never very far from being conquered, never very far from the filth. I should ( Read more... )

“The colors seem too late this year. At this time of night it seems like everything should go sink into the cold and seep into the blank dim grey. But I’m not sure what …how to register this face in the mid-light. It’s cold but unofficial. It’s the symptom of power…and the hidden myth of moon…and the water in me. If only a reflection then it a ( Read more... )

If only a way to make himself feel something. In the shadow of a city awaiting its inevitable collapse, beauty was sacrificed for urgency…to live, to have nerves fire, to touch, to turn bodies together…but not to feel….there would be time for that later, if ever. On the edge of the precipice there is only the sense of the fall and the steps already ( Read more... )

“It’s those things we start and stop. It’s a sort of impossible task to complete…to push away every sense that says stop and feed from the breast of impulse. What a fantastic viewpoint….or maybe it’s the way the downfall begins, with a slick step on a sidewalk, hardly noticeable from the height of a human head, and yet fraught with danger. That ( Read more... )

By three am we wrenched ourselves out of the haze and mystery of the Oil Pit Pub…our ears weakened and rubbed with the echo pulse of punishing music. The summer licked our backs and tore at our knees…that wild heat that doesn’t dissipate but bounces off every piece of pavement, even in the dead of night. Falling along the subway banisters we fell ( Read more... )