they said we'd get a hurricane this summer. they said the streets would be submerged; by october we'd be wallowing in pools stagnant with death, kicking the rubble from collapsed buildings as we step with dragging feet through the ruins that delineated the steps of our daily life. we would point out to each other in whispers the old landmarks, as ( Read more... )

IT IT SUCH A SIN TO LINGER WITH THE MAGAZINES ( Read more... )

three weeks since i came back to astoria, this time to a house of my own. three floors, a basement, porch and backyard. my room faces west, and in the afternoons it is bathed in yellow, slanted light. i lie in bed, and soak up the sun; our cat wheezy sits in the widowsill but when i light a cigarette she sits in my lap and purrs, lazily watching ( Read more... )

it's been cold since friday, the strangely temperate winter turned suddenly violent, blistering, blustering. in the mornings you wake up before the alarm to feel wriston's hardon against your leg, but when you wiggle against it he turns his back to you and you shake off the warmth of the blanket and face the cold of the room in your underwear, pull ( Read more... )

smoking cigarettes on the fire escape, breathing hard and burning the hairs in my nostrils.
i can't stop crying, can't stop being angry at the tears.

IS IT TIME TO GIVE UP YET

*
chapter one: a true story about freedom found in fireone week ago exacctly, i saw a man burn to death in the subway as i waited for my stalled train to leave steinway st station ( Read more... )

Sometimes, on the aboveground tracks of the n,w, the light lingers on everything at such an angle that I am in constant wonder of the beauty of the place where I live. The crowded, low-slung houses and storefronts, spotted with graffitti, everything illuminated like it's coming from the buildings themselves. Incandescent ( Read more... )

due to a gross miscalculation during an expedition, a fellow explorer has been lost to riker's.

and yet somehow, you always manage to escape with your life and freedom intact.
these sacred things. and yet, and yet only enough for myself. this is how the game is played.

( Read more... )

*it is quiet between us, afterwards. afterwards wriston rests his head on my shoulder and i scratch behind his ears, he purrs and he presses his ribcage against my stomach and i can feel his every organ thrumming. "i don't know why my heart's doing that," he tells me. i don't either... a poet, a photographer, the filthy philosopher, what do i know ( Read more... )