Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Warming his heart with a drink of me.
I am the water dripping off olive leaves,
In my mother's garden, silver signs of peace.
I am a cool towel on my baby brother's brow
Wiping away worry, the only way I know how.
I'm light like warm air, my head up in the clouds.
But I am also rain water soaking into the ground.
Tickling tree roots, sleeping through the dawn.
Waking up slowly like dewdrops on the lawn.
I float down a river and rush into the emerald sea.
I dance to my own song, suspended in the breeze.
When I'm sad it hurts, I cry, quiet 'til I freeze.
I crack with pain and anger until I fall into your glass.
Your sweet embrace. My loving cup, I'll drink you to the last.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
like life has spun so fast that my body clenches and every vein, muscle and tendon can't relax,
I keep breathing.
I hug a friend.
I pour a glass of wine
and remind myself I can only change what is mine.
I remember happier times of more control.
relax, I say,
you're doing fine.
This Saturday, September 19th, you are invited to experience a night of
campfires, hobo-tech, 5¢ cabarets, big-band jazz, cheap whiskey, accordion
orchestras, tent-cities, desperate moments, fire-eating, kisses from
strangers, aerial acts, glimpses of nudity, bathtub gin, a breathtaking
sunrise and a dozen dj's in an all night celebration of the grit, beauty
and desperation of an all-too-familiar past.
Nineteen Thirty Three
9pm through 9am
Saturday, September 19th
Starting at: 260 Meserole St., Bushwick Brooklyn
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Friday, August 28, 2009
A writer always wears glasses and never combs his hair. Half the time he feels angry about everything and the other half depressed. He says very 'deep' things. He always has amazing ideas for the plot of his next novel, and hates the one he has just published. A writer has a duty and an obligation never to be understood by his own generation.. A writer understands about things with alarming names, like semiotics, epistemology, neoconcretism. When trying to seduce a woman, a writer says: 'I'm a writer', and scribbles a poem on a napkin. It always works. When invited to say what he is reading at the moment, a writer always mentions a book no one has ever heard of.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Success in Circuit lies
Too bright for our infirm Delight
The Truth’s superb surprise
As Lightning to the Children eased
With explanation kind
The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind –
— Emily Dickinson (#1129)
NYTimes article: http://morris.blogs.nytimes.com/2009/08/05/seven-lies-about-lying-part-1/