The Consequences of Spontaneity

2011-03-05T20:41:00.001-08:00

I am with the moon,

And will continue to stroll up midnight staircases until my

Death.

Burlington, VT

2011-02-21T17:40:00.000-08:00

Rocky & The Pressers Show in the Bronx

2011-02-07T14:50:00.000-08:00

I Erected a Castle Around the Girl I Loved

2010-11-20T14:24:00.001-08:00

I erected a Castle around the Girl I loved.

At first,

To shelter her

From Me

And the Pandemonium from where I dwell

(For I am fecundating with self-destructive compulsions strapped to my conscience).

At the very foundations, I sheltered her from my voice.

And with each stone, it grew

—as an addiction—

From passages of underground channels

Into a fortified monstrosity of lifeless pillars, and cast-iron bars.

The higher the turrets, the more I sunk.

By now,

The girl I love is long dead,

Beautifully pale and fermenting,

And outside of its walls,

I rock back and forth in a louse-ridden shantee,

Fighting gruesome tirades

That I could only overcome

By mustering the courage to confide my love to her.

Baby Monkey Bars

2010-10-03T16:29:00.000-07:00

Street-lit Trashcans

2010-06-06T20:08:00.000-07:00

This isn't the dirty South remix. We're working on the original. Sometimes I'd just like to sit back and try to ignore the decline of ol' famous Western Civilization. Children leaning on the side of a dirty church spilling their filth. It happened tonight....kid leaning on St Anthony's church talking about splurging on a clit in front of the true family. I held my tongue and walked the other way.

Woke up, terrible heat at work. The winds changed and the storm swept us all inside. We stayed for a while then left. That is what we will always be doing.

The only thing that my aunt left me is a guitar and old Christmas memories. She was my Godmother.

Yeah Rimbaud was so young when he died. 19 and he stopped writing to travel, then took to the grave with what some may argue as Syphilis. Though I'm sure he was having a fun time when he got Syphilis. Vampire mirrors.

No idea what the hell to do. It's terrible. We graduate and now have no purpose. A constant lack of unsettling that bursts in layers of summer.

There restoring the museum outside. But leaving the inside--as usual. Though there is a new planetarium. Space gets us all lost with hope but then we wake up sick on some escalator drowning in unmeasurable vertigo.

Revised poem: Going Home

2010-05-03T18:19:00.000-07:00

Going Home

Dismantled from the Highlands,
Loveless and failing the trials of men,
I left to go home.
At Six AM, to the Train Station,
Lurking through lowlands of
Plastic mops and glass and glaring
Tiles.

After kicking me out,
My old flame nestled high in a wooden frame—
With a pumpkin moon.
So,
I tumbled
Underneath,
My companions: A sprained ankle
A sausage, egg & cheese with a medium coffee,
And a skyline crescendo of blue patchwork and fluorescent pigeons.

But by Three AM, the trains stopped
The conductors all went home
To those Brownstones in Brooklyn—Can’t blame them,
There’s a mattress involved.

I laid down
On the station’s knotted bench,
Nestled in a fold of stubble and flannel.
My stringencies pulsed
And lips fermented to raisins—
Hearing voices juggle
Tides and teasing,
A drone from the doorway.

Once a French girl told me,
“Any person I love, I’m gonna call home.”

Apollo must be perched above her now,
While I am here
Curled on a bench,
Eaten from the inside by African dreams.

Howling In The Midnight Streets of Cape Town

2010-03-09T16:39:00.001-08:00

You parade around us
In grand processions,
Calling us,
“Hope,”

But I’ll tell you what we’re really like:

We sneak Castle’s into jars
And burn them in broad daylight.

We hurl bats into composed skylines.

We eat your stomped cigarette butts from the pavement,
And plant pens into your garden.

We ignite your mattress with primitive catastrophes.

We hail taxis, and shove horses into them—
To spite your constant fences.

We stack those laptops you bought us into racist and fractured cemeteries,

We are the shivers in your shudders,
The fading tattoos on your shoulder,
The spikes you impale your checks on.

We are the figments, and fragments of your political and parental resignations.

We’ll unlatch our armor and ship ourselves back into the Middle East, belts filled with
Your weeping Prayers.

And—if it pleases you—
Tape a couple of our newspaper clippings onto your fridge.

Thoughts From The Nighttime

2010-03-09T16:34:00.000-08:00

I love drinking outside,
Especially when the moon and the stars provide cheap magic tricks.
It reminds me of how brilliance in spontaneous,
And that there is beauty amidst all this darkness.

Trip to Buffalo

2010-02-02T16:45:00.001-08:00

Big Sister in the Big Apple

2009-12-20T16:49:00.000-08:00

Winter

2009-12-02T18:42:00.001-08:00

He never wanted a son.

He wanted a ‘68 BSA Thunderbolt.

He wanted a lean-to in the North Country, far from everything

He wanted to be separated from what he loved, what he hated.

Farthest from what he remembered.

To burn like birchwood
Leave no remains,
Or be buried and rotting through the seasons that bore him and earthed him

He wanted to die alone.

One morning, after making his son a sandwich and a glass of cold milk,
His boy asked, “What’s it like to be a father?”

He stood up,
Stepped past his son and walked into his bedroom.

He sat down on his bed,
Noticed dust on the shelf,
December’s first snowfall,
And he mumbled something to himself
In most conscious and dour voice.

There was shuffling in the kitchen,
And he heard his door open, creak at the hinges
Then close.

I Went to Meet You

2009-08-18T18:17:00.000-07:00

Dismantled from the Highlands,
Loveless and failing the trials of men,
I went to meet you, St. Patrick,
At Four AM, in the Train Station,
Lurking through lowlands of
Plastic mops and glass and glaring
Tiles.
After kicking me out, my old flame nestled high in a wooden frame—
With a pumpkin moon.
So,
I tumbled
Underneath,
My companions: A rolled ankle
A sausage, egg & cheese with a medium coffee,
A crescendo of blue patchwork and fluorescent pigeons.

By Five AM, St. Patrick, you took one home,
To one of those Brownstones in Brooklyn—Can’t blame you,
There’s a mattress involved.

I laid down
On the station’s knotted bench
Nestled in a fold of stubble and flannel,
My stringencies pulsed
And lips fermented to raisins,
Hearing voices juggle
Tides and teasing,
A drone from the doorway.

Once a French girl told me,
“Any person I love, I’m gonna call home.”

Apollo must be perched above her now,
But I am here
Curled on a bench,
Eaten from the inside by African dreams.

Thoughts from the Nighttime

2009-08-17T18:31:00.000-07:00

You parade around us
In Grand processions,
Calling us “Hope.”

But I’ll tell you what we’re really like:

We sneak Castle’s into jars
And burn them in broad daylight.

We hurl bats into composed skylines.

We eat your stomped cigarette buds from the pavement,
And plant pens into your gardens.

We hail taxis, and shove horses into them—
To spite your constant fences.

We ignite your mattress with primitive catastrophes.

We stack those laptops you bought us into racist and fractured cemeteries,

We are the shivers in your shudders,
The fading tattoos on your shoulder

The spikes you impale your checks on.

Figments, and pigments, and fragments.
Resignations.

We unlatch our armor and ship ourselves back into the Middle East, belts filled with your Whimpered prayers.

And, if it pleases you,
We’ll stick a couple of our newspaper clippings onto your fridge.

A Midnight in August

2009-08-10T16:56:00.000-07:00

It was sometime after that 40 in the park

On the 1:59,
Last train out the East Harlem line

A girl in a blue dress
Her chest sagging out,
Knelt down
Between the cars
Heaving the night,
Blocking all those Westchester club-drunks from passing.

In front of me
Some guy
Kept lobbing fries out of his hysterical girlfriend’s hands.

She clucked and tweaked like a headless Cochin,
Then stood up
Hobbled to the end of the car—Off her back.

Sometime after we broke down at Fordham, when the drone from the drunks
Stopped
And the car slept.
I thought about how we met The Prophet in Astoria,
And how he told us about the Great Depletion—
Fuck, man—no potential here.

But then
There’s You
Me
That girl from Mexico
That girl with the Smell
That girl who smiled when I almost fell out the N

And West—

You’re right,
“I don’t feel so alone, Ma.”

Time to Move to Brooklyn

2009-07-08T15:14:00.000-07:00

Big Sister in the Studio

Loisaida

Adam and Charlene
The Last Internationale

5Boro demo at the Brooklyn Afro-Punk Festival
D Falla crookin across
Rooftopping.

M&M

A work in progress, composed of tape pieces

Shows.

2009-06-08T20:06:00.001-07:00

Tyrhombus Rex

Bezoar

The Thrill of It All

2009-05-27T17:54:00.000-07:00

Ace Ventura
Bro's are out tonight!

The gnarliest beach that we have ever lived on.
Stephen controls lightning with rocks and Cream-colored Coors.
Smile Shutter

RIP Leroy.
Man of the Century
The type of photography you'd see from a SVA Graduate...
Stephen is completely a boy in this picture.
Man of the Year
Brett ripping shit.
The wall....that wall of walls.
Down N' Out

Must be a seagull caught in the face.
Shit got weird in the Steeple by the Atlantic.

Dana Nauta-Porta
Filmers.
LoveBryan and RiotChris
Rip tide rush sliding on the concrete.
Alex Porta Shredding the flatbar
Everytime I see this kid he's got more ink.
Dylan and Dana
Marino adjusting his Polaroidimus
On the way home, White Plains train station

Hiking Poke-o-Moonshine

2009-04-24T15:57:00.000-07:00

View from X-Ray Sunglasses.

Autumn bowl footy

2009-04-03T15:53:00.000-07:00

This is a montage of clips from the Bowl, including Riot Chris, Dylan, Marino, and friends.

Cream Colored Coors Cans

2009-03-19T17:48:00.001-07:00

"I was just tryin' to tell her she had toilet paper on her shoe."
Murphy
Frisco
Snaggle
Carlos
Con-man
A-gneiss

Brooklyn's Finest.

2009-03-15T16:27:00.000-07:00

RAZORTAIL

Dana y el Toro

Tyrhombus Rex.

Dylan ripping.

YEE HOO!!!

Brooklyn.
SUSEJ?
Driving to BK.

Back to the North Country

2009-03-07T18:07:00.000-08:00

At Gore

Haters.
Crazy jackass invasion.
Ghost.

Big Louie.
Ride Everything.
Rip in the hallways.

It's Christmas everyday here.

Kirstenbosch Gardens: Cape Town.

2009-02-22T19:15:00.000-08:00

True Eggplant.

Trippin around South Africa.

2009-02-22T18:35:00.001-08:00

Power-faded: rocket fuel

Afrikaburns
The Karoo

Indian Ocean.

Africa through barbed wire.

Living in South Africa

2009-02-22T16:44:00.000-08:00

Home

yes, I know.
flailing cheeks
rip Midus
Gnarliest girls ever.
Throwing craze.
Portrait of a Culture
We roam the streets at night
Hug Life.
Margaret ska'd out.
Skate night at The Waiting Room
Fly as hell.

Sizwe silhouette.
t.o.p.
Whitney getting her game on.

"AH HEE HEE"
Park Jam
The Gugulective
Driving to Unathi's crib
Unathi with the girls.
Mzoli in Gugulethu.
First meeting with some Gugs goons.
Ganesh, in Obs. Go there

Mr. Paris strumming at Camps Bay

They will kill you

Shooting ships at Simon's Town.
No AK's on the train!
Mars?
Cape Town at night.
Whitney
Arabella: fine South African wine.
Crunking on Lion's Head

Maggie May

South Africa's version of Smoky the Bear.
Whitnoid
Dead ol' white people in statue's all over.
UCT.
Reppin' 2nd Nature down in Africa.

Summer Before Living Abroad

2009-02-22T15:46:00.000-08:00

Cambi finding some texture.
Bumped into B Foley and some Jersey shredders.
Narragansett nights on the beach, near the ol' steeple.
Dana
Frisco
Kickin it ol' skool

A-gneiss cruisin
Wasted
Salad thugs
Fooling with fire.

"BREWSKIES FOR EVERYONE"
Fade-o Marino.
SALAD!!!!
The band raging
Cambi ragin' on the tire swing.
MF acoustic performance.

Rip shit or die trying.

Stand By Me

2009-02-22T15:12:00.001-08:00

The living room of the abandoned house.
Inside the Biohazard box within the house.
Sally was eaten while watering the garden outside the abandoned house.